A/N: Hello everyone! Please, please understand that I am trying my hardest to get this story straight and uploaded soon, but I'm trying to write a few chapters ahead before I post. My apologies for the confusion, but YES, I DID PRETTY MUCH REPLACE THIS WHOLE CHAPTER. With the setting, and the time period, I feel it would be more likely that our two escapees' first encounters in America would be with males. I have a huge document of cutouts in this story that I might show you guys someday when I finish. About Anya's appearance: I know I've not been fluent, it's been difficult trying to put a pin in my rampant imagination. I confirm now that Anya has brown wavy hair and fair skin, sorry for not keeping that consistent! Your reviews are candy to me, you don't understand how much it helps to know I have supporters when I hit a rough spot in my writing. Now, I do have a little message for a guest "ME": Thank you for the review, it was very helpful. I did research when converse sneakers came out, and the exact year is 1908. Now, they weren't popular until the 20's and 80's(though I don't know where), but to be on the safe side, I switched Anya's converse for "casual sneakers". Your other suggestions would definitely have improved the story, and I would have already changed these things myself if I wasn't so far into the story...I will keep them in mind for after I finish the storyline. Thank you again!
The sky had been dark for two hours. Below the little gray aircraft, the dark waters of the North Atlantic Ocean reflected the moon from under a thin layer of clouds. The world below was gloomy and insignificant, but above, the stars glimmered brightly, each performing a dance of their own. Anya yawned as she looked up at the starry sky, the sound of the engine humming quietly in her ears. It had been around five hours since they took off, and she had started to become extremely bored.
"Tintin, you must have done this a million times over. Not knowing where you're going, on the run from someone, but still moving forward. Living on the edge."
She sighed, slumping back in the seat a little.
"I wish my life was like that...I'm either bored out of my mind or terrified or...lonely."
That last word lay heavy on her mind, and she was pulled into a silence of thought. Her head was suddenly filled with the things she wanted to say, things she wanted to talk about for years that she couldn't say to anyone. She realized, with a flutter in her stomach, that now there was someone, someone she could confide in.
/*/*/*
"Tintin...Tintin, wake up! Something's wrong."
Tintin's head felt like lead as his eyes slowly opened. His breath came out frosty and white, his skin thin and dry in the sharp embrace of the cold. The sky above was a shade in between darkness and light, caught between night and morning. He struggled to identify the voice calling for him at first, his eyes confirming in place of his mind. Anya's dark blue eyes were wide with worry as she leaned over the seat in front of him.
"Wh-what is it?" he stammered, his breath frosty white.
"We're being followed!"
Her words sent a chill down his spine, and he sat up abruptly.
"What?! Where?"
Anya pointed up into the sky behind him. He could see, faintly in the distance, two dark spots against the pale gray sky, too still and large to be birds yet too far to be properly seen. Tintin motioned to Anya with his hand to sit forward in the seat.
"Lower the plane. Perhaps the layer of clouds will cover us, if only long enough to delay them."
"They're moving faster than us, Tintin!"
"Just listen to me. When I say, we are going to switch places, as fast as you can, but be careful. There's a gun in the backseat here."
Anya bit her lip and kept her hands fixed on the yoke. Her ears were throbbing so painfully she thought they would explode any moment. She silently longed for a piece of bubblegum, the kind her uncle always gave her with a wink as they started to climb higher and higher into the endless blue sky; she was too young to understand why at that time, but she knew to keep it in her mouth until they were back on the ground, until the gum was stale and hard in her mouth. As the plane dipped down under the layer of clouds, the pain in her ears seemed to multiply. She narrowed her eyes, struggling to regain her focus. They were stooping closer and closer to the water below, so close they could see the American ships chug patiently through the dark waves on their way out to sea. For the first time in days, she felt a spark of hope spring to life inside her, as she looked out over the side of the plane.
"Tintin! I think...I think I see land!"
A faint stretch of brown and green tinted the pale horizon. Tintin kept his eyes fixed to the skies, a handgun held firmly between his hands, his elbows resting on the smooth metallic spine of the aircraft..
"That's fine. Head that way, and don't stop descending."
Anya swallowed, her tongue dry and papery in her mouth, her hands trembling on the yoke.
"If...if we should not survive this…I-I'm not ready to die. I want to see my sister one last time. I want to tell my uncle I flew a plane."
Tintin couldn't tell her to stop saying such things. He couldn't tell her everything would be alright, that they would live, that she would, of course, see her family again. He realized, upon hearing she had a sister, that he still knew very little about her; he cursed himself silently for not making an effort to ask.
It can't end like this.
Tintin clenched his jaw as the two planes dipped below the thin cloud cover; their little aircraft could be shot out of the sky at any moment now.
"Anya, we're going to switch places now, okay? Just do as I told you."
