A/N: Hello world! I'm RP164, as you already know, and this is the beginning of my second Tintin fanfic! (Hooray!) I'll warn you, you have to read my first fanfic, Legend of the Shadowwalker. Or not. Read it if you want to understand all of the OCs. But enough of that. Let's get to the story now…
The Adventures of Tintin: Murder in Marseille
Prologue
Fire. Twisted metal and fabric, littering the ground. The whole thing had happened in an instant, the wreckage falling out of the sky and plowing straight into the ground before anyone could say a word. The only sound was the faint crackle of the inferno, slowly inching away from the wreckage.
A single figure, just a silhouette against the flames, lay under a coil of iron, pinning him under. He felt lightheaded, as if the breath was being sucked out of him. He could barely see a thing. Looking up, he saw a dark, starless sky, inksplot clouds half-covering a bright full moon. He felt heat searing at his feet, and panic overtook him. I have to get out, he thought, and struggled against the metal holding him down. He heard a whine beside him and turned, noticing a shivering white fuzzball on the ground beside him. "Snowy…" he murmured, using all of his strength to push the wreckage off of them both.
He dragged himself away from the blaze, his tan overcoat and sweater ripping on shards of metal. For a moment, there seemed to be no way out, no way to hide from the agony. Trees closed in around him, blocking his view of the sky with their close-knit limbs. He stopped and leaned against a trunk, the bark pressing into his back. He wiped his hand across his forehead to ward away the sweat that had accumulated, and saw with horror as it came down red. I have to get out. I have to…
He made himself stand and force his legs to hold his weight again. He looked around furiously. There was nothing: only the inferno behind him and the trees around him…
Whhhrrrrrr…
The sound of a passing car was music to his ears. He made himself run, run towards the noise, run towards the one place that he might find a way out.
-x-
He ran.
The Frenchman ran through the corridor, bad news weighing down his feet and almost keeping him from going in anyway. He'd run for what seemed like forever. And the mistake could've even cost his life. But he was betting against himself that he'd walk out of this alive.
He rounded a corner, entering a large room where three other men sat: one Asian, one European, the other American. He skidded to a halt in front of them, leaning against the wall to calm his breath. "Monsieur Takahashi! Monseiur Takahashi!"
"What is it, Lefevre?" the Asian snapped, staring at the Frenchman with black beady eyes.
"The plane went down! It was reported in the newspapers this morning!"
"And?" The American had blond hair, green eyes, and was holding a cigar between two fingers. "You'd better not have disappointed us. You know what it could cost you."
"The target, Monsieur Collins! He…he was not there!"
"What?" Takahashi banged his fist on the table in front of him. "I told you to make sure he was dead!"
"Je suis désolé, monsieur! I'm sorry! I-I tried, but he, he–"
BANG.
The European took his hand out from under the table and set a gun on the top. The Frenchman collapsed, his unseeing eyes wide open with shock, the last thing he would ever feel in his life.
Takahashi turned to the European. "Thank you, Mr. Blevins. He was getting on my nerves as well."
Blevins nodded, turning to his two comrades. "We must find him before he reaches Paris. We can not afford to let him escape."
Collins smiled, showing off less-than-white teeth. "Leave that to me."