A/N: GUYYYYSS! I'm so thrilled to be here, to post yet ANOTHER chapter of this story! I've gotten over my little mental vacation, and I'm just so thankful that I had enough support to keep this story going(you guys really are my fuel). This is a pretty big chapter, so please sit back and enjoy it, because it sure did take a lot to get out here. I'm hoping to post the next chapter this month, but if I don't, be patient, it's coming...slowly but surely...

/*/*/*

"There is...something I don't understand about this story, Elliot."

Suffocated light came up through the cracks in between the boards on the floor, leaving most of the room in a pitiful dark gloom. Elliot swallowed, peering past the desk, the only piece of furniture in the room, at the dark silhouette behind. His eyes struggled to adjust to the musty darkness. Does he always keep his office this dark?

Few had seen Rathmore in person, as he always kept to his 'office', the lights dimmed or turned off completely and the interior bare. If anyone were to question about his health or well-being, they most certainly would have been laughed at. It was common knowledge that most of the men in charge around here were either psychotic or deranged.

"What is it, sir?"

There was the sound of a chair scraping over the concrete floor.

"See...over time, this...building...has been set up with defenses. Unlike other defense systems, we haven't designed it to keep people out...but in."

The raspy, broken voice held a note of pride to it. Elliot felt as if he were inhaling dust, his lungs begging for oxygen.

"We're not quite sure how they escaped, sir...we have evidence that they got into the lab through the ventilation system, and they somehow found out about the gas tanks, and of course, we never keep a lock on the door to the garage in case someone like you needed an escape route-"

"Stop your useless gibbering and wake up!" Rathmore croaked, slamming something solid over his desk. Elliot flinched. The sound bounced around him, gradually dying away.

"I designed this building twenty years ago, boy. I had dreamed this palace up in my head before you knew what a gun was. I know every passageway, every corner, every step and cobweb in this damned place. I am this damned place. Nobody enters or leaves here without me knowing about it. Do you think I wouldn't be prepared for intruders? Do you think I like to sit down and cry when things go wrong? Bullshit."

Elliot tensed his shoulders slightly.

"What are you implying?"

Rathmore extended a ghostly fist out towards him, catching a hint of light on his bony knuckles. He unfolded his fingers, every ligament and vein visible through his papery skin, and released a small device that hit the floor with a clatter.

"I've put a tracking device on every plane we have possession of. Take this and find them. Bring some men with you."

Elliot knelt down to retrieve the device, glancing under the desk as he did so. The space where two legs belonged, he saw only one, a slender pole resting where the other should have been. He stood, bending forward respectfully before heading out into the hallway.

/*/*/*

It was a little too late to be considered a morning, yet Anya felt that there was no other way to describe what she saw when she looked out the window. Rain pattered down softly from the sky, and what little light was released from the blanket of clouds above was gray and weak. Mornings, rain. Signs of a new beginning.

Tintin was still fast asleep, catching up on the rest he missed over the past two days. There were two plates on the chair by the door, each with a stack of round flat cakes doused in sugary syrup. Anya smiled. Pancakes.

She ate quickly, noting that though the food had long since lost its warmth, it tasted better than anything she could remember. I suppose that's what hunger does to you…I wonder what day it is today?

She slipped on her shoes, suddenly overcome by curiosity. The weather here, wherever they were, had been warm and humid. Skirting across the lawn, she made it to the front porch and tried the door handle. The door opened.

"Hello? Matt?"

She entered the house, kicking her damp shoes off by the door. The clock in the living room read 12:40.

"Hello? I just came in to check what day it is, I hope you won't mind!"

She glanced out the window, noticing the empty driveway. Perhaps Matt wasn't home.

She found a calendar in the kitchen. Today is Sunday, September 3rd, 1950.

Matt must have gone to a church, she decided. She was about to return to the shack, when a sharp ring caught her attention. She followed the sound to the kitchen. A black telephone was impatiently waiting for her on the counter.

Anya knew she shouldn't answer it; she knew how completely and utterly stupid that would be, even as her hand reached over and picked up the receiver. A man's voice came out of the headset.

"Hey Dawson, this is Davey Wayne. I'm coming over on Wednesday to pick up the load, alright?"

Anya's mind blanked.

"Ahh..."

"Hello? Matt?"

"C-can I take a message, sir?"

"Who is this? Are you a maid or something?"

"Y-yes, of course, I'm Matt Dawson's maid. I'll give him...ah...Mr. Dawson...your message, sir."

"I didn't know Matt got himself a maid...well, thank you kindly, ma'am."

"But of course."

The receiver clicked, and Anya released a tense breath.

"Didn't your parents ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"

Anya's heart jumped, and she whipped around to see Tintin in the doorway.

"Don't you scare me like that! I outta…"

"Shh...keep your voice down." He stepped into the kitchen, a finger over his lips for silence. He looked as if he were holding back a good old laugh. She swore she could punch him.

"You think you're a real comic, don't you?" she hissed as he approached her, his hands resting in his pockets.

"You're the one who broke in here."

"Well, we're both in here now, aren't we? And for the record, I think he would believe me over you any day."

"Really?"

Anya narrowed her brow.

"You did crash a plane on his property."

