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Chapter Text

The fresh air and the breeze of Szohoôd was a welcome reprieve to the passengers of Khemed Aire flight number 38. No one passenger was quite as ecstatic as one little white terrier. When the flight attendant opened the doors, he flew out of the plane, ran down the stairs, laid down on the tarmac, and kissed it quite vigorously. Each of the passengers expressed similar sentiments with cries of “Mercy me,” “Terra firma,” “Thank goodness, we’re out of the air,” or merely offered a sigh of relief in an effort to keep the mid-flight meal from coming up. The owner of the little white terrier, one of the last passengers to come out, gripped the railing of the stairs and took a deep breath in. He ran his fingers through his hair, only for a little tuft of it at the front to come springing back up.

Sitting down next to the terrier, he exclaimed “Great snakes, Milou. To think I’ve sailed on open ocean, flown through storms, and been to space, and a fine patch of turbulence was still enough to knock me down.”

Milou grunted in agreement, still wearing that appreciative smile, and still lying down on the tarmac.

“What a flight that was. It almost felt like the pilots wanted us to crash,” said Tintin, before catching the eye of the pilot sat in the cockpit and, suddenly becoming deeply embarrassed, added “Then again, they were doing the best they could. Come along, Milou. Let’s see if we can find a place to rest.”

Milou groaned as he was being picked up, wondering why since the tarmac was doing a fine job.

Luckily for the both of them and for the passengers aboard flight 38, the Marshal Plesky-Gladz Szohôd International Airport had clawed enough funding away from the national budget for air conditioning; even though it had the exhalation power of Milou’s current distressed state. The shag carpet, a general musty smell, and the walls decorated with portraits of the former dictator were also new, but from what Tintin could make out of the native Bordurians who were walking through the airport and populated the Gladz Lounge and Bar, there wasn’t much that had changed since the succession of his son, Tempred, to the marshalhood. Passing by the lounge, Milou began to whimper again at the smell of food, and the sight of people enjoying it.

“Come on, Milou,” began Tintin, whose thoughts also drifted towards sitting down at the lounge, “We’ll go straight to the immigration booth, we’ll call the Captain to let him know of our detour, and then we’ll go have some much needed refreshment.” Milou would’ve barked in agreement if he hadn’t been thinking of a bone to chew on.

At the Plesky-Gladz Szohôd International Airport Immigration Office, through rough translations of Bordurian and French, Tintin was able to square away an immediate flight to Wadesdah International Airport aboard Flight 30. The Captain’s understanding and confidence of the situation, however, was less than that of the Bordurian official’s grasp of French.

“Thundering typhoons!” Captain Haddock bellowed from the telephone’s receiver, “Of all the countries to land, it had to be Borduria?! This new Marshal that’s about to be sworn in, Tempred-Gladz, makes his father look like the patron saint of Patience. I mean, my boy, he’s got a raging temper that makes a hurricane look like a light breeze, and we aren’t exactly known to be friendly with the Bordurian government.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about the atmospheric pressure, Captain,” Tintin said, “Besides, I’m not going into the city, just staying in the airport. I’ll be in Wadesdah in no time.”

“Has the airline company guaranteed you a new flight or have you had to purchase your own ticket out of there?”

“Seems like I’m on my own since the landing was so sudden. Nobody stopped me to guide me on to a new flight or told me a representative to call. I did have to stop a passenger from demanding a refund from one of the stewardesses. Milou almost bit the gentleman he was so erratic!”

“Well, some gentleman he is,” the Captain scoffed before relenting, “I do suppose you’re right about the air; nothing much we can do about that. I gotta say, Tintin, something is itching at me something fierce with you being in that country.”

“Perhaps it’s your big beard,” Tintin jabbed, “you might be in need of a trim.”

“Blistering barnacles, Tintin. Just be careful!” the Captain said, “Nothing mixes well regarding Borduria; not their food, not their drink, not their customs officials and tariffs, for that! Keep an eye out, don’t make any stupid decisions, and get out of there quickly.”

“Of course, Captain, Milou and I will keep a weather eye on the horizon,” Tintin said before his voice trailed off. Milou, not two seconds ago, was sitting beside him and was now plainly gone. While the airport wasn’t especially crowded, he also didn’t hear Milou bark after anything. He quickly hung up the phone, and began to racewalk through the airport calling for Milou. For a while, there was no response. Tintin’s heart began to race and his pace fastened quickly into a light jog through the airport. He didn’t notice the stares from the guards that stood at the entries of the gates either empty or full of passengers. As he reached the far end of the airport, Tintin’s mind was beginning to wander as to where his poor dog had gone, if he had been scooped up by authorities as a stray, or if he had accidentally been herded on to a plane by onboarding passengers.

As he approached the final gate, luckily, he saw the wagging tail of his little white fox terrier sitting at the feet of one of the most beautiful women Tintin had ever seen. She stood out not just because Milou was sat in front of her, and the surrounding eyes staring in her direction which belonged to men with no self control, but for what she wore. Most everyone in the airport wore perfectly average modern clothing; suits, dresses, and, at most, modern Bordurian casual. This woman was wearing clothing that would befit a Vogue magazine as a speciality dress for a single photoshoot. It was purple, and shiny from what was the finest silk this side of the Iron Curtain. The golden jewelry which adorned her wrist screamed wealth, the sunglasses indoors whispered secrecy, and the cigarette holder stated regality. She was, without a doubt, a vision.

