…Exploring the Possibilities

Tintin knew he would have to do something. There was no way he could let those brutes get away with what they had done.

And if they could do it to him, they could do it to others. Perhaps they had already assaulted before. He owed it to himself and anyone else those monsters had hurt to stop them from hurting anyone, ever again.

Not to mention pay them back. Cause them pain and humiliation, see their eyes widen with fear, their hated mouths beg for mercy. Stop that damn giggle that still haunted him.

He could feel his eyes narrow and a small smile spread across his lips as he imagined tying them up, using his own knife upon them, cutting flesh and watching as red blood ran down, hear screams of horror and agony as…

NO! He was Tintin.

Was he really willing to go down that dark path? Wouldn't that make him just as bad, if not worse than they were?

But they deserved to be punished.

Sighing, he finished the last of the now cooled soup. Gathering up everything he returned to his small kitchen, where he cleaned the dishes. Wiping them dry and putting them away, he turned and surveyed the room, searching for inspiration.

His eyes lit upon the phone and he gasped.

Striding over to it and dialing a familiar number he waited for the other end to pick up.

"Hello!" Came a gruff voice.

Wincing a bit, he took a deep breath. "Captain? It's Tintin. Sorry I…"

"Where in blue blistering' barnacles you been boy!? Worried sick I've been, and about to call in the guards!"

He could hear the deep concern in the other man's voice and scrunched up his face. "Yes, I know Captain, and I am very sorry. I got…well, distracted and lost track of time."

"A thousand thunderin' typhoons, laddie! Was envisioning you tied up and knocked out again. You are alright, aren't you?"

Tintin winced again. He didn't want to lie, really he didn't, but there was no way he could let his oldest and dearest friend know the truth.

Chuckling with what he hoped was cheery nonchalance, he responded lightly. "Oh, no Captain. Nothing like that. I was checking for clues and had been to the library till very late. Decided to stay the night at my old apartment and slept in. I'm perfectly fine."

"Hmmmfff. Well, you sound ok. But try and ease an ol' man's heart and check in a bit sooner, ok lad? I know you're a good lad, and you can take care of yourself, but ya live under my roof and I get naturally concerned if you don't show up when I think you will."

Tintin swallowed against the lump in his throat. The sound of love and anxiety in the man's voice almost brought him to tears. He so wanted to just let everything out, know his friend was on his way and he'd soon be comforted by large arms, crushed against broad chest, smelling the so familiar scents of sea air, whiskey and tobacco.

Instead he cleared his throat and replied sincerely. "I know you do, mon cher. I hate to worry you, you know that right?" Hearing the confirming soft snort, he continued. "I probably won't be back for a few days, Captain. Nothing serious yet, just a puzzle that I need to sort out, find the solution to. I promise I won't get into any trouble."

"Very well my boy. You know where to find me if you need any assistance."

"Yes, of course. Au revoir, Captain." Hanging up he closed his eyes and stood there for a long moment. Just about everything he'd just told the man had been an out and out lie.

Already he was beginning to go down a dark path.

But hadn't he been dragged onto it without his consent? He hadn't asked for this. They had forced themselves upon him, had caused him fear and pain. They had given him bruises and welts, whose fists and ropes had bloodied nose and wrists, whose animal lusts had torn his flesh until it was burning raw and bleeding. They were the ones that caused him to feel degraded and humiliated and helpless. They had instilled within him fiery emotions of revenge and justice.

He'd never been the blaming type, had been fairly un-judgmental toward his previous attackers. But he'd never been subjected to this…horror. He shuddered as he once more felt hands upon him, breath against his cheek, tongues licking his flesh. Forced against his will to do unspeakable acts, accept their bodies into his without consent.

Why shouldn't he hate them? Why shouldn't he seek out vengeance?

Whatever happened to them, they only had themselves to blame. They had made one mistake, they hadn't killed him. Maybe they thought he would be too frightened to say or do anything. But there had always been more to Tintin than met the eye.

So just what were his options?

The more Tintin thought about it, the more he knew he couldn't go to the authorities – dear God, no. He couldn't face that. His privacy was precious to him as it was; he would have to disappear if he ever wanted his life to be his own again. And then what would become of him? Would he be content to live in shadows for the rest of his life? Never be able to do the things he'd become accustomed to - go on adventures, be the boy reporter he'd always wanted to be and had struggled to become?

No. It was inconceivable.

Any more than it was inconceivable the amount of damage it would do to his friends and acquaintances. He closed his eyes and moaned. If just being gone overnight had the Captain so concerned, what dear lord would knowing that Tintin had been raped do to him?

The Captain was a tough man, he knew that. But the older man did have a weakness for drink that became overwhelming in times of stress. He'd managed to ease that need from the Captain, if more from the Captain's stronger need to keep in Tintin's high regard.

But would this send his friend over the edge? And how could Tintin live with that if it did?

He so wished he could tell his friend. He wanted somebody to confide in, to hold him and soothe him, listen to him sob and just rock him gently. He needed to know that everything was right with the world, that there was still people and places that were safe and secure.

Sighing, Tintin shook his head. Perhaps someday he would tell. He needed to forget some things first.

Perhaps he could write to the authorities, tell them about the two men. But would that work? Without an actual witness, it would just be hearsay. Maybe they'd be watched, even brought in for questioning. But there was no way to tell for sure.

And would it be enough to stop them? Tintin doubted it. If they wanted to hurt and abuse, they would.

And it would do nothing to ease his own need for justice. He wanted them to know it was their little captive that was handing out their punishment.

Shaking his head he disregarded the idea – who would take an unsigned and unsubstantiated accusation like that seriously? He didn't even know their names, and true, he could describe them accurately as their hated features were burned into his brain, but still – he knew it wouldn't be enough.

So he would have to find a way to deal with them. By himself. Just himself. And if it was wrong to do, so be it.

…