Hi! Sorry it took me a bit longer than I expected to get this polished up, but I hope that means it is all the more fit for your reading enjoyment.

I'd like to take this opportunity to reiterate that these are not in chronological order. This takes place two years before "The Promise."

Content warning: This one-shot contains violence, blood (but no major physical injuries), and corporal punishment (not described in detail.) I deeply apologize for failing to include this cw when first posting the chapter, and to anyone who may have been harmed as a result. I know I can't undo what's been done, but for what it's worth I promise I will try my hardest not to let this ever happen again.

THE GAME

September 12th, 1934

Genk, Belgium

Tintin watched the flurry of activity around him, wide-eyed.

At midday, the brick-walled courtyard of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour Primary School was smothered by a cloud of Flemish Dutch, overlapping insults and greetings. A pair of head boys stood at the gates, permitting those who lived in town to go home for lunch. The rest had divided themselves in packs across the uneven cobblestones, pulling chocolate, fruit and bread from their satchels, usually in that order.

Tintin clutched the strap of his satchel, standing alone.

So far, his first day of school had not gone at all like he'd expected. He'd come prepared, with two sharpened pencils that his mother had tucked into the breast pocket of his uniform when kissing him goodbye. But he hadn't even gotten to use them. Sister Albertine, distracted and irritable, had dismissed his pleas to be given something to read. She didn't believe him when he insisted he already knew how.

So he'd spent the entire morning reviewing the sounds of the alphabet, droning in unison with the rest of his second year class. Tintin had started to wish his mother had never received that letter from the government, explaining that Tintin couldn't miss another year. That Joi had to send him to school, or face charges.

Tintin wound his way through the courtyard, and cast around for neutral territory. His eyes landed on a pair of boys sitting against a wall, talking animatedly over the pages of a large hard-cover book.

A spark lit in Tintin's chest. He pulled out the Jules Verne novel he'd brought with him, which he'd only just begun: The Mysterious Island. He clutched it in both hands, and moved closer to the pair.

"Please, don't-" a half-strangled voice reached Tintin's ears. "Give it back, please-"

Laughter rose up, drowning out the rest. Tintin turned, brow knit, straining to make sense of the commotion in the far corner of the courtyard.

A half dozen scruffy-looking boys were bunched around a lone figure, cowering on the ground. One of them rifling through a satchel, to pull out an apple with a wolf-like grin. They began tossing it back and forth, cackling.

Tintin froze. A strange and sudden heat flushed through him. The next moment he was walking over, barely aware of what he was doing, slipping into the circle. The next time one of them threw the apple into the air, he reached up, and caught it.

A stunned silence fell. A dozen eyes threatened, as if to slice him to ribbons, but Tintin wasn't looking at them. He crouched down, and handed the apple back to its proper owner. Small and slight like him, with dark hair that fell over his eyes.

"Hello. I'm Tintin." He offered a smile. "What's your name?"

The boy wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. "Émile," he whispered.

"Hey."

Tintin looked up. One of the thieves glared down at him, shoulders cocked with the air of a leader. "What d'you think you're doing?" he demanded.

Tintin stood back up. "You stole his apple." He swallowed. "I was giving it back."

The leader stepped closer. He was made of hard lines and angles, shirt untucked, school tie knotted around his head.

"We were just playing a game." He smirked. "It's called Lords and Peasants. The Peasants have to give the Lords whatever we want, because we own all the land."

A shorter boy sporting a halo of frizzy curls, whom Tintin recognized from his own class, sidled up next to the leader. "Which will you be?" He tilted his head. "A Lord, or a Peasant?"

"Neither." Tintin lifted his chin, in a burst of inspiration. "I'll be a Knight."

A few boys who'd stopped to watch the altercation perked up at this. They drew closer.

"I want to be a Knight, too," one piped up.

"Can I be a Knight?"

The leader of the 'Lords' spoke over them. "You can't be a Knight," he scoffed, eyeing Tintin down his nose. "Knights are big and strong and carry a sword. You're the same size as my baby sister, and you don't have anything but a stupid book."

"Yeah, which he can't even read," the curly-haired boy cut in, mouth twisted with malice. "He's in my class, but he didn't go to school last year. His maman didn't send him, 'cause he's a baby."

"That's not why," Tintin spat, cheeks hot. "She didn't know there was a law. And I can too read."

"Liar, liar," the curly-haired boy sang. "He's a baby and a liar."

The leader held up a hand, calling for silence. "Alright, then." He gave Tintin a dangerous grin. "If he wants to be a Knight, let him try. Let's settle it with a duel."

Tintin's pulse picked up pace. He stepped back. "I… I don't want to duel anyone."

