Author's note: faithful long-time readers, I'm sorry. I should be shot through the head; or, at least, the part of my head that conceives new stories, rather than updating old ones. I promise I won't start any more new stories before I've posted a chapter or two for old ones. Promise.

So.

I'm a new-comer to Tintin - and as someone who wrote a Masters thesis on comics, an embarrassingly late one. I'm a graphic designer, and a recent client wants something in a 'Belgian comics style'. One of my uni lecturers was obsessed with all things Tintin, so I knew just where to look, and I am now seriously hooked on my research material (one of the perks of the job!)

Part of Tintin's appeal is his mysteriousness. He has no past, no family, no background - only limitless future. I've seen a few stories that attempted to fill in Tintin's early history, and I thought I'd have a crack at it - while creating a proper first case for him to tackle.

Feel free to tell me how I'm doing - as a newbie in this fandom, I'd appreciate any feedback from those wiser and more experienced than me!

Please, enjoy! ~ W.J.

The Red Feather

Chapter One

Remi was abruptly pulled out of his close-to-completed article by the loud hubbub emanating from the next room.

As a senior reporter at Le Petit Vingtième, Remi was privileged enough to have his own office. He well remembered his junior days, when trying to write a complex report in the middle of a crowd of colleagues was akin to a poet composing verses at the centre of a stockyard. Still, he liked to keep the door to his office open whilst he wrote. Writing was a lonely profession; the distant sounds of his workmates going about their business made it seem, at least, as if they were together alone. It also managed to somewhat mute the machine-gun report of his typewriter's clattering keys, making it sound less like it might threaten to devour him, hands-first, if he didn't meet that evening's deadline.

Usually, the sounds from next door were unobtrusive enough to let him concentrate on what he was doing. With several years' experience under his belt, he could easily write an article about the tragic closure of a local box factory in his sleep, and still make the tone sound suitably sympathetic (which it was, to a point; in certain instances, a career in box-making sounded far more restful than the petty turmoil of life in the journalistic profession). Now, however, the noise was infuriatingly pervasive.

Pausing in his typing to listen more closely, he realized that he could hear raised voices, outraged cries, and what sounded like a heavy book being thrown down on a solid tabletop.

Remi lifted his hands from the keys with a sigh of resignation, much like a classical pianist disturbed while at his scales. He knew that the editor was currently ensconced away in his office, fielding a long and important call from a foreign correspondent. As the next-most-senior staffer available, he was obliged to go out and settle whatever mess was brewing next door.

He stepped out into the press room. Most of his colleagues had been likewise pulled away from their desks, and had formed a tight knot of curious people at the centre of the room. As he approached, Remi saw that Emile, a former cadet who had recently been raised to the slightly higher-ranked status of junior reporter, appeared to be at the centre of the disturbance. Remi wasn't very much surprised; Emile usually found an excuse to get out of his chair for every ten words he managed to type.

"Spy!" he was shouting, loud enough to be heard in every corner of the room; Remi wondered if his boss' correspondent could hear this impromptu interrogation happening over his end of the phone. "A spy in our midst! Who sent you? Speak up! You won't be getting out of here until you talk! Was it The Daily Reporter? Le Lombard? Or perhaps Paris Flash?"

He sneered out this last name, of a renowned dirt-reaping rag that called itself a periodical. Several people chuckled; Remi allowed himself a wry smile.

"I'm not a spy at all," replied a second voice. It was youthful, though Remi didn't recognize it as belonging to another of their junior workers. It also sounded highly indignant. "What business would I have spying here? I doubt you have anything worth knowing, that you won't soon publish yourselves and make widely known."

A few people laughed outright at this. Whoever this young 'spy' is, Remi thought to himself, he has wit.

Despite his age, Emile was a clear head taller than anyone else in the room. Remi alone stood a few inches above him. Looking over the rest of the crowd, he could see the ugly glower that heavily creased the lad's brow. The back of his neck was bright red; in the oppressive tension, it glowed ominously, like a danger gauge on an engineer's dial. Remi shifted uncomfortably, knowing that he should intervene, but - in true reporter fashion - hesitant to act before he knew the full story.

"So you admit you know that we have valuable intel?" Emile pressed, unwilling to give up the fight, despite his opponent's firm refute. "What was it you came here to learn?"

"Not spelling, at any rate," said the sardonic voice of Clyde, a sub-editor from the political news department. "A spy wouldn't have corrected your typing, Emile; nor gotten his correction exactly right."