“Milou,” Tintin coughed, suddenly feeling flush, “Do mind your manners. I’m so sorry for him. He likes to wander.”

She brought down her sunglasses to reveal the deepest auburn eyes, and said “Oh, don’t worry. I actually enjoyed his company very much. Dogs chase cats, after all, and he was a very good boy.”

If Tintin had the physical ability of a cartoon, steam would’ve been shooting out of ears and his face would’ve gone as red as this woman’s lipstick. He nearly fell over himself before the woman asked who he was.

“I feel as though I’ve seen your face before, young man,” she added, taking off her sunglasses and hanging them off the center of the portrait neckline of her dress. In an instant, Tintin forgot his name. This only led him to being embarrassed which led him to being more flush, which in turn led him to only being more embarrassed. A sharp chirp from Milou suddenly snapped him back to reality.

“I’m Tintin!” said the flush young man who suddenly felt like a boy, and outstretched his hand.

“Tintin, of course,” she said, her voice flowing smoothly like a forest creek, and while shaking the offered hand, she added, “Yes, I read about you in the paper. You’ve had quite a few adventures in Borduria alone. What brings you back here, Mister Tintin?”

“Turbulence,” Tintin said; it was the only thing he could say with his heart in his throat, but it was true.

“Oh, I see, you won’t be staying long?”

“Afraid not, miss…?”

“Mine,” she stated, “Mine Fujiko.”

“Miss Mine Fujiko,” Tintin said, mustering what little left of his charisma he had, “Adventure seems to keep finding me, so I may be staying a while.”

“Well, I hope adventure is kind to you on this trip, Mister Tintin,” Fujiko said, “You will need all the kindness you can get,” before letting Tintin’s hand go, and standing up holding a small silver handbag as her only, apparent, accessory. With a wink, she turned and sauntered off, with the eyes of various weak men following her. Tintin stood there in front of the gate for a minute and stared in her direction. He didn’t stare at her, for he had fully got lost in the zone of total enchantment as he had rarely ever come across a woman of such beauty in his previous escapades. Miss Mine Fujiko was no Bianca Castafiore, in regality alone. Another chirp from Milou brought him back to reality. When Milou chirped again, it carried a sense of concerned curiosity.

“What is it, Milou?” asked Tintin, before the little terrier wriggled out of his arms and leapt at the chair where Miss Mine had been sitting.

In her place, was one of the most extravagant diamonds Tintin had laid eyes upon, dwarfing the likes of those which were found in Red Rackham’s treasure. Its cerulean hue was so striking and deep that Tintin thought it was obsidian, at first glance. It was encased in a border of gold, styled like rope which weaved around it, centred in an ornate cross. It almost resembled a military decoration of some kind, more ornate than the Victoria Cross or perhaps something from the Hungarian kingdom. Either way, it was obviously expensive, precious and it belonged to Miss Mine Fujiko.

“Come along, Milou, we’ve got to find Miss Mine,” Tintin said, slipping the medal into his pocket, and the two of them began walking towards where she had been heading. As they walked back down the way they had only just come earlier, they could not find a trace of Miss Mine Fujiko, however, Tintin did get the sense they were being followed, or, at the very least, watched. There was a man in robes plucked from ancient Japan sitting in the bar with what looked like a staff in his peripheral vision that he thought wasn’t there last time.

“You! Halt!” cried a voice, piercing through the blanket murmurs of the crowd. Tintin and Milou both froze in their place. At first, Tintin was flooded with anxiety because of the command, but there was another reason. The voice was familiar. Milou knew it too as he began to growl as he turned around. As Tintin turned to tell Milou to calm down and heel, he was met with the monocled face of Colonel Sponsz, now dressed in an airport security uniform.

“Colonel Sponsz,” Tintin said, surprised, anxious, yet slightly cocky, “My, it is good to see you again.”

“Papers, twerp,” Sponsz stated, his monocle only accentuating the anger in his left eye, “What business have you in Borduria?”

“My plane suffered heavy turbulence upon re-entry,” Tintin said, “My papers have already been stamped and approved by the immigration officials, and I am on a one-way ticket out of here. I have no business in Borduria other than to leave it.”

“The great Tintin does not merely show up in Borduria on such a flimsy story,” Sponsz said, shoving Tintin’s papers into his own pockets, “After all, the great and eternal leader, Plesky-Gladz, may be at rest now, but that does not mean that you are no longer a threat to Bordurian interests. Stand against the wall for immediate inspection.”

How humiliating, Tintin thought, for the both of us. What are the odds, the great Colonel Sponsz would be demoted and sent to be an airport security guard and that he would be on duty jut as Tintin just so happened to be in the airport? Some twist of fate this was. This was clearly a spat of revenge from the former Colonel for what happened in San Theodoros, but these people didn’t know. If he wasn’t already being watched, somebody certainly had eyes on him now as he was being patted down.

Sponsz first went patted both his arms and went down the sides of his torso. Just as he was going to pat his pant legs, he remembered the medal with the great stone in the center. This would’ve been too east for Sponsz to pin it on him what with revenge on his mind. He hoped quickly for a more understanding officer to help him out, though such a thing in Borduria, the concept of understanding, that is, was a rare commodity.

