Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Chapter 1: In ruins
For a seafaring man, Captain Archibald Haddock had traversed more than his fair share of deserts. Still, this was the strangest one he had seen by far.
For one, though the sun was shining down with glaring intensity, he didn't feel the least bit hot. Secondly, though he could see the wind blowing little tornados of sand, it produced no sound. Then there was the fact that Tintin wasn't with him. If he was marooned in some god-forsaken oversized sand bar, his best friend was usually with him and was thinking of some way for them to extricate themselves from said situation.
Funny how that seemed to be the strangest thing in this scenario.
But no, he was alone. It was just him and the telephone for company. He blinked. Telephone? Had that been there a moment ago? Sure enough, not a meter away from him, perched on a marble topped side table that he recognized from the sitting room of Marlinspike, sat a telephone. It rang furiously, breaking the silence jarringly.
The Captain found himself unreasonably annoyed with the noisy thing. The silence had been preferable to that awful cacophony! He strode quickly over to the table, wrenching the phone from its cradle.
"Hello?" Haddock opened his eyes to find himself in his bed, mid-way to saying a second 'hello' out loud. Disoriented, it took him a moment to realize that he had not been stranded in the Sahara somewhere, but was safely cocooned in his bedroom, in his ancestral home. It had been a dream.
Well, a part had been. The phone and its infernal ringing were indeed a reality.
A quick glance at the clock revealed it to be midnight and confirmed whoever had the nerve to call at this hour was going to receive the dressing down of a lifetime.
He grabbed it, warming up with a, "You miserable ectoplasm…" but was cut off by a stream of rapid French. Now, his skills in that language were nothing to sneer at, but the gentleman on the other end was proceeding to jabber at such a rapid pace that all the captain could decipher was "Vingtième," "Marseille," and most importantly, "Monsieur Tintin."
"TIIIIINTIIIIIIIN!" He experienced immense satisfaction from his bellow. For one, he heard the cursing from the ear-piece as he pierced the inconsiderate fellow's ear-drum. Then there was the 'whump' from down the hall, which he assumed was Tintin tumbling out of bed. Seconds later, the sound of slippered feet pattering down the hall confirmed his suspicions. He couldn't help a satisfied grin.
Misery loves company.
The last of the Haddock line knew that he would not get back to sleep until he found out what all the hullabaloo was about. So he sat in the armchair and watched the bleary-eyed young reporter furiously taking notes, apparently barely keeping up with the excited caller. The red head could only seem to slip in a question or two before he went back to franticly jotting down information.
Finally, with necessary parting courtesies said, Tintin put down the phone and let out a long sigh. He began to read what he had written again, without saying a word and making Haddock practically squirm with anticipation.
"Well?"
The young man grinned, a little impishly, as if he had been deliberately stringing the Captain along.
"There's been a discovery at a Roman dig site tonight, between Aix-en-Provence and Marseille," He explained, "They've found three well-preserved skeletons, so they believe they might have stumbled onto burial grounds. "
"And this is justifies for a midnight chat?"
"It is if you're Le Petit Vingtième and those of the excavation asked for me personally. Apparently, the archaeologists have halted the dig for the moment, in order to fully examine the remains they have. Le Petit wants me to be there to catch each part of the story as it unfolds."
Le Petit Vingtième had been the first magazine that Tintin had ever worked for, starting there at only fourteen years old. While he had worked independently for years now, he felt a certain loyalty to the company and often covered stories at their request. They, after all, hadn't laughed at the teenager armed with nothing but a writing sample and a terrier puppy like so many others, but had taken him in and showed him the ropes of the journalistic world.
"So, you're going?" Haddock lit his pipe and eyed his companion.
"Yes, sounds like an interesting story and I've been feeling a bit cooped up recently."
The sailor sputtered around the mouthpiece, "Cooped up? We've only just got home from that bloody mess in Tapiocapolis, or whatever those fool Picaros are calling it now, and now you want to go gallivanting off again?"
Tintin shrugged, with a sheepish smile, "Can't help myself, Captain."
Taking a puff from his pipe, Haddock let out a long suffering sigh.
"Well, I should probably come along."
"You don't hav-"
"Someone needs to keep your foolish young backside out of trouble."