"Hah!" The curly-haired boy crossed his arms. "So you're a coward, too."

Tintin had half-turned away. He stopped. The words stuck in his chest, and spread heavy through him. He turned back around. One hand clutched his book, the other made a fist.

"I'm not a coward." He laid the words down, quiet and cold.

"Good." The leader smiled with only half his mouth. "Since I'm the King, I decide who duels who." He scanned the group gathered in his shadow, and pointed at a heavyset boy with empty eyes. "Lukas. You'll duel the baby."

Tintin didn't move. He didn't have to, as the boys shifted around him, chatter and taunts filling his ears, until he and Lukas faced each other, surrounded by a ring of spectators. Encircled by keen, shining eyes, bright as new coins, mouths open and spitting at Tintin.

"Come on," someone jeered. "Drop the book and fight!"

Émile jostled among them, brow pinched, mouth open but saying nothing. Their eyes met. Tintin looked away, just as Lukas made the first move, fist sliding in a slow arc.

Tintin jerked sideways. Lukas stumbled as his punch struck air, allowing Tintin the opportunity to scramble around him, before the boy righted himself and turned around. Tintin moved with him. He kept just behind his opponent, and the two spun in a circle.

It could have been plucked straight from a Charlie Chaplin skit. Their audience howled with laughter.

But Lukas caught on. He changed direction, and Tintin couldn't move quick enough to avoid the inevitable. His shoulders were caught in meaty fingers.

With a growl, Lukas threw Tintin to the ground. His elbow hit the pavement first, then the back of his head. Off-white sky filled his vision, embellished with flashes of brilliant light, persisting even when he shut his eyes.

He opened them to find Lukas sitting on his chest, round face pinched into a scowl. The boy pulled his fist back.

He slammed it down onto the hard cover of the Jules Verne novel. Tintin blinked, surprised at how quickly he'd lifted the book to cover his face. He heard a whine, and peered around the book to find Lukas cradling his sore fist with his other hand.

The spectators erupted into laughter again, cheering Tintin on. Then a voice scratched over the rest.

"He can't use the book. That's cheating!"

This started a debate about the rules, and everyone strove to make their opinions heard at once. Tintin lowered The Mysterious Island, risking a glance at the half of the crowd now occupied with yelling at each other. The King and another boy looked as if they might start fighting themselves.

"Tintin!" Émile's voice cut through the roar, as he squeezed himself through the crush of boys, eyes bright in Tintin's. "Watch out-"

A blow landed on his chin, clumsy, yet hard enough to spark another bright flash of pain. Tintin swallowed a yelp, and blinked. Lukas scowled down at him, winding up his arm to try again.

Panic set Tintin's whole body alight. He clenched his jaw, and swung the book upwards, as hard as he could.

The edge of the cover caught Lukas by the chin. His teeth met at an odd angle, with a clack. The boy covered his chin and screamed.

But he didn't get up. Instead, he launched himself forwards, his scream scraping low, into a growl. He wrapped his fingers around Tintin's throat.

The clamour around them hit a fever-pitch. "He'll kill him! He's really gonna kill him!"

Tintin squirmed and kicked, gasping, to no avail. The sky brightened, blurring out the edges of his vision. Again he pushed the book upwards, straight into his opponent's face. It connected with a satisfying 'thud.'

Lukas screeched and released him, hands flying to his nose. At last, Tintin wriggled free. He tore sweet, ragged breath into his lungs, as he struggled to his feet.

But Lukas wasn't done. He lunged forwards, on his knees. Tintin sidestepped easily. He let Lukas throw himself off balance, before he swung the book down, this time hitting the boy on the ear.

Lukas howled. Shouting voices pushed in from all sides. Inside Tintin's head, the roar blocked out everything, a crush of heat down the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth, and swung the book down again. It caught Lukas squarely on his other ear.

He clamped his hands over the sides of his head. His wail rose like a siren, to fill the wide, silent sky above. Blood poured from his nose, dripping down his chin, making bubbles on his lips.

Tintin stumbled backwards, jaw slack. The book fell from his hands. It seemed to him that it fell slowly, and hit the pavement without making a sound.

"Schijt!" One of the older boys swore. "You broke his face. You broke him."

Faces pressed in around Tintin, hands reaching out to tug at his jumper.

"You'll be in so much trouble."

"He's doomed."

"Yeah, but he won the duel!"

The King appeared in front of him, wearing a sneer. "Now you're a real Knight."

Tintin pushed past him. The ground shifted beneath his feet, but he kept walking, wrenching himself out from the crowd.

"Hey," someone called after him, "you can't leave the game."