“Sponsz!” another voice cried out, somehow deeper and more stark than Sponsz’s own. Tintin, again startled, felt a sigh of relief. He looked behind his shoulder and saw an expression on Sponsz’s face he had not seen before; fear. From the crowd came a man no taller than Tintin was with an equally stern Bordurian expression on his round face. The officer’s hair was jet black and a small toothbrush moustache, befitting of the employer of a man such as Sponsz in a country such as Borduria. He was, however, contrary to almost everything else about him, a skinny man; he could be described as a few steps away from lanky, were it not for his very squarish torso contrasting against some very skinny legs..

Sponsz stood at attention. Tintin could see the beads of sweat coming down from under his slicked back hair. He almost swore he saw his lip quiver.

“Sponsz, you ignorant fool,” the officer berated, “What reason have you to delegate this man as needing additional inspection?”

“Chief Brïk-Val,” Sponsz said, saluting, “This is Tintin, master criminal and enemy of the Bordurian state. He claims to have arrived here on a downed plane, and so I sought to detain him and search him given his record and ill-conceived alibi.”

Chief Brïk-Val slapped Sponsz on the back of the head so hard he fell on the floor. As he did, the Chief shouted, “You great and dense ignoramus! Flight number 38 of Khemed Aire made an emergency landing not half an hour ago because of atmospheric pressure troubles. If you examined Tintin’s papers correctly, you would notice that that was his flight!” Sponsz’s face grew bright red. All Sponsz could do was merely salute while his eyes were squeezed shut.

“I am terribly sorry for this man’s insolence,” Chief Brïk-Val said, loosening his tone to a near whisper, “The man still thinks he is in the ZEP and thinks he can act with impunity. Is there any way we can accommodate to ease your travel to your final destination?”

“Yes, actually,” Tintin began, “I’m looking for a passenger that was passing through here earlier. Her name is Miss Fujiko Mine. She may have exited the airport, in which case, you can deliver something to her hotel that she happened to leave behind on accident.”

“Miss Fujiko Mine,” the Chief repeated as he wrote it down on a piece of paper, “We will look through the records, immediately. What is this item she had left behind?”

“Ah, of course, I have it here,” Tintin said, as he pulled the medal out from his pocket and held it out to the chief. The whole airport went silent. Chief Brïk-Val’s and Sponsz’s eyes, the latter of whom had stood up by this point, went wide. As Tintin looked around him, he suddenly felt the crushing feeling that he was holding no ordinary trinket.

“It’s the Marshal’s Medal,” exclaimed a passerby. A woman screamed from what must’ve been patriotic fervor. A dozen cameras or so appeared out of nowhere and began to flash.

Suddenly, Tintin felt himself being dragged to the floor, heard Sponsz shout an order of arrest, the confused barking of Milou, and a great roar of the crowd. The last thing he saw before getting knocked out by a police baton was the robed man, the bearded one in a fedora, and a mysterious third man in a green jacket go running.

Chapter Text

The first thing that Tintin recognized was the sound of dripping water hitting stone and its echo reverberating all around him. It was cold, drafty, and he was most definitely sitting on the floor propped up against the wall. Upon regaining his sight, he realized that he couldn’t see much in the dark, aside from a weak beam of moonlight coming in from a barred window high up on the wall. He could feel his arms being locked in place thanks to some thick, soggy, and dank-smelling rope which coiled around his whole body. Being in a prison cell was not an unusual circumstance for Tintin. If nothing else, it was odd if he *didn’t* end up in prison or a holding cell of either an eccentric group of pirates or, as this appeared to be, a misunderstanding with authorities on any given day.

“Great snakes,” Tintin exclaimed, shaking his head to get the brain fog out, “That was a harsh response all over a lost piece of jewelry.” A loud and heavy voice shouted from down the other end of the corridor suddenly and Tintin knew enough Bordurian to know that meant “Quiet!”

This is no doubt some petty revenge squabble brought on by Sponsz, he thought, I’ll get out of here and soon enough be rid of this wretched country.

Wary of the guard, he began to silently whistle for Milou. The passing air through his lips was just recognizable enough, but not as piercing as a normal calling whistle. When the first one yielded nothing, Tintin whistled again slowly climbing up a decibel. Still nothing.

“Milou!” he whispered, and then silently waited for either Milou or the guard to respond. Nothing came. He whispered out again, with slightly more force in his voice. There was still nothing, except a grunt from the cell next to him.

Suddenly, Tintin’s breath began to quicken and the sweat on his brow became as cold as the walls which held up this prison. His mind began to race through his memory as he tried to remember where Milou could’ve gone or, perhaps, where the Bordurians could’ve taken him. They had only just gotten to the country–

I lost him at the airport, Tintin remembered, suddenly, Great snakes, he must be being held in some kennel at the airport. It’s not like I can go back there, I’ll be recognized. Oh, if that dastardly colonel has done anything to Milou… He dared not finish that thought. He took a breath in and a breath out, tried to stay his mind, and bring it back to the present. With a few more breaths, he was able to think clearly now about escape.

