Twenty Two: Toxin

A/N: Set between 'The Calculus Affair' and 'The Red Sea Sharks'.

If there was one thing he hated about travelling, it was having to suffer through dinners with strangers.

To be fair, he had genuine reasons to be suspicious of bureaucrats and government officials. They had tried to kill him on multiple occasions; it was a wonder he even felt comfortable to step outside the country at all.

It wasn't just the distrust of foreign officials that made him nervous; it was also the pressure of conducting conversations with unfamiliar persons, where you didn't know if they were recording everything you said with the intention of using it to arrest you or have you executed.

The Captain relentlessly called him out on his paranoia ("You're worse than the thundering FBI, Tintin!"), but he felt that his worries were justified, considering that he was beginning to lose count of how many countries he felt safe in.

Yet despite his supposed paranoia, he'd pushed those concerns aside for the sake of his friend Calculus. Even though the man had been abducted by Bordurian agents who were desperate to get their hands on his ultrasound weapon tech, he'd still accepted an invitation to attend another scientific conference in Syldavia.

This time, however, he'd invited Tintin and Haddock to come as well.

Haddock had initially scoffed at the idea. "I'd rather jump back on the Karaboudjan and drink my brains out," He'd snapped before

Tintin hadn't wanted to go either. Yet he still found himself saying yes, instantly regretting his decision the second the words left his mouth.

The flight to Syldavia was one of the tensest he'd ever been on. It was incredibly lucky that Calculus had such severe hearing loss, for he would've heard the Captain's rude grumbles throughout the entire journey about having to interact with people whose brains are too large for their skulls.

He regretted his decision even more when he realised there was a welcoming dinner the night before the main conference began that they were obligated to attend. Mon Dieu, I'd rather face Müller again rather than suffer through one of these.

The dining hall wasn't as large as he'd expected, as it only housed about sixty scientists, government officials and other miscellaneous guests. He spent most of the entreé wondering where this scientific committee had found the budget to not only hold the reception in a government building, but to also provide said guests with expensive-looking shrimp and prawns.

Yet despite the constant presence of security guards as they silently orbited the hall, Tintin couldn't help but feel uneasy. In particular, his eyes kept being drawn to one nervous-looking waiter, who just so happened to be the one who brought his main course over. Since the meal began two hours ago, Tintin had noticed that the man continued to fiddle with his jacket and bowtie, wiping sweat away from his brow. I'm hoping that it's just really hot in that uniform.

He stared at his plate in silent disgust as the waiter placed it in front of him. Even just looking at the slimy crustaceans dripping with sauce was enough to make his stomach churn. He'd never been a fan of seafood, and had made an active effort to avoid consuming it on his travels. I would've even settled for a bowl of broth. This just looks disgusting.

The Captain, on the other hand, dug into his main course almost as soon as the waiter had put it on the table. He seemed to have completely forgotten about his distaste for attending the conference, for his attention was entirely focused on his meal. "Thundering typhoons, they sure know how to cook it right…"

Tintin only made it halfway through his plate before he noticed a strange sensation in his stomach. His hand instinctively went to massage the area as he glanced warily around the room, noticing that the same waiter was eyeing him from the corner of the room.

The paranoia went into overdrive. He stared at the waiter before returning his eyes to the plate, his brow scrunched in thought. A familiar sensation began to rise in his gut, and it wasn't just pain. He rubbed his stomach tenderly as he glanced up at the waiter, who was fiddling with his collar. Surely not…he couldn't have, could he?

His suspicions were only heightened when he heard a groan emerge from the Captain. He face-planted into the table, sending his half-eaten plate scattering across the table. Groaning pitifully, he clutched his stomach painfully. "Blistering barnacles…"

Tintin snapped back to the waiter, his eyes widening in alarm as the man began to purposefully march from the hall. No! "It's him!"

He'd left his chair for a total of three seconds before he collapsed to the ground, curling in on his stomach as small as he possibly could. He felt his body beginning to shake as he retched, the half-disgusted seafood making a reappearance onto the lush carpet. Mon Dieu…ça fait mal!

Lost in a world of internal misery, he could only catch fragments of the surrounding conversations.

"Tintin!"

"My goodness! Is he still alive?"

"Get an ambulance!"

"Why is no one else sick?"

"Could it be allergies?"

"I'm pretty sure they stop breathing when it's allergies; he's just being sick everywhere."

Tintin heard himself let out a pitiful whine as he pushed his arms further into his stomach, not caring in the slightest that he was probably pressing with enough force to cause internal damage. The back of his throat burnt with acid as he continued to vomit. He genuinely believed his head was about to explode, as the throbbing between his eyes began to feel as though he were being punched with brass knuckles.

He gave a silent prayer of thanks as the mysterious ailment overwhelmed his body and sent him plunging into blissful darkness.

He was getting really sick of waking in hospital beds.

He blinked slowly, clearing the gunk from his eyes as they adjusted. The curtains that surrounded his bed were thin enough to allow the sunlight from across the room to warm his body, and he found himself beginning to grow sleepy.

In fact, he probably would have dropped back to sleep, had the nurse not shoved the curtains aside so violently he thought they would fall.

"At last! You're awake, young man!" The nurse was a middle-aged woman who carried an obvious emanation of impatience. She hurriedly checked his blood pressure and intravenous line before shining a torch across his eyes. "Now, before you ask, you're going to be alright, you'll just be in for a couple of days. Arsenic is bloody nasty stuff, but pretty medieval."

Before Tintin could utter a single word, the nurse had disappeared through the curtains, her heels clicking on the tiled floor as she disappeared to another section of the ward. It took his brain a moment to process anything she had just said. "Arsenic?..."

He sat still for a moment, his ears perking up as he heard the same nurse beginning to engage in heated conversation with an unknown patient. "Sir, you need to understand that he's only just woken up, and I will not have him disturbed-"

"THUNDERING TYPHOONS, IF YOU DON'T LET ME IN THERE, I'LL JUMP THROUGH THE BLOODY WINDOW!"

Ah. Not another patient, then. Tintin allowed himself a small smile. Glad to see the Captain is back to full health.

He settled back against his pillow and closed his eyes, allowing the sounds of the Captain and the nurse's arguments to fill the background as he gave into the lure of sleep.

A/N: Ça fait mal = it hurts