Emile flushed crimson, and Remi now perceived the true source of the argument. The junior reporter was prideful, taking umbrage even when his superiors made the slightest edit to his work. It was little wonder that the critique of an outsider had so incited his rage.

"Whether he can spell or not," he muttered fiercely, glaring at his colleagues as much as he had at this interloper, "there's no denying that the wretch tried to steal the copy right off my desk."

"I wasn't stealing it!" The peak of a brown cap seemed to be making this argument; that was all that Remi could see of him, past the crush of reporters surrounding the two young men. "Those papers were almost falling off the desk! I saved them from landing in the wastepaper basket, and got hit on the back of my hand with a dictionary for my trouble! A dictionary is certainly what it needed, and perhaps I should have let it land in the bin - given the number of mistakes in it, that's most likely where it belongs!"

There was another round of guffaws at this. New creases had set in Emile's face, and his shoulders were hunched threateningly; though he couldn't quite see past his neighbour, Remi imagined that the boy's fists were likely clenched.

"You impudent dog-!"

With a yell of fury, Emile lunged at the peaked cap.

There was a gasp of surprise, a pain-filled yelp, a loud thud, a groan - and then silence, broken only by the suppressed murmurings of the watching crowd as they surged towards the fight in excitement.

Thinking now was the time to intervene, Remi pushed his way through the horde. His fellow workers, recognizing him, quickly got out of his way, allowing him to reach the centre of this chaos.

"Desist! Stop this instant!" Remi shouted. Many years ago, while he had still been completing his literature degree, he had worked part-time as an assistant clerk at a department store. He knew how to make his voice carry to the stockroom - though he sincerely hoped that right now, it hadn't travelled as far as the editor's office. He knew that his boss would hold him wholly accountable if his call was interrupted, even if the disturbance was none of his own fault.

"Everyone, back to your desks, now!" he curtly ordered everyone, eying them reproachfully. "In case you have forgotten, we have an evening edition to complete!"

At the mention of the looming deadline, the crowd of reporters sobered instantly. They dutifully slunk back to their desks, no longer able to claim distraction from the tedium of their work.

Now that they had finally cleared from his field of view, Remi was amazed to find Emile, wincing and rubbing his jaw, seated splay-legged on the ground, at the feet of a slim, trench-coated boy with a satchel slung over his shoulder. The visitor's cap had been knocked off in the scuffle; his red hair was mussed, but he appeared to be otherwise completely unscathed. His fists were still furled, and he had the air of a defiant victor - even though Emile must have been several feet taller, and twice as wide, as this little slip of a thing.

As Remi watched, this boy went over to his vanquished foe, a diminutive David approaching Goliath, with his hand outstretched.

"Are you alright?" he asked, in a friendly, even concerned, tone of voice.

The proffered hand was slapped away. Emile got to his feet, a little shakily, lines of fury still visible in his face. "If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do," he said coldly, stomping back to his desk.

"I should say you do," Remi said loudly, noting with satisfaction that Emile's shoulders gave an involuntary twitch. "No less than eighteen mistakes in the last copy you submitted - it's unacceptable, Emile. Le Vingt provides you fellows with dictionaries for a reason, and that reason is not so you can break each other's hands with them."

Emile's ears were scarlet, but he did not otherwise respond; cowed by the rebuke of his superior, he meekly bent his bulky frame over his typewriter, punching furiously at the keys. Remi now turned his attention back to their young intruder.

"And you," he said, looking down - way down - at the boy. "We don't allow members of the general public in here; especially not if they mean to start fights with our staff."

"I didn't start a fight," the boy answered, with the air of one who had been unfairly disgraced. "And I am not the general public. I am here to see Mr. Wallez. I have been assigned to Le Petit Vingtième as a cadet, and I have an appointment with the editor at three-thirty, to be briefed on my duties." He eyed Remi up and down, bravely sizing up this new challenger, though like Emile, he too towered over him. "If you will only leave me in peace, I mean to wait right here until I have seen him."

Remi regarded the determined youth with equal parts amusement and exasperation. This pronouncement had been delivered with all the bravado of a sparrow crowing like a rooster. The slim, scrawny figure, crowned by a luxuriant quiff of brick-red hair in place of a cockerel's comb, solidified this impression.

Remi rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You only chose to reveal this now?"

"I didn't get a chance to do so before," the boy replied evenly.