I’ve been in worse scrapes than this, he thought, I just need to get out and find Milou, and get away from this country and that diamond. His hands, also bound, felt around for the knot of the rope which held his arms to his body. It was tight, but only just loose enough to move around enough to find the knob of the knot. The knot felt well-tied, so he began to feel around for a sharp edge to pick away at the rope.

The stones, worn down by years of condensation from before the Plesky-Gladz regime took over, would do no real good. Perhaps, the iron bars would be rusted just enough to cut into the rope. Scooting over, his hope quickly vanished; it looked like the bars had been replaced not too long ago.

Drat, he thought. The wooden stool just outside sat between Tintin’s own cell and the one next to him with the stranger was still too far away to reach. Plus, he didn’t see any nails holding the legs to it from his vantage point and breaking it on the wall would alert the guard. So, he did what only else he could; he began to pick at the rope with his fingers while on the floor. He hoped that even one good pick would be enough to free himself. Then he’d be one step closer to getting out of this prison.

If only Milou were here, Tintin thought, as his mind couldn’t help but momentarily escape the intense concentration. His mind thought of the time he escaped the Bird brother’s pirate ship, Karaboudjan, with the help of Milou biting at the ropes. That is, after all, how he met the Captain and would eventually embark on the reclamation of Marlinspike Hall from the Bird brothers. While his picking continued on, he began to slip into anguish over fears of Milou, and he could feel anxiety and doubt seep in. He thought of the Captain and the phone call he made just before the incident. He thought of Marlinspike Hall and Nestor, the loyal butler to the house. He thought of home.

Just as he thought he was feeling a part of the knot come undone, a large clanging came from the other end of the hall. He stopped picking suddenly.

The footsteps of what he assumed were two people came down the corridor. He only assumed two people because somebody was very clearly making a great fuss over something in Japanese; at least he thought so, it had been a long while since he had spoken the beginner’s knowledge he had of it, much less heard it spoken. The man’s voice, high pitched and a bit weaselly, reverberated off the walls and bars so loudly that the stranger next door to Tintin sat up on his bed of straw and a well-loved blanket of sorts. Tintin still did not move for fear of being caught trying to free himself. As the shouting became louder and louder, he began to wonder where the guard must’ve been taking the person.

His face grew sour when the guard and his blinding lantern stopped in front of his cell. He could barely hear the guard tell the prisoner to “Shut up!” in his thick Bordurian countryside accent before he literally tossed him in. Then, the guard slammed the door shut and started talking to Tintin directly.

“This is your friend, your accomplice, Mr. Tintin,” the guard said about the stranger, who lay still on the floor, “We caught him drunkenly driving up the highway in a stolen tricycle. It was only then we were told we were in the midst of a great criminal. Don’t you worry, though, he’s still drunk and is useless to you and himself. When he comes to his senses, you two will become fast friends rather than co-workers. In fact, you may even grow old together here!” He guffawed as he walked down the corridor, his heels clicking against the stone.

Great, Tintin thought, now I have a roommate, doubtless to ensure that I don’t escape. Looking at the new occupant, his eyes shut from probably going unconscious while hitting the floor, he was dressed in all black, aside from his brown boots and belt and a yellow tie. The face of his cellmate, a bit scraped perhaps from a scuffle and his contact with the floor, was quite monkeyish. His side burns crew from a head of short jet black hair all the way down to the corners of his chin; his chin and upper lip area were absolutely clear of any hair or, perhaps, any follicles at all. Even then, his arms were a bit hairy; at the very least, his jet black hair probably made him seem more hairy than he was. He wasn’t absurdly tall, but given his lankiness, and despite that his current position was a bit mangled from being tossed on the floor, he probably appeared taller than he actually was.

Tintin could still hear the guard’s footsteps trail down the corridor, he slowly and quietly began to pick. Any noise, however small, gave Tintin a worry of alerting the guard. The knot began to come a bit more loose when the footsteps stopped. When he heard the closing of a door, Tintin began to pick at the knot almost like a madman, grunting as his finger slipped or pinched the rope a bit too hard.

“Hey, if you’re going to do that nasty stuff in here, at least take yourself to the corner,” a voice whispered suddenly; so suddenly that Tintin nearly jumped an inch in the air when he heard it, “and for the love of all the beautiful women in the world, keep quiet. I don’t wanna hear that on my first day in this pit of this pit of a country. This whole situation is the pits, like a sad pomegranate or something.”

Tintin was shocked into total silence as his eyes bulged. Who would speak, not just to him in that way, but so casually in such a brash manner? Then it sunk in what this new stranger had suggested he was doing and his face went bright red!

“Now just hold on a minute, sir,” Tintin began.

“Kid, I don’t know how old you are,” the stranger interrupted, “but that voice is too low for calling me sir, but it’s also too high to call me mister.”

“Fine,” Titin said, letting go of the stranger’s suggestive comments only for now, “then what should I call you?”

It was as if the stranger had been waiting for that question. He began to giggle through gritted teeth. His shoulders began to shrug wildly.

“You know,” the stranger said, standing up, his wide eyes staring wildly at him, “for someone who’s as well-traveled as me, and then some—for goodness’ sake, you’ve been to the moon—you sure act like you’ve been living under a rock, eh Tintin?”

Tintin’s eyes bulged once again. The stranger knew him. He was about to ask him again what his name was, but he didn’t need to.