Anya nodded numbly and pulled herself over the seat. Tintin placed his hands on her waist to see her over, giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze before taking his place behind the yoke. He could see vibrant green trees settled peacefully along the shore, their bushy tops swaying in the breeze.
This is our last hope. There was a loud prattling sound from behind.
Tintin angled the plane downwards sharply, towards a large gap in the sea of trees, rounded and long; a lake, or pond, hidden among the foliage. With a simple flick of a lever, he cut the engine.
The gun slipped from Anya's hands, and she clung to the seat with all the strength she had left.
"Anya, take my hand!"
The ground seemed to be growing as they plummeted towards it, plucking the aircraft from the blue sky like a lifeless bird. Anya's hand trembled as she reached over the seat, her fingers searching blindly for his.
Tintin took her hand in his, leaning hard against his seatbelt, and pulled the rest of her over into the seat beside him. She uttered a small, breathless cry as she lost all gravity for a moment, and clung to him in terror.
"Don't let go of me," Tintin ordered, holding her securely against his chest. Neither of them could breathe as they disappeared into the forest, the endless green branches the last thing that crossed their eyes before the crushing impact of the plane hitting the ground knocked them into darkness.
/*/*/*
"She's been there for days. Can't you talk to her?"
"What could I possibly say? She doesn't want to see me. She doesn't want to be here."
"You are her father, for God's sake, man! Better you do something before she starves."
Lewis Irvin sighed, dropping his gaze. His brown eyes were blank and lifeless, his skin pale and aged. He slowly rose from his desk, every movement heavy and drawn out.
"I'll talk to her."
If it hadn't been for the faint rise and fall of her chest, he would have been sure she was dead. The way she stared blankly up at the ceiling, the way her hair was spread in clumps across her pillow and her bones jutted out against her ghostly skin made him think of a corpse. He cautiously took a step closer, and then another. He called her name.
"Anya."
She blinked, once, in response, and twitched, keeping her gaze fixed upwards.
"Anya, get up. You need to stop this."
As the girl continued to refuse to respond to him, he felt a dry kind of anger building in his chest. He stormed to her side and ripped the bed covers off her, exposing her boney, malnourished frame. She finally drew her blank gaze to meet his eyes, a flicker of fear sparking to life amidst the dark blue.
"You will get out of bed and take care of yourself," Irvin ordered, grabbing her wrist and wrenching her to her feet. She tore away from him with a strength neither of them knew she possessed, her face dark with disgust.
"I hate you!" she hissed, wrapping her arms around herself. She cried out as her father came down on her with his fists, filling the room with her tiny agonized sounds until he cast her aside with a final threat and stormed out the room. For a while, she refused to lift her bloodied head from the moldy concrete. Seconds turned slowly into minutes. If she held still long enough, she could pretend she was dead, or dreaming, or anywhere else but here. She felt she would rather die than continue to pick up the pieces of her shattered life, to patiently try relight the frozen candle of hope inside her again.
/*/*/*
The lukewarm water had her in its grasp, pulling her down slowly. She passed in and out of consciousness as the water slowly saturated her lungs, until she was sure her eyes would never open again. Then, she felt a sickening pressure in her chest, and the water seemed to be sucked upwards. Her head threatened to explode as she turned her head to vomit, expelling mouthful after mouthful until she was empty inside. She lay there, shuddering, feeling naked and defenseless.
"My goodness, you must have swallowed the whole lake."
The voice was masculine; unfamiliar, but kind. Anya felt instinctive trust towards her unknown savior.
"Wh...I…"
"Don't try to talk now, girl."
Tintin. The plane.
"Tin...Tintin…"
The words scraped against her throat like a rusty knife. Her head was spinning, the image of a leafy green forest plummeting up towards her, the wind practically ripping her in half, the air sucked out of her lungs…
"There's someone else down there! He's trapped in the pilot's seat!"
"Well, what are you waiting for? Go pull 'im out!"
There was a soft splash in the distance. Anya's eyelids flickered open, the blurry figure above her shimmering like a reflection. She reached a trembling hand out, her fingers extended, frightened that the image would disappear under her touch, yet under her fingertips she felt the warmth of skin on his forearm, pressing his thumb against her wrist to find her pulse.
The plane. The lake.
"You two must be mad, taking a plane alone, at your ages. I can tell you weren't wearing a seatbelt; it's a wonder you survived, girl."
"Th-there wasn't one...the plane wasn't ours."
The stranger hummed in response, his voice light with curiosity. Anya felt a hand at her chin, tilting her head to the side.
"You've earned some mean scratches. Can you tell me your name?"
"I...I'm Jane." Anya pulled the lie seemingly out of nowhere; "Jane Edwards."
"Jane Edwards. And your friend's name?"
"H-he..."