"It's really not-"
"Anyway, Cuthbert is working on some thrice damned experiment and I don't want to be his guinea pig, again." He shuddered, he still couldn't enjoy whiskey, even months after Calculus had first doused him with that diabolical substance of his. Suddenly, the desert in his dream took on an entirely new meaning. Freud would have a field day.
Tintin had ceased to object, as Haddock whirled away to his dresser to begin packing for the South of France. Had the older man glanced back, he would have seen the younger valiantly fighting off a knowing smirk.
For all his objections to the contrary, at times the Captain was almost as hopeless an adventurer as he was.
(Provence, France. 8:30 a.m.)
Even in the early morning light, the summer heat in the South of France could be absolutely stifling. As they road along the rough terrain in the rented car Le Petit had provided for them, Tintin reflected that he should have had Snowy's fur trimmed earlier. The poor little dog had spread himself out on the back seat, as flat as he could, long pink longue lolling with the motion of the car.
He and the Captain had caught the first plane from Brussels to the Marseille airfield, arriving shortly after dawn. The next hour and a half had been dedicated to navigating the beaten-up Peugot through the dirt roads and rocky terrain towards the dig site located near the small town of Orange.
Now, after an uncomfortably hot, bumpy ride, they saw the excavation site in the distance, made clearly visible on the horizon by its cluster of white tents. Haddock let out a sigh of relief as Tintin began to slow the car, while the terrier began to sniff the air curiously.
On the approach, though, it became very clear that something was amiss.
Instead of being busy at work, the inhabitants of the camp seemed to be concentrated in one large group at the northern end of the small camp. The unmistakable sounds of an argument became apparent, as the engine turned off. Exiting the car, Snowy tucked under one arm, Tintin focused on the knot of people.
"What on earth…?"
"Monsieur Tintin?"
The journalist turned his attention to the lanky, middle aged man approaching him with a rather embarrassed expression.
He put out a well-callused hand, "Doctor Devaux, senior researcher for this site. I was told to expect you."
Tintin took the offered hand and shook it heartily, "A pleasure. You'll excuse me for sounding impertinent, but I rather expected more, ah, activity here. Especially after such an important find."
"Well," The man hesitated, a look of indecision passing over his tanned face, "The heads of this project have come to a slight…disagreement."
"Slight?" Haddock interjected, sounding amused, "It sounds like two seagulls fighting over a starfish."
The volume of the altercation had indeed seemed to rise since they had arrived. Doctor Devaux sighed, removing his cap and wiping sweat from his forehead.
"What seems to be the issue?" The young man had fully entered into journalist mode, his notebook out and ready to take notes. The senior researcher eyed the book warily, as if it were a dangerous snake that would attack with very little provocation.
"There is an issue of the dating of the bones."
Tintin nodded, a very common issue with such discoveries he knew, especially since the Roman occupation of the part of the world had spanned centuries.
"One believes that the skeletons are a part of servants' or slaves' burial grounds."
Here, he hesitated again, eyes flicking between Tintin's face and the notebook.
"The other thinks we have discovered a murderer."
A/N: Le Petit Vingtième is the name of the magazine for which Tintin is writing in Tintin au pays des Soviets. He mentions other publications that he works for throughout the series, so I figured he had gone independent shortly after the events of Soviets (Where he earns a major reputation for himself). I will be delving more into Tintin's past at one point or another later on, something I know Hergé left purposely mysterious. I, however, love me some backstory. So I lied about the 'Updated weekly' thing, but in a good way, I hope. I felt the prologue was a little too short to just leave you all with just that for a week.
Review Replies:
Fool on a Far Away Hill: I'm glad you found it exciting! This is really my first time writing adventure and I am always nervous about the pacing.
The Jellyfish Returns: Well, ten years in a very general way. I've been a Tintin fans since I was very little, but I didn't finish the entire series until I was about eleven. Then, after a few years of re-reading, I found myself wanting more, so I started to make up stories in my head about Tintin. That's when my first original character, who will be making an appearance later on in this story, was born. The plot for this story, sprang up a few years ago but refused to develop until recently. Thank you for the compliment on my style! If you can see any room for improvement in it, just let me know!
GoldenFlither: Thank you! I'll try to keep updating at a good clip and not to get lazy about it.
Anonymous: I, too, have this THING for Tintin in peril. It's probably not all that healthy, but HNNNG.
Please review, as it helps to keep the ol' morale up. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.