She turned away, directing her attention to a slip of paper beside the telephone receiver. She scanned down the list of names and numbers. She sensed Tintin tense next to her.

"Listen, Anya. I didn't come in here to yell at you..."

"I suppose it's just second nature, then?"

"N-no...what was I supposed to do, wait for you to come back? What were you even doing in he-"

Anya clamped a hand over his mouth suddenly, looking past him.

"Someone's here. We need to go."

"Wait," Tintin replied quickly, brushing her hand from his face. "Go talk to him, quickly! Try stall him as long as you can. I need to make a call."

"A fine time to do it," She hissed, throwing him a furious glare as she shot out the back door. Tintin shook himself mentally, snatching up the headset and the paper.

"Hello, this is a long-distance call from…."

Stupid, stupid, stupid...you'd think I'd know exactly where I was by now.

"Sorry, can you give me a second?"

He looked around the kitchen, snatching an opened envelope from under a half-eaten apple.

"Hello, my name is Matt Dawson, this is a long-distance call from Brockton, Massachusetts.I'd like to place a call to Archibald Haddock in Brussels, Belgium? He's landline 412."

"Archibald Haddock, Brussels, Belgium, 412?" The landline lady responded.

"Yes."

"Alright...do you want me to call you back?"

"No, I'll hold. Please hurry, it's urgent."

He waited impatiently as the call transferred, keeping an eye out the window. Anya was still talking to Matt, but his body language showed he was eager to get inside. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if he got caught using the telephone, but Tintin didn't want to awaken suspicion. Anya was leading Matt to the shack now, most likely to fix a nonexistent problem. Good girl.

"They're ringing the number, Mr. Dawson."

"Okay, thanks."

He listened as the phone rang twice on the other end, before being received by a gruff voice.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Haddock? A long-distance call from Matt Dawson in Massachusetts for you."

"I'm him."

"Alright, go ahead."

"Hey, Captain, it's Tintin."

"Tintin? Where are you calling from?! We've been worried sick-"

"Glad to speak to you too, Captain, but I'm short on time here. I'm just calling to tell you I'm alright, and I'm in Brockton, Massachusetts."

"Blistering...well, I suppose you don't have time to explain. I suppose you want me to catch the next plane to America."

"You know I wouldn't ask if it weren't important, but I think I'm onto something big here. I'll give you a ring in the next few days, if you haven't already left. We can meet in New York City. Make sure you leave Nestor with details in case I don't reach you in time."

He hung up and slipped outdoors.

/*/*/*

"Well, my symptoms really are quite minor...headaches, swollen feet, cold sweats…"

Anya felt she could practically drop with relief as Tintin slipped in the shack. She flashed him a look that said, you owe me big time. He shrugged guiltily. What was I supposed to do? As Matt turned around, Tintin straightened, putting on a polite smile.

"Uh, Mr. Tintin, Miss Jane told me you just went out for a walk, and that you were experiencing some pretty intense head trauma…"

Matt looked as elderly as ever, his soft brown eyes revealing his discomfort. The corner of Tintin's lip cinched slightly as he stole a glance at Anya.

"Of course, sir...I'm so pleased Jane could fill you in with my absence. The truth is, we haven't been feeling so well, and we think it would be best if we set out on our way tomorrow morning, so not to inconvenience you anymore."

"You've been wonderfully hospitable towards us, Mister. We cannot thank you enough, and the last thing we would want is to be a burden," Anya added sweetly.

If there was a flicker of suspicion in Matt's eyes, Anya didn't catch it. He smiled, nodding.

"Of course."

Tintin looked after him until he had gone, his face blank with thought. As soon as Matt was out of sight, he quickly took Anya by the arm and pulled her behind the shack. She released a tiny gasp of alarm, her nerves jumping.

"T-Tintin I-"

Tintin's face was alight with pure joy as he spoke to her in a rushed whisper.

"I spoke to Haddock."

Anya swallowed, narrowing her brow.

"Haddock? I'm sorry, I don't-"

"Archibald Haddock? He's my best friend. He's practically family to me, and we've known each other for as long as I remember! I can't believe I got through to him, and…"

Tintin trailed off, his expression falling as he realized Anya wouldn't have any clue as to who he was talking about. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Ah, right. I've probably lost you. Well, you'll get a chance to meet him, for sure. I talked to him, and he said he was going to catch the next plane to America there is. I'm sure he'll like you-I mean-you'll like him."

Anya nodded. She could clearly see this Haddock character must mean a lot to Tintin, especially if he was willing to come all the way to America to see him.

"Well, we've sold out our welcome here, but where are we going next?" She sat down on her bed with a bounce.

"New York City. This right here," he held out a slip of worn paper, "is our destination."

Anya studied the slip. N591UA.

"So...are these numbers supposed to mean something?"

"Not yet, but that 'N' does. Remember when I told you the aircraft was American?"

"Ah, I see what you're thinking. We're going plane hunting."

Her voice was unenthusiastic.

"Anya, this could be really important. We need to get to the core of this crime ring, and the best way to do that, is through it's connections. Are you following me?"

Anya found his gaze too intense to hold. She smiled, her shoulders dropping.

"Right behind you. Where will we go first?"