“You sir, are standing in the presence of the greatest thief known to this world. From humble origins of petty-street crime, to as daring adventures as his fierce battles with Scorpion, the weird and wrinkly forces of Mamo, and even against some Superman wannabe that one time; a true superhero of crime, a vigilante for the love of gold, and muse of one Fuji-cakes! The grandson of Arsène Lupin, gentleman thief and savant of the French women!” He then began to do a little dance of some sort—if you call flailing your arms and silently stomping a dance—while humming a song. Tintin thought he had heard it somewhere. Maybe it was on the radio or in the buskers of Brussels.

He silently sang the words “I’m the one everybody’s waiting for! Scream for me! A romantic modern hero! They need a hero, somebody they can look up to,” before the stranger interrupted again.

“You are in the presence… of Lupin the Third!”

The gravitas of the moment was lost on Tintin. So, a silence permeated through the prison. There were no crickets to chirp in the silence, but if there were, it would be something straight out of a children’s film. The stranger, who was now divulged to be Lupin III, stood there in a pose that one would end a melodramatic flamenco on.

“Oh,” Tintin said.

“‘Oh’?!” Lupin III repeated, “‘Oh’ is all you have for the great Lupin III? Don’t you read the newspaper at all? My god, the kids aren’t connected to the world and they don’t read anymore! What is the world coming to that these great minds don’t know the greatest of men?”

“I know enough,” Tintin said, “to know that you are a scoundrel, a womanizing pig, and a thief whose sole purpose is to lie, cheat, and steal your way to fame and fortune.”

A smile broke out on Lupin III’s face and he said, “So, you have heard of me?”

“Yes, and your, apparently, fragile ego,” Tintin retorted, “Now, I have three questions for you: first, how did you get out of your ropes so fast; Second, what are you doing in Borduria; and thirdly, how dare you insinuate that of me!”

“Eh? Insinuate what? Oh, yeah,” Lupin III giggled, “Eh, I was just poking fun. Say, that wasn’t a question–”

“Regardless, then,” Tintin interrupted, already getting frustrated at the constant dodging of questions, “what are you doing in Borduria?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing, you ginger puff. You foiled one of the best low-level plans my pals and I conceived in a very long time! It’s not that easy to live up to defeating a big floating brain alien bent on nuking the world, you know? In fact, it was Fuji-cake’s idea to do it!”

“Fuji-cakes? You wouldn’t happen to mean, Ms. Fujiko Mine?”

“Ah, my darling sweet angel! How do you know Fujiko? I assume you’re one of her long list of lover’s kids coming to collect child support! Well, it won’t do you any good. At least not until we get the Marshal’s Medal and then we can split it 55-20-20-5 like she said she would, but given that she’s my lover, technically it’s–”

“You’re rambling again. Besides, it’ll do you no good. She left it at the airport before it was confiscated by Airport Security. It’s probably back on its way to the Marshal now, and with it, a heavy promotion for Sponsz and his boss.”

Lupin III’s face suddenly went blank, before a sudden burst of anger and remorse. He began to curse wildly in Japanese and flail about, jumping on and rattling the bars like a trapped circus monkey. After one final pull on the iron bars, he suddenly sank and collected himself on the floor like a puddle of water and began to whimper on the floor. As he began to whimper, Tintin began to pluck at the rope again; he was probably never going to get an answer to that first question anyways. With one final pull, the ropes that bound his body fell loose onto the stone floor. He breathed a sigh of relief which was quickly stifled at the sound of incoming footsteps reverberating off of the walls.

“Lupin,” Tintin said in a harsh whisper, “Stop whining and get quiet. The guard’s coming!”

Lupin responded with more whimpering and an occasional sniffle. Tintin swore he heard the name “Fujiko” at least a few times.

“Lupin! Lupin! Be quiet! Here he comes!” Tintin pleaded, and still nothing. The guard came up to the door practically goose-stepping with a wide smile on his face; so wide, both rows of teeth could be seen.

“Well, well, well,” the guard grinned, as he got his keys and unlocked the door, “If it isn’t my lucky day. My wife has been telling me to get some exercise anyway. Why not do some boxing regimens on waste like you? I’ll start with the groveling one, the great Lupin III. Clean up on Cell 86!”

The guard dropped the keys, tossed his hat and the flashlight away, cracked his neck and knuckles, and flung the cell door open. He stepped one step forward before grabbing Lupin by the back of his shirt and swinging his left fist back for a haymaker. Tintin, while opposed to everything Lupin stood for, was not going to let an unfair fight just happen in front of him. He quickly jumped to his feet, crouched down and got ready to send his whole self into the guard’s protruding gut.

However, he was stopped by what he saw. In three swift movements, Lupin had kicked the guard’s leg, knocking him off balance and, as he went down, allowing his own feet to touch the floor. Then, in a savage strike, sent his whole fist into the guard’s face, knocking the guard back outside the cell into the bar door across the hall. The clanging sound rang through the hallway like church bells heralding a victory.

“Well, you know what they say,” Lupin III said, dusting his hands, “The bigger and cockier they are, the more satisfying the defeat.”

“No one says that,” Tintin retorted, still on the floor; he was utterly dumbfounded by what had occurred, and that left the filter wide open.