He stopped, his back to the others, and bent in half, gasping for breath. He burned, blood rushing too close to the surface of his skin. It sloshed up the sides of him, until he half-expected a stream of red to rocket out his throat when he coughed.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Tintin looked up into Émile's narrow, tanned face.

"Are you alright?" he offered shyly, in French, having detected the faint trace of Wallonia in Tintin's accent from his mother.

Before Tintin could answer, Émile's eyes shifted past him, and flew wide. He shrank back, murmuring, "I'm sorry."

A shadow cooled the air above Tintin's head. He straightened, and his eyes followed a column of black robes, all the way up into the face of the Reverend Father Addens.

Dark, deep-set eyes lanced through Tintin's, before he turned to survey the courtyard. Half of the boys were clustered around Lukas, arguing over how near he was to death, while Lukas clutched his face and moaned.

"Silence!"

The boys scattered, voices dropping to a low hum. Even the King and his Lords moved to the far wall of the courtyard, to watch from a safe distance.

Only Lukas and Tintin stayed where they were. Lukas let out a whine, muffled in the fabric of his jumper, which he'd pulled up to press against his nose. He glared at Tintin, watery eyes bright with hate.

"Well, then," sighed Father Addens, standing over Lukas. "Come on now. Stand up. Who did this to you?"

Lukas stood, and pointed a bloodied finger towards Tintin. "Him. The little one. He hit me with his book, sir." He lowered his jumper to display the damage, and touched his nose. "I think it's broken," he sniffed.

Father Addens said nothing. He took his time collecting the book from the ground, brushing off the cover. He held The Mysterious Island by its binding, and fixed his eyes on Tintin. "What have you to say in your defence?"

Silence sank into the courtyard, etching deep into the headmaster's wrinkled face. It outlined the silhouettes of the boys gathered around, watching.

"It's true, sir." Tintin looked up at Father Addens. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin. "I hit Lukas to stop him from hitting me."

The Reverend Father stared him down, with a face like stone. Tintin didn't dare even breathe.

"You're Augustin Mattheus, the new second year student."

Tintin nodded.

Father Addens returned it, mouth puckered into a frown. "Sister Albertine informed me of your impertinence in her class this morning. It seems you are intent on causing trouble."

"No," Tintin blurted, shaking his head. "I'm not a troublemaker, sir, I swear. They made me fight. I didn't want to." He swallowed, trying to cover the cracks in his voice. "I didn't want to," he said again.

"Silence," Father Addens hissed. "I didn't ask for an explanation. I ask that you listen, and listen well. We will not tolerate your outbursts here."

Tintin fell silent. He heaved sharp breaths in and out of his nose, and glared at the hem of the headmaster's robes. He felt wild, frayed at the edges, his vision blurred with tears. He could see blood on the ground where Lukas had knelt. Blood that Tintin had caused. It darkened against the pavement, seeping into its pores.

The headmaster didn't lift his eyes from Tintin, as he called out to one of the two nuns who'd stolen into the courtyard to attend to Lukas.

"Sister Katrina."

The woman turned to Father Addens, eyes wide, shining in her young face.

"Bring me my rod."

Tintin met Sister Katrina's gaze. He felt her pity, a jolt to his chest. She bobbed her head to the headmaster, and turned back to help her Sister usher Lukas inside, no doubt taking him to the infirmary. His bloody nose had stopped, but he looked a sight, still whimpering.

"Augustin." Father Addens' voice struck, unyielding. "Now, I'm afraid, you must face the consequences of your actions. Take off your jumper."

Tintin obeyed. He felt hollowed out, unable to think past the orders he was given. Father Addens told him to turn around, and march to the flagpole in the centre of the courtyard.

He wrapped his hands around the pole, and took his punishment, telling himself that he deserved it. He had caused pain, and must receive it in turn. He muffled his cries into whimpers in his mouth.

Over his head, the flag rippled, its colours stark against the pale sky.

So, I was compelled to write an exploration of his first experience with violence and this was what came of it. I am seriously dying to hear any and all feedback. Even a couple words would send me over the moon. I noticed quite a few ghost readers on the first chapter and I just want to urge you all, don't be shy! I'd love to hear from you, especially if I'm doing something you don't like.

And, well, real talk: I'm pretty new to the one-shot format and I'm not sure if I'm really suited for it. My heart lies with multi-chapters. But I'm going to finish out what I planned to post of this series, because I think it's a good exercise for me, and then I suppose we'll see what happens next! (I'm still chewing on my 'how Tintin became a reporter' multi-chapter concept, and I would love to bring it to life someday soon.)

So until we meet again, please drop a review, and earn my undying devotion and love. Stay awesome!