Remi smiled despite himself. "That's true enough. Wallez is in his office, but he can't be disturbed right now. He's taking an overseas call, and will be engaged for quite some time. Your appointment will have to wait, I'm afraid - if you had breaking news you might take priority, but all you have managed to break is my junior reporter's pride."

There were a few hastily-muffled snickers from the cubicles around them. Emile looked around wrathfully, but hastily turned away again when he caught Remi's eye.

The boy, to his credit, looked sheepishly at the floor. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble..."

"I suppose trouble just naturally occurs around you," Remi replied sarcastically. Seeing that the boy now looked rather ashamed of himself, he softened his tone; he wasn't really angry, just annoyed at having been interrupted over something so trivial as office politics. "You want to be a cadet, then? Come to my office, lad, where you will be safe until Wallez is ready to see you. You've already made quite an impression; let's see how the work impresses you."

He gestured towards the open door behind him. The boy retrieved his hat from where it had fallen on the floor, smoothed his hair careful before donning it, then followed Remi across the press room floor.

"Leave the door ajar," Remi ordered over his shoulder, as he seated himself at his typewriter again. "I have an article still to complete, and the noise from outside is soothing - usually, at any rate. You can sit there and wait while I finish up. Then we will talk things over."

Without waiting for a response, he began to rapidly pound at the keys. There was no occasion for talk over the tooth-rattling clamour and frequent line-end dings of the contraption. Remi dashed off a dozen more lines, paused to give this last paragraph one final cursory glance, then tore it out of the machine, placing it neatly face-down atop a stack that already lay upon the desk. Satisfied that he had staved off the sinister approach of the evening deadline for another day, Remi returned his attention back to his visitor. The boy was sitting quietly in his chair, twisting his cap in his hands. Remi noticed that the knuckles of his right hand were still slightly red.

"How does the prospect of the work suit you, eh, lad?" Remi asked, in a slightly mocking tone. "It's not all corrections and cock-fights. Most days, the only things you'll be punching are a typewriter's keys. We've had a lot of cadets come in, attracted by the supposed 'glamour' of reportage, only to realize that they have signed up for hours upon hours of ceaseless typing. Does that sound at all attractive to a rugged warrior such as yourself?"

The boy's face burned, though he met Remi's eyes squarely. "I'm no warrior, sir - not really. And I'm not afraid of desk work. I can type pretty fast. At least thirty words per minute, at my best."

Remi rubbed his chin and eyed him contemplatively. Well, the boy certainly was a trove of talents! Still, given this cadet's extraordinary arrival, he still had some reservations. "That's all very well and good, but you'll need to think a great deal, not just mindlessly type - enough so-called 'writers' at other papers do that. We at Le Vingt pride ourselves on the quality of our work. You need to have very strong writing sensibilities and complete coherence to make the grade here. Speaking of which, have you finished school yet?"

"Yes, sir. Completed my final semester this summer past. Mr Wallez has copies of my academic transcripts, you can see them-"

"In good time," Remi said, waving the offer away. Education wasn't the main focus behind his question; the lad looked lucky to be much older than twelve. "You're fifteen years old, then?"

"Fourteen, sir." Remi noticed the slight hesitation as he said it. Supposing - rightfully - that he had interpreted it as a lie, the boy hastened to explain. "You see, sir, I don't know exactly when my birthday is. I assume that my fourteenth year at least must have gone by already; possibly my fifteenth as well. But I honestly don't know for sure."

"Huh." This wasn't the response Remi had been expecting. His natural reporter's curiosity was piqued, but he didn't wish to make matters too personal. He was interviewing a new cadet, not pursuing a story. "And you ultimately wish to become a full-fledged reporter?"

"Yes, sir." The boy now looked eager. A bright spot appeared in each of his cheeks, and he smiled for the first time since he had arrived, suddenly full of vim and vigour. He looked almost roguish, in the height of his enthusiasm. "There's nothing else I'd rather do, sir. I like words, like telling stories. I want to be able to tell things to the world, to make sure that the truth is always known."

Remi snorted softly at this. He had had many such idealistic creatures around the office in his time; not a one of them had been able to remain so. He wondered how long this one would take to become just as jaded as the rest of them. Given the unwavering conviction he saw in the round young face before him, probably longer than most.

"I'll shatter that illusion for you now, lad: there is very little truth involved in reporting the news. Some accuracy, yes; a great need for entertainment, certainly; but seldom very much actual truth."