“Well, I say it,” Lupin III said, coming over to Tintin and kneeling down behind him, “I’m going to get you untied. When we get out of here, I’ll tell you the whole story. You should know, your dog even makes an appearance.”

“Milou’s okay?” Tintin asked, the life and hope of seeing the little terrier returning to his body.

“Yes, he’s with Goemon getting along swimmingly!”

“Who’s Goemon?”

“I’ll tell you later. What matters is this: he’s a friend, and now it’s time to escape.” Suddenly, Tintin felt his hands move freely from his bondings. As he rubbed his wrists, still raw from the rope, he looked up to find Lupin III extending a hand towering over him, backlit by the flashlight. He took it and was pulled up. He had miscalculated their heights; Lupin III had a few good inches over him.

Chapter Text

No sooner was Tintin back on his feet did both of them hear commotion coming down at the end of the hall from where the guard had come. With the reverberation, it sounded like a hundred men coming for the two of them.

“That’ll probably be the entire floor of guards and maybe some of our friend’s buddies coming our way,” Lupin III said to Tintin, calmly, “They must’ve heard the clean up order and brought the mops and the bleach.” He knelt down to the guard, waved his hand in front of his face to make sure he was passed out, and then started to pat him down.

“What are you doing?” Tintin asked, “We’ve got to get out of here!”

As Lupin III pulled the guard’s Zastava 57 from his holster, checked the barrel, and the luckily full magazine, he glared at Tintin and said “That’s what I’m doing. There’s no door at the other end of the hallway, and unless you want to be saying a quick ‘Hello’ and ‘Goodbye’ to the ground, I suggest you get yourself ready for maybe twenty very angry Bordurian thugs.” He soon went looking for another magazine.

Tintin rubbed his neck as he encountered another bout of emotional whiplash; from wisecracking to deadly serious to macabre in the span of a few minutes didn’t feel all too great on the internal constitution.

“Here,” Lupin III said. As Tintin looked up, he managed to catch the guard’s baton, a dense piece of stained wood that shone auburn in the moonlight. Tintin, not knowing what else to do, grabbed the stool.

“When we knock out those guards coming, grab their pistols and ammo. You may be galavanting like Captain America with that ‘shield,’ but damp wood will only get you so far.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or being euphemistic anymore.”

“That’s my boyish charm coming through,” he retorted with a wide grin before adding, “Ready?”

Tintin nodded his hand and met Lupin III out in the hallway. He felt ridiculous holding a baton and stool as his weaponry, but there was little he could do. Besides, he tried to reassure himself, he had gotten farther with less in much more daring scrapes. It still didn’t quell his anxiety as the thundering stomps from the end of the hallway suddenly stopped one by one; they were coalescing at the door, no doubt trying to strategize. The corridor suddenly went deathly quiet as the final guardsmen stopped. If there was anything to successfully glean from this, however, it was that there were stairs, which meant somewhere to go down, which meant a garage, which meant a way out.

“Let’s go!” Lupin III whispered, before taking off, catching Tintin totally by surprise. He ran so silently, as if he were weightless, down the corridor, there was barely any reverberation to be heard, much less registered. Tintin, snapping out of this momentary admiration, tried to catch up with the gun-wielding thief turned ally while also stepping as light as he could. Lupin III was already at cell 75 when Tintin finally began to catch up with him. They were both at cell 66 when the guards came bursting through the door.

Lupin III acted first firing a warning shot just above the guards heads, sending them all crouching in an already narrow hallway. He practically soared over them, and stood on the back of a downed guard. Tintin threw the stool at a separate guard whose hand had come up to grab Lupin III’s pistol—a loud thud and cry of pain was the result—and thwack two more brutes with the baton and punch a third with his now free left hand who started to reach for him. Then, a crack rang out, as Lupin III shot a guard who had reached for his own pistol. He grabbed it, and tossed it to Tintin who fumbled it only a little, surprised by the sudden death. He had only observed it through the newspaper, and never knowingly committed to a kill, he realised.

Suddenly, someone tugged on his right arm and Tintin heard the clicking of hand cuffs before a second shot rang out and Lupin III muffledly shouting, “Hey! Don’t freeze! Follow me!”

Tintin’s hearing had gone slightly from the reverberation of sound. Two deaths now, he thought. However, as his eyes began to refocus, he saw Lupin III’s boot disappearing up the stairs.

Up? Tintin thought, We’re going up?

“We’re going upstairs?!” He shouted. He looked up through the empty space and could make out at least eight more floors to climb.

“Yes, now stop looking up the stairs like you’re looking up a lady’s skirt and get a move on,” Lupin III shouted from a floor above him, “I got a surprise tool that’s going to help us more sooner than later!”

Despite the chaos, Tintin gathered what Lupin III had put down, and started to move towards the ascending stairway. A few guards were starting to stand up; a thwack on the head ought to subdue them at least long enough to catch up to his apparent rescuer, who was at this point two more floors above him now. He knocked out one, then two, and nearly got dragged down by a third persistent guard. They locked batons like a sabre duel, but Tintin was able to parry, parry, and bonk the guard without too much trouble. As he started to make his way up the stairs, he heard the grunts and fire of Lupin III; perhaps some guards on a separate floor heard the commotion. As he climbed up the stairway, two guards fell through the open space which led down to the bottom floor.

He wouldn’t look. He didn’t look.

