A/N: This chapter is a bit of a short one, but it has some vital info, so please enjoy! I want to take a moment to thank all my viewers, your support is SO appreciated, in ways words can't describe! So thank you, Guest(if you wrote a review as Guest, this means you, because I only got one!). Aaaaaaand action!

''Where were you at 10:36 yesterday morning?''

''I was taking my dog for a walk on Prince Lane. We were heading to the park, as one of the entrances is connected to Chapel Street. I was...I was looking at the street name sign, merely 4 meters away from the intersection, when I heard the gunshots...and the screams…''

The woman's eyes were staring ahead at nothing, her whole body rigid as if she were standing on a tightrope. Tintin drew in a silent breath as he scribbled notes into his notepad, his lips pressing together and his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked up into the woman's haunted expression, a hint of concern lingering in his eyes.

''I know this is hard to talk about, Mrs. Peters. I can fight against this horrible threat, but it helps to have information. Is there anything else you would like to say? Any notable details you saw?''

Mrs. Peters blinked, her dark eyes refocusing quickly, and she took a deep breath to recompose herself.

''I won't repeat what I saw at that dreadful hour, but I will tell you this. There was this black car...a Cadillac Series 62, it looked like. It was parked on the side of the road, perpendicular to Chapel Street. The driver did not get out of the car; he simply sat there, until that man started firing, and then drove slowly away. I didn't think much of it until now, but I suppose it was rather strange.''

''Could you describe the driver?''

''No, no...it looked like a man, but I barely glanced at him.''

Her face was pale and still, the only sign of life her contracting pupils. Tintin decided this interview was over. He sympathetically placed a hand on her shoulder, thanked her for helping him, and started off towards Chapel Street.

Tintin was still jotting down information into his notepad as he turned the corner, when he suddenly received a hard knock to the stomach. He leaned back with a grunt, steadying himself against the brick wall. To his dismay, his notepad was not saved, as it flew out of his hands and onto the street. Tintin found himself looking from his scattered notepad papers to a pair of casual sneakers, and finally to a gangly heap of adolescent arms and legs. A pair of dark blue, almost violet eyes glared up into his violently, the pupils slim and feline-like. For half a breath, Tintin was caught in that intense blue gaze, hardened with deep anger, deep hatred. Hatred towards whom, he let himself wonder? He hadn't done anything, yet he felt as if he were sinking under a weight of accusation.

''Why can't you watch where you're going!?''

The girl's heated reply hastened Tintin as he offered his hand to her.

''I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking, I….''

She had a fair complexion and chestnut hair that spilled over her shoulders and back in curvy waves. The pale freckles over her nose gave her a youthful glow, quite fitting, Tintin thought. She refused his hand, instead sitting stubbornly on the ground, her legs sticking out ungracefully.

''No, thank you.''

Tintin pulled his hand back in, bewildered. She was certainly spitting with fury, but among the thick haze of anger in her eyes, there was a trace of something stronger-fear. He crouched down cautiously, but the girl did not meet his eyes again. She was preoccupied, picking up pages of his notepad and studying them curiously. What a nosey little critter. Tintin tucked all the pages he could get his hands on into his notepad, keeping a sharp eye out for the most vital one; Mrs. Peter's interview. Irritation pricked at him when he saw that the girl was holding it.

''Excuse me miss, but I need that.''

The girl's stormy eyes flashed up at him once, before returning to the page. Tintin pressed his finger to his temple with a sigh, and tried to sit more comfortably on the concrete.

''My name is Tintin. What's yours?''

''Anya Shan,'' she replied promptly, to Tintin's surprise. She flipped the paper over and examined the other side, offering Tintin his pencil without shifting her eyes. The sharp tip of the pencil had broken off when it fell. Tintin turned it over in his hands casually, and tucked it behind his ear, trying not to draw attention to themselves, as they had already received some distasteful glances from passerbys. Finally, the girl handed him his paper and rose to her feet.

''You know, you need a new notepad. This is simply unprofessional.''

''Well, now I-''

''So, you're entering the war? The endless fight between civilians and terrorists?''

Tintin tucked the paper into his pocket as he stood, brushing his fingertips against his thighs, and fixed Anya with a serious look.

''I'm forcibly leaning myself against the hope that you will not go around spreading this.''

She pulled an innocent face, dramatically throwing a hand over her heart.

''Me? Spread things? Never.''

''Good.''

He picked his pencil out from behind his ear and proceeded to tuck it into the bindings of the notebook in his other pocket. Anya tilted her head slightly, her cold blue eyes restlessly calculating. She was obviously looking at him, but for a reason he could not deduct. Yes, he thought to himself, what a nosey critter.

''Tintin...you're that reporter bloke everyone talks about, aren't you? Did you really break up the crime gangs in Chicago single-handedly?''

''Something of the likes, yes. I'm afraid I must be on my way now, but if you want to know more about that, see if you can find a newspaper from September 1943. Excuse me.''

He politely nodded and continued down the street. The girl turned to watch him, her hands behind her back, her eyes narrowed slightly.

''Have a lovely day, Mr. Tintin. Keep that pencil working!''

He cast her a wry grin over his shoulder, his hands sliding into his pockets.

Nosey indeed.