The boy fiddled with the brim of his cap, looking sombre again. "Well," he said, slowly, "perhaps that gives me even more reason to pursue this as a career, sir. I could take it upon myself to put some truth back into it."

"Are you criticizing what we do here, boy?" Remi asked sharply; then he smiled, to show that he was only joking. "Well, the crushing weight of realism certainly won't break you for quite a while to come. I'm inclined to say that you are far too principled for this work, but that might change in time. Based on everything that you have said - not to mention the pluck that you have shown - I am sure that my boss will be happy to take you on as a cadet, er-"

He only now realized, in particularly bad form for a reporter, that he didn't yet have the lad's name.

"Martin," the boy supplied readily. "Martin Paul Delamarre, at your service, sir."

"Martin Delamarre, is it?" Remi repeated, with a broad grin suddenly splitting his hitherto impassive face; the name tickled his sense of humour. "Given your spectacular entrance, I think I shall christen you 'Tintamarre*'. With the commotion you caused, it would certainly suit."

The boy grinned. "If we are to work together, you may call me whatever you want, Mister-"

"Remi." The senior reporter automatically plucked a card from the case he kept in his pocket, as a means of professional courtesy, and handed it over. It was printed with his name, his occupation, the address of his office, and his telephone number. "Augustin Prosper Remi - though to most, it is simply 'Remi'. That is how my faithful readers know me, at any rate - how the masses love to give their idols nicknames. I haven't been called 'Augustin' in many years." He smiled companionably across at the lad. "All the same, it's good to have another '-tin' about the office, Martin."

"We shall have to collectively dub you pair the 'Tin-Tins', shall we?" said a voice from the doorway, attracting their notice for the first time. A woman with prim curls and a pair of pince-nez perched on her nose stood there, a clipboard in her hand, a pert smile upon her heavily-rouged lips.

"Very funny, Annalise," Remi said, awarding Wallez's personal secretary credit for her well-placed jibe. They had been working together for some time now, and had formed an easy camaraderie. "Is Wallez available? Our young friend here needs an introduction-"

"-and he can't have it just yet, I'm afraid," Annalise replied, adroitly. "As soon as he rang off from Geneva, he got a call through from Calcutta. He'll be occupied for a while yet. In the meantime, he said to take our young friend out into the field with you on your next story - that is, if you are done with the evening reports."

"Of course I am done," Remi answered, a little huffily; he was proud of his punctuality, his as-yet unbroken concession to those incessantly demanding deadlines. "So I guess I am free to have the youngster fobbed off on me." He looked across at the lad, who had been listening attentively to their conversation, and winked. "Your first assignment starts now, Martin."

"After you have filled out these forms," Annalise corrected him, passing the boy her clipboard. "We'll have to get a press pass made up for you, before you can go running off to the frontier." She took the boy firmly by the shoulder. "I'll get him set up, Remi, while you submit those-" she pointed to the paper stack "-and get your next delegation. We wouldn't want one half of Tin-Tin to be left unable to cross civilian lines, now would we?"

"Ha, ha," Remi muttered after her, as she deftly steered the boy out of the office and down the hall. He had an ominous feeling that the nickname would soon stick.

He took his typed articles to the editorial office, then collected his next assignment from the sub-editor. He had already telephoned ahead to arrange an interview, and was making preliminary notes in his casebook, when the boy returned.

"Look," he said, "I already have a professional nom-de-plume."

He pointed to the press pass that he had pinned to the front of his coat. It said, in bold letters that were beyond refute: 'Tintin'.

"Huh," Remi said, with a smile. "It looks like Emile has had his revenge. That would probably be his handiwork." He now remembered that, as the lowest-ranked junior reporter, Emile would be responsible for such trifles as fetching tea, replacing typewriter ribbons, and making up press passes. Well, had been responsible; as the newly-added lowest rung on the publication's internal ladder, their cadet, 'Tintin', would now be given charge of such things.

"I told you, didn't I, that truth has no place in journalism," Remi told the lad, who was gazing at the label with something between bemusement and consternation. "It's not so bad," he added, consolingly. "My first press pass had 'Gusti' written on it, by some clever person - I never found out exactly who, though to this day, I suspect it was Clyde. Just like a political correspondent - what an abysmal sense of humour! I still entertain myself by thinking up ways to make him confess." The boy grinned at that, placated somewhat. Remi went on: "You should be able to change it once you've earned your stripes. Speaking of which, you can start making yourself useful right now."