When he arrived at the floor from where the noise had been emanating from, he saw Lupin III, now dual-wielding a wrench, from who knows where, and a baton from a downed guard engaged in a similar duel to which Tintin just had moments ago, albeit with five opponents instead of one who had already been possibly concussed. He had lost the Zastava 57 pistol and was fighting for his life. So, Tintin jumped in, bringing the baton down hard on the closest brigand and gave a rightward haymaker to the other.

“Thanks, I needed that,” Lupin III grunted out, as he hurled his entire person forward pushing all three guards back against the wall. The two exchanged grins knowing the other was okay. This reprieve was short lived, however, for, as soon as Tintin noticed that there were two doors on opposite ends of the small corridor to the stairway, they both flooded open with guards, all with Zastava 57s, M59s, and batons at the ready. They stood there, silently, and menacingly. Then, the loud speaker came on.

“Well, well, well,” came a garbled voice over the loud speaker, “It would appear our two honoured guests seem to be checking out early from this wonderful party. Master Tintin, Master Wolf, this is so unbecoming of two such fine gentlemen; you Tintin, with your Western European ethics, and you Master Wolf with your total disregard for respectable eastern customs. Well, I will not allow that, if my name isn’t Warden Peatz! Honourable Bordurians of the Compound Müsstler, give them a lesson in proper Bordurian values!” The Commander’s voice began to break out into a cackle before the loud speaker clicked off abruptly.

Tintin immediately noticed the guards trying to shimmy their way into a more offensive position. No doubt, they were preparing to subdue, and then who knows what after that. He gripped his baton, preparing to fend them off. That’s when Lupin III began to ramble.

“Master Wolf? Wolf? D’oh, god, of all the names he’s got to call me, he’s got to use my American tabloid name. The American press really are a melodramatic and stupid bunch, aren’t they? They can’t even pronounce ‘Lu-pahn’ correctly. They always go ‘Lu-pin’ or ‘Lu-pawn’ and I’m nobody’s pawn! Secondly, what’s all this talk about ‘respectable eastern customs’? ‘Guess he’s never been to Tokyo’s Red Light district! Hoo mommy, come to daddy! Finally, after all that, they’re not even going to put on a fair fight!”

Lupin III then reached for something in his pocket, and nudged Tintin. Tintin looked up at his face, and he received a nice wink.

“Which is precisely why I’m going to level the playing field!” With a sudden motion, two pairs of blackout circle-frame sunglasses appeared in his hand and he handed one to Tintin, as he put the other on. With a second motion, he tossed the wrench, nailing a guard square in the nose. Finally, with a swift third motion, he pulled out a small round ball from his other pocket—Tintin, figuring what was coming, quickly held his glasses to his face—and threw it on the ground. A blinding flash of light exploded from the floor blinding the guards and making Tintin wince.

“Hold on,” Lupin III said, as he wrapped his arm around Tintin’s chest underneath his right arm. Tintin grabbed on instinctively, but didn’t know what would come next. He heard a popping sound, felt a tug, felt his feet lift off the ground fairly quickly, and heard a tiny, yet quick-sounding, squeaking. He peered open his right eye. At first, he noticed that the homemade flashbang grenade was still giving off impressive light for such a tiny explosive. He also found that they were dangling in the stairwell’s shaft above countless flights of stairs; luckily, he could see no guards, and no guards could see him.

“How on earth–” Tintin began to ask before peering at a tiny motor on Lupin III’s belt buckle which was whirring madly on a cable that seemed no thicker than a fishing line. He quickly closed his eyes, and held on just a little tighter to Lupin III.

“Quit squeezing me like I’m your mama,” Lupin III said, with a hint of exasperation, “besides, we’re almost there!” They were, indeed, nearly there as they had only two more flights to go until a gun shot rang through the shaft. It flew past the two of them, nearly grazing Lupin III. However, its target, the anchor at the end of the cable, was dislodged and shattered.

The thief and the reporter hung in the air for about two seconds before beginning to sink down the shaft. It was breathtaking to be almost weightless. Tintin, thinking of the end and letting his baton loose from the sudden pause, thought of Milou being in the care of this Goemon character, thought of the Captain, all of his adventures around this world, thought of Marlinspike Hall, thought of a home he’d never see again. As he shut his eyes hard in anticipation of what would almost certainly be his doom, he noticed that he was still floating. At least, that’s what it felt like.

He cracked open one eye. Lupin III had managed to grab hold of the closest available railing.

“How?” Tintin asked, dumbfounded, “Unless you literally swam through the air–”

“Never mind the how,” Lupin said, strained and through gritted teeth, “just get your heavier-than-you-look self over the railing and get to the roof!” Without a second thought, Tintin hiked himself over Lupin III, and pulled the thief over the railing. The two of them charged up the stairs with Bordurian bullets raining down over them.

They both barged through the roof’s entry door into the cold night, their exhaled breath visible. Tintin made quick and bolted the door shut from the outside. As he was looking for anything to be a brace, Lupin III pulled out a flare, which Tintin thought could’ve only been hiding where the sun didn’t shine as he had no jacket or any other visible pockets aside from the ones on his pants, and fired into the sky. It burst from the barrel in a green streak across the night sky. Tintin didn’t see it, but he could tell Lupin III had cracked a smile on his face.