Something in her mind clicked. Any American would recognize the world-famous reporter, especially with the advancing technology and wide-spread media America was famous for. She turned her gaze into the eyes of her rescuer, a middle-aged man with graying hair and stubble.
"H-he…."
"Hey, Matt? This one's coming to. You won't believe your eyes when you see him."
Anya curled and uncurled her fingers, her body feeling swollen. Let's hope carrot-top over there knows to keep his trap shut. The man with the graying hair, or Matt, disappeared from her side.
"Well…! I say. It's that Belgian reporter that broke up the Chicago gangs. I can't imagine what he's doing here. And what an entrance!"
"Perhaps he's taken to planes, eh, John?"
"There isn't an airport in Timbuktu that would give this 'fella a set of wings, not after that landing."
"I'm sure we can trust him, but what about the girl?"
"What about the girl? She's with him, isn't she?"
Anya strained her ears, waiting for the other man's response. Yeah, what about me?
"Well...I don't know...she could be a communist, or something. Or a refugee. Shouldn't we call someone?"
Anya dug her fingers into the earth, a rush of anger rising in her chest. A female communist? He's crazy!
"And send her off to be dealt with the government, without even getting a full sentence out of her? You know what they do to communists here. She would be frightened out of her mind."
Matt approached Anya and picked her up easily, his arms strong and lean.
"We'll take them back to the house and help them, like any honorable Americans would, and decide what to do with them later. That's final."
/*/*/*
As Tintin was set down on the bed, his head lolled back and forth with the movement, his limbs falling slack like those of a corpse. His cheeks were muddy and pale, the blood drawn away from the surface of his skin, giving him a ghostly glow. Anya, sitting on the bed opposite his, leaned closer curiously. There was a faint rise and fall to his chest, yet she worried. How much water had he swallowed? She had heard of children drowning in their sleep, after inhaling too much water swimming. It was called dry drowning, if she recalled correctly. Could it happen to adults, too?
"Thank you, sir." She looked up at the man who set Tintin down. He gave her a stony look in response, walking outside without bothering to close the door.
Anya chewed her lip, glancing about her nervously. The little shack the men had lead them to was on the edge of a chunk of property, in a grassy field surrounded by the forest trees. The midday heat drifted through the walls of the building, around shelves of empty jars and tools that looked to be floating against the wall. There was one window in between two creaky old beds with beige bed sheets, though it was so dusty it was difficult to look through. The open door had a simple latch on it that operated on the outside. Anya looked through the doorway now, where the two men outside were speaking in hushed tones. She noticed the man talking to Matt was dripping wet. Eventually, Matt's friend stormed off, not before giving Anya a dirty look through the doorway. She shivered, as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of her dress. Matt came into the shack and stood staring out the dusty window, his face solemn with thought. It was a few minutes before he spoke.
"You're welcome to stay here, though I wouldn't recommend you stay long. My neighbor, Andy Lennings, isn't too keen on keeping your situation quiet. He's got good intentions, but he's stubborn as a mule sometimes. I just need to know how long you plan on stayin', and what you need in the meantime,"
Anya looked from Matt to Tintin, as if by second nature. Of course, he was still asleep, or unconscious, or possibly dead. I'm sort of happy I didn't wear a seatbelt.
She looked back at Matt, who crossed his arms expectantly.
"Well…" she started, "I think we should take care of our injuries first. Do you have a first aid kit?"
Matt nodded.
"Okay...well, some food and water. And clothes, please."
Matt nodded, and left. Anya smirked, feeling quite proud of herself. Would you look who's giving orders now, Tintin?
Tintin's ginger eyelashes quivered ever so slightly in the afternoon light that flowed through the window, his mouth set. Anya moved to sit beside him, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest. Then, very cautiously, she reached her hand out and touched his arm.
He didn't stir. She felt his forehead, comparing the temperature to that of her own. Her mother used to do this to her when she was little, and she had to admit, it made her feel very grown up, in a poignant way. She sat there for a while, alone with her thoughts, listening to the sounds of the woods.
/*/*/*
The midday sun stung Tintin's eyes, forcing him to squint. The roof above him was low, and sloped. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The boy looked around the dusty little shack, scanning over shelves with jars, some filled with jam and some empty. His gaze finally came to rest on the figure that lay curled up on the bed opposite him, her sides rising and falling gently as she slept. He took a step forward, standing over her, as if in a haze. Her brown hair stuck out over her face and tucked itself under her neck, as if to hide something from him. His hand was suddenly reaching towards her face, pulling her nest of hair, curly from the humidity, back from her face, peaceful under the spell of sleep. Jagged cuts and scrapes disrupted the surface of her skin, and the beginning of a bruise had formed on her right temple. She stirred, and he quickly moved away, sitting back on his own bed so fast he felt pain pulse up from his ribcage. Ah, there's that old ache.