He crossed to the hat-stand that stood beside the door, put on his coat and hat, wound a scarf around his neck, and picked up a large dispatch case that stood at the foot of the rack. "Your first duty is to carry this for me. It's an important role, one that I fully entrust you with. No position in this office is better appreciated than 'pack mule'."

"Yes, sir," the boy said, with a chuckle, shouldering the bag along with his own. It was heavy, Remi knew; but he hefted the burden easily, without complaint.

"Right," Remi said, returning to matters of his own equipment. With his notebook and pen securely in his pocket, he was set to turn from desk-clerk to field-agent. He led the boy briskly back into the press room, through front reception, and out into the street.

The location of their first assignment was within walking distance. Remi set a brisk pace - though this was a relatively insignificant affair, experience told him that it always paid to be the first member of the press on the scene - and was impressed to see that the boy kept pace.

"Not too heavy for you?" he asked, rather kindly. For each of his own long strides, the boy took two, and he was weighed down by baggage besides.

"No, sir," came the reply. Remi was pleased to note that the boy wasn't panting to keep up. "I'm stronger than I look."

"As you so succinctly demonstrated to Emile," Remi retorted, though the lad's statement had been a modest one, and was certainly well-proven. "Just mind you take care of that case. It contains a portable typewriter and a camera, both of which would be rather expensive to have to replace."

"Yes, sir," came the dutiful reply. Then, after a short pause: "Sir, can you tell me where we are going?"

"Already tired of unquestionably going where you're ordered?" Remi laughed; the boy did too. "Well, lad, your illustrious first assignment is to cover a robbery at a pet store." He turned to smile at the boy's non-plussed expression. "You see? I told you that it was mostly dull work; no celebrity interview or international intrigue just yet."

"Oh, no," the lad protested, looking surprised at the suggestion. "It's not that. I was just thinking how heinous it is that someone would burgle a pet shop. I hope none of the animals were hurt during the break-in."

"Quite right," Remi said, though the thought hadn't immediately occurred to him. Perhaps he himself had become more jaded than he was aware of.

Just my luck, he thought ruefully to himself. A partner with steadfast morals. I wonder if I was so untiringly altruistic when I was his age? Ah, the nobility - and naivety - of unspoiled youth...

Thus reminiscing to himself about his own cadet days, he led his young protégé through the wide, sunlit streets of central Brussels.

* tintamarre - 'din' or 'uproar' in French.

Author's note: a few necessary explanations.

I chose to set this story in Brussels, Tintin's original home, though he has been transplanted to England in some versions. However, I'm leaving out the French references - e.g. using 'Mister' instead of 'Monsieur' - partly to remain consistent with the comic books, partly because my knowledge of the French language is non-existent. (In case you're wondering, I stumbled upon 'tintamarre' by pure chance, i.e. I typed 'tin' into an online dictionary and hoped for the best!) Please feel free to correct me if I get any French words wrong.

Le Petit Vingtième was the newspaper that The Adventures of Tintin first appeared in, and it really was edited by Norbert Wallez.

I have no idea what the internal staff structure or typical practices are at a newspaper office (I need to read more comics that feature scenes at the Daily Planet/Bugle), so I have fudged it. Sorry if I did it badly.

Remi is, obviously, named for George Prosper Remi, aka Hergè, Tintin's creator, who is often acknowledged as being Tintin's father, both literally and figuratively. I gave him a new first name, so as to avoid literally making his character a pastiche of Hergè, and to make the 'Tin-Tin' connection.

From what I've read, 'Tin-tin' is a typical diminutive for names ending in '-tin' - Augustin, Martin, Valentin, etc. I know a few other authors around here have used 'Augustin' (which I gave to Remi), but I read an article somewhere that claimed Tintin's 'real name' was Martin. I kind of thought it suited him; I knew a red-headed girl in school whose surname was Martin. Tintin's surname here is completely my invention (created out of 'tintamarre'). His middle name is for Hergè's brother, Paul Remi, who was said to be a major inspiration for the character.

By the way, I shall refer to the main character as 'Martin' throughout the story. Without spoiling anything, my intention is to make him earn his illustrious name as he goes about pursuing his first story, only becoming 'Tintin' near the end. Still, every time I write 'Martin', my fingers want to type 'Tintin', since I know that is who he really is. Please tell me if seeing the name 'Martin' in place of 'Tintin' gets too annoying, and I'll think about changing it.

I'll try to post a new chapter soon, hope you enjoyed this first one! ~ W.J.