Twenty: Fetal Position
A/N: A very short prequel to my day 2 prompt 'Caged', but can be read as a separate story. Set during 'Alph Art'.
The cellar was cold.
In fact, this cellar was freezing cold.
Despite having once slept in sub-zero temperatures, half-starved and dehydrated on Mount Everest, Tintin still decided this cellar was worse. He was grateful he'd at least had the sense to wear his sweater before leaving his hotel room, but lying on the cement was not doing his body temperature any favours. They could've at least given me a blanket. Even a potato sack would be greatly appreciated right now.
He raised his head to gaze at the window above, the faint twinkle of heavenly bodies glittering in the night sky. A quick glance at his watch revealed it was just gone two, and yet he'd hardly slept a wink. And I would've been comfortable in my own bed if I'd only been more careful…
It had pained him to send Snowy with a message, for he desperately longed for the warmth and comfort of his faithful friend's fur. The canine had been reluctant to leave his master's side for any reason, though Tintin was confident that he could deliver his call for help successfully. After all, Snowy has never let me down. No reason for him to let me down now…
Then again, I did send him a few hours ago. How deeply asleep is the Captain?!
Sighing heavily, Tintin forced himself onto his side, tucking his legs to his chest as he wrapped his arms around them. He'd pulled the sleeves of his sweater down as far as they would stretch, but it did little to alleviate the chill that continuously swept through his body.
Part of him began to wonder if he had done the right thing, running off to investigate in the middle of the night. It was times like this that he forgot he wasn't as young as he once was, and therefore not as sprightly. That hadn't appeared to be the case this time, however, as he knew he would be able to sprint to safety had there been no bars on his window.
However, he couldn't help but feel guilty for not informing Haddock of his intentions. After all, the Captain is bound to have a heart attack once he reads my note. The older man had berated him on more than one occasion about how Tintin was going to be the death of him: "Stop gettin' yourself shot and kidnapped already! It's been going on too long, lad."
Too long indeed. He couldn't believe he'd barely hit puberty when he first began his first assignment in the Soviet Union, running away from soldiers who were more than double his age. Now he'd matured into a world-weary, scar-ridden young man, who was beginning to think it was time to put the typewriter away.
An owl hooted above his window, the sound echoing around his cell.
He stared dejectedly at the ceiling, counting the number of small cracks and crevices that snaked along the surface of the concrete. Is that a crevice or a bullet hole?…
"Hey, mister!"
Tintin startled. He didn't remember falling asleep. When did he fall asleep?
"I'm talking to you, mister. Look at me!"
The reporter rolled onto his back, hoisting his torso upright to stare at a trio of unshaven, muscular henchmen. All were brandishing handguns pointed directly at Tintin, and none looked impressed to see him.
Correction: none looked impressed to see him still alive.
"Get up," The burly henchman jerked his gun impatiently at the reporter. He gave a toothy smile as the trembling young man slowly rose to his feet. "It's time to make you into a César."
Tintin swallowed hard as he was escorted out of his cell, clenching his fists to stop his hands from shaking. The Captain will save me…he always has. He always will.