Twenty Three: Tied to a Table

A/N: An alternate version of the confrontation at Müller's house in 'The Black Island'.

Well this case certainly escalated quickly.

Despite the bonds that currently secured him to the metallic surface beneath him, all he could think of was the terrible pain emanating from his leg. The claws of the bear trap had sunk further into his skin than he first thought. Maybe it's done some muscle damage as well?…How the hell didn't see it?! Bear traps are bloody enormous!

From his best estimates, it had been about ninety minutes since he first awoke in this current predicament. All he could recall was Müller speaking to someone over the phone before a sharp scratch had appeared in his neck, and he'd tumbled head first into the side of the fireplace.

It hadn't taken long for him to realise his entire body had been bound. Ropes had been securely tied around his wrists and ankles, with thick, leather restraints crossing over his torso and legs, wrapping around the sides of the table to unseen hooks. He tested the straps with his strongest struggles and kicks, but despite his best efforts, no amount of tugging was going to free him.

Exhausted, he let out a sigh and allowed his body to relax. From his limited vision, he could tell he was in a laboratory of some description, though as to where in Müller's house it was, he wasn't certain. If he turned his head all the way to the left, he was able to see the majority of a window, with the last beams of sunlight of the day shining onto the floor and his left arm. A silver operating tray stood at the end of the table, with a few instruments sticking up that Tintin didn't recognise, but also didn't like the look of. Surely someone will come for me…they can't just leave me here forever.

As if he'd spoken aloud, a door opened from behind him. Leather shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as Müller appeared in his line of vision, his hands clasped behind his back. He stared over his captive as if analysing him like a scientific subject. "Excellent…"

"Pardon me for not getting up, doctor," Tintin growled, narrowing his gaze. "What are you planning to do with me?"

"I cannot let you go, obviously; you would go straight to the police, and I cannot allow that. Unfortunately, there was no space at the…institution I was going to send you to. So instead," Müller made his way to the operating tray, sliding a pair of disposable gloves over his hands, "it just means that I get a chance to brush up on my surgical skills."

Tintin felt the blood drain from his face. "…You wouldn't!"

"Indeed I would, Mister Tintin," Müller reached for the tray and grasped a scalpel tightly, pointing it threateningly at his captive. The hatred in his beady eyes sent shivers down Tintin's spine. "I happily would. You have caused my associates and I a great deal of inconvenience, young man, and I don't intend on letting you continue with your 'investigations'. If anything, I'd like to repay you. For starters, this wound on your leg; I will need to treat it, as we obviously don't want it getting infected."

He pushed Tintin's trouser leg up to reveal the bloodied bear trap wound, tutting at the sight of the tortured flesh. He used the blade of the scalpel to lift a flap of skin, sending another spurt of blood running down Tintin's leg. "You should be more careful where you trespass, Mister Tintin. My trap has obviously done its job quite well."

Tintin groaned through the pain. "…I'll keep that mind next time."

Müller ignored the young man's sarcasm, his focus entirely on the wound. "Hmm…I think a number ten will do the trick." Returning his first scalpel to the tray, he reached for a second that was a few centimetres longer, the tip of the blade glinting in the receding daylight. He slid the blade underneath the flap of skin he'd originally irritated, and forced it through the tissue in one push.

Tintin let out a strangled scream. His head slammed into the table as he arched back in pain. "Merde!"

Grinning at his captive's discomfort, Müller further wriggled the blade through the skin, ignoring how it became stuck as it struggled to cut such a thick amount of flesh. "Maybe the twenty-one instead…"

Reaching for a third scalpel, this one with a thin, curved blade, he removed the original and forced the new blade through the skin, severing the flap from Tintin's leg. "Off to a good start, though I will need to debride this wound as well."

Tintin was grateful for the break, as it meant he could give his throat a rest from screaming. Nauseous and dizzy from the pain, he lifted his head to see Müller producing a matchbox from his jacket, and he instantly grew cold. "No, no, no, no, don't you dare!"

Müller lit the match in one stroke, holding the tip of the flame directly in front of the open wound.

The young man screamed and screamed and screamed.

His body hurt.

He couldn't believe he was still alive. Surely there's no blood left at this point…

Everything felt hazy and disjointed, and he was sure he'd slipped in and out of consciousness a few times, for Müller kept teleporting to different sides of his peripheral vision. His eyes felt lazy, with his brain refusing to focus on anything in front of him.

Müller had practically torn his leg open, though he did miss most of the commentary due to being in agonising pain. The original wound had been extended and deepened, and now sported impressively-sized blisters around the edges from the "debridement". To make things even worse, the bastard hadn't even bothered to sew the area closed. What sort of medical school this man went to, I don't even want to know.

He thought he saw Müller pouring something in a can around the laboratory, but at the same time, he wasn't sure what he was seeing at this point. A small object was thrown from Müller's fingers onto the floor, though the pain was so overwhelming that he could hardly open his eyes to see where it landed.

He was quickly drawn out of another period of unconsciousness by a familiar smell that tickled his nostrils, and it instantly sent him into panic mode.

If the flames didn't kill him first, he knew the smoke inhalation definitely would.

In a way, he was surprised he hadn't been gagged on the way out, but he later realised it was because his vocal cords would be too scorched to call out.

Either that, or he would suffocate on the smoke before anyone heard him. What a sadistic bâtard.

He struggled under the straps as he weakly attempted to shout for help, but the blood loss had done its job and robbed him of his remaining strength. The knots that bound his hands dug painfully into his back, but he'd long forgotten the discomfort.

All he could do was lie back and watch as the flames near his feet quickly grew higher. He felt sweat brewing on his brow as the temperature grew higher, with droplets falling across his face as his body struggled under the immense heat.

A few tears slipped down his cheeks. His eyelids quickly grew too heavy to keep open, his body too tired to fight anymore.

He hadn't expected he'd be this calm at the end, though he was sure the blood loss had something to do with that.

He thought he could hear Snowy barking.

Dieu, s'il te plait sauve mon âme…

A/N: Obviously our favourite reporter is rescued from the flames - I'm not that mean :)

Bátard = bastard

Dieu, sill te plait sauve mon âme = God, please save my soul