Anya sat up and rubbed her eyes, pushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes flooded with relief when she saw him, the smallest hint of a smile caught in the corners of her lips.
"Hey, you."
Tintin smiled, rubbing his sore chest.
"Hey."
They both looked away for a while, staring at the window or mason jars absently. It was Tintin who broke the silence.
"So...I was hoping you could tell me what happened while I was unconscious. Where are we?"
Anya looked up sharply, as if snapping out of a transe.
"Oh, right. Of course, you don't remember. The plane went down in a lake, almost a mile from here…."
She quickly filled him in, animating her speech with little hand movements. She spoke hurriedly, feeling uncomfortable under Tintin's inquisitive gaze, heat flushing her cheeks. When she finished, Tintin nodded, casting his gaze towards the doorway.
"I don't suppose this Matt fellow left that basket for us?"
Anya practically jumped to her feet, talking all the while as she went to retrieve the basket.
"Oh right-! I did ask Matt for a few things. Clothes and food and such. More importantly medical supplies. See, we've got bandages and antibiotics and-"
"Slow down there," Tintin cut in, with a bemused chuckle. He set the basket on the ground and motioned for Anya to sit on the bed. She swallowed, folding her hands tightly as she obeyed.
"Now. Are you sure you're alright?" His soft blue eyes crashed into her eyes, a blade digging into her chest. She looked at her lap, her bloodied hands, her bruises, the cuts that looked like they would never heal. She looked up at Tintin, studying his boyish face, aglow with a thin layer of perspiration, and realized she hadn't felt so content as she did in that moment in many months. She smiled then, past the pain that stung her skin and bones, completely sure in her words.
"To be completely honest, Tintin, I really am happy to be here. I've broken free of something, if that makes sense."
Tintin nodded. He wanted to ask her what she felt she had left behind, but then again, he wasn't quite sure how she would react to such a personal question.
"So...let's open up the basket," he said.
At the top, there were an assortment of faded fabrics: a red crewneck, a grey flannel shirt, and two worn pairs of jeans. Anya chose the crewneck and the smaller pair of jeans, running a hand over the material.
"Good choice," Tintin said, "I'll step out a moment. You can call me in when you're done."
He took the leftover clothes with him, switching into them briskly outside the shack. The sleeves of the flannel needed to be rolled up, but the jeans thankfully weren't too oversized. Inside, Anya shed her dress, kicking off her worn flats. Her hands disappeared in the sleeves of the crewneck, but she couldn't complain, as it was relievingly comfortable. She pulled the jeans on, rolling the cuffs up and tying a rope around the waistline to keep the pants up. Satisfied, she went to call Tintin back in. She almost didn't recognize him at first, without his signature blue sweater and plus fours. It seems he felt the same way about her, the way his eyes swiftly traced her body before retreating to the ground.
"I think there's a medicine kit in the basket. We should…" Anya said.
"Yes, of course. I'll get it."
Tintin went for the basket, spilling its contents over his bed. He tossed a container of clear fluid to Anya, taking the other one for himself.
"This has antibiotics in it. Put it on all your cuts; we don't want to risk getting an infection."
Anya sat down and rolled up her sleeves, lathering the fluid down her arms and pressing her damp hands against her cheeks. Her worst cuts were on her face and arms, and the injuries on her legs were minimal; she was mostly bruised from the experience.
Tintin tapped himself under his left eye. "You really are a handsome shade of purple there."
Anya's hand rushed to her cheek, as if she were clamping a hand over her mouth.
"I must look a fright."
"Nonsense. Come on, you should wrap your cuts with thi-"
He froze up in pain suddenly, midway through his reach from the bed to the floor. Anya stood straight up, her eyes alarmed.
"Oh, shitbucket, your ribs."
She quickly moved him back so he was sitting upright again; Tintin gritted his teeth, hoarsely saying "ow" over again until he was settled.
"S-sorry-you don't want me to call Matt, do you?"
"I'd like you t-to s-stop swearing...-y-you're a lady, a-aren't y...you?" he gasped, curling the bedsheets into his fists.
Anya realized she was still positioned over him, her wavy brown hair brushing his shoulders. She stepped back, sitting hard on her bed. Neither of them moved until Tintin's breathing lightened. He cleared his throat, pressing a hand to his chest from under his shirt.
"I think I better be careful that this doesn't get worse. A broken rib usually can heal on its own, provided I take care of myself."
"Shouldn't you wrap it?"
"No, you really shouldn't wrap anything that's not bleeding."
Tintin's muscles were rigid, as much as he tried to relax them. He tried to take a few deep breaths to steady himself, but the pain in his chest only intensified.
"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Anya's voice was soft with concern.
"I will be," Tintin replied. "Enough about me. Let's eat and get some rest."