“And now,” he said, “we wait.”

“Great,” Tintin said, exasperated, “In the meantime, help me find some things to defend ourselves with AND to barricade the door further. I don’t want to have guards ruining this escape.”

“Oh, tut tut,” he replied, looking expectantly at the sky, “We don’t need to worry about those guys. Our ride will be here shortly. They should be coming around that far ridge any second now.” The faint whirring of helicopter blades could be heard as he said this. However, they were cut short with a loud crash coming from somewhere on the roof. Tintin and Lupin III looked at each other, at the door, and out along the roof looking for what made that sound.

“Tintin,” Lupin III said, holding his fists at the ready, “was that the door?”

“No,” Tintin replied, doing the same while coming back-to-back with Lupin III, “There must be another entrance.” The two men slowly navigated their way around the roof, looking for the mystery door, while also keeping an eye on the incoming helicopter. There were no other bulkheads on the roof; no towers, no bastions, or any sort of battlement to suggest an entry.

“Psst,” Tintin whispered, and Lupin III looked over his shoulder, “Over there.” Just behind the bulkhead was a

“So, he must be near?” Lupin III assessed, “Stay close, because the guy is either a ghost or is very light on his feet.”

“You could say that,” said a voice, startling the both of them. Tintin looked around him wildly. However, Lupin III remained perfectly still.

“Lupin, do you see him?” Tintin asked, wildly. Lupin III said nothing.

“Don’t give me that attitude,” Tintin said, “Where is–” He stayed himself when he saw that Lupin III was looking up into the sky. He wasn’t looking at the helicopter, which was still on the approach. He was looking in the opposite direction, so Tintin followed his gaze. What he saw was unlike anything he had ever encountered in a previous escapade of his; mind you, this has included opium induced hallucinations, numerous South American idols and curses, and an encounter with a yeti. Before the two men, Warden Peatz was floating fifteen feet above them. He was cackling.

“You fools think you can escape easily?” asked the Warden, “Your reputation both proceeds and undercuts you both. When I was first told that both of you would be in my custody, I didn’t need to prepare much as I’ve been preparing for this moment ever since I became Warden. Prepare yourselves to die!” With that, he plummeted to the ground feet-first aiming for Tintin and Lupin III. The two of them dodged the initial impact, but the damage left by the Warden’s boots stretched to beyond where they landed, leaving both to scramble away. Once they were on their feet again, the three of them stood in a Mexican standoff. While Lupin III stood calm, collected and ready, Tintin was decidedly not. In a cold sweat, his head was running several thoughts at once like a roaring river; in that sense, it was an oddly calming feeling.

This calm was interrupted as the guard launched himself at Tintin, both hands outstretched to throw him down. Tintin was able to throw out his left hand straight for the guard’s face, despite his internal chaos. However, it was for naught, as the guard went over him, grabbed his back, somersaulted, and threw Tintin across the roof. He landed with a great thud on his back which knocked the wind out of his lungs.

“Hey, pick on someone your own size,” Lupin III shouted, charging the brute.

“What fun would that be?” the brute said back, turning and launching himself through the air towards Lupin III. Luckily, he was stupid enough to try the same move on him as he did on Tintin. Luckily, Lupin III was able to land a hit on Warden Peatz, right in the pit of his stomach. As the Warden fell to the ground from the hit, Lupin III felt victorious, but it wasn’t over. He ran over to Tintin, still grounded from the impact.

“Hey kid, speak to me,” he said, crouching down for Tintin to hear, “are you able to get back up?”

Tintin was heaving in the night air. While he couldn’t give him a verbal answer, he was able to give Tintin a thumbs up. He was still in this fight.

“All right, good,” Lupin III said, “Now, the key to this guy is to stay low and crack him in his weak spots. He’s obviously a sub-par boxer at best, so get him in the sides, the gut, and, if you see an opening, the nose.”

Another thumbs up from Tintin sufficed him. As he pulled him up to his feet, Tintin felt a pounding resolve staring down the guard, who had since gotten up and was melodramatically wiping the dust off his shoulders; a resolve he hasn’t felt since his last encounter with Allen, the blaggard pirate. The impending sound of whirring helicopter blades only fueled it more. It was time to end this before it dragged on far longer than it needed to be.

He and Lupin III didn’t need to wait long in order for him to make the first move. Warden Peatz ran, and leapt into the air, gliding through the air for just a moment to get closer before charging full tilt at the two of them. Tintin and Lupin charged in kind.

The warden howled at them, and Lupin III howled back. Tintin gritted his teeth in determination, with the wind back in his sails. They drew closer and the warden charged his right fist for a walloping haymaker to knock the both of them out. Lupin III and Tintin raised their fists as if getting ready for a bout of fisticuffs with Tintin’s left fist at the ready, and Lupin’s right fist at the ready, but this didn’t throw off Peatz.

Now only two steps away, the warden swung his fist around. Just as it seemed he was about to make contact, both Tintin and Lupin III folded down and sent both of their ready fists right into the warden’s stomach. This time, it was the Warden’s air that was knocked out of him. Sensing the familiar pause, Tintin used his free right fist, drawn back from the first blow, and sent it right into the Warden’s nose, sending him backward. The warden landed with a loud clang on the bulkhead, nearly collapsing the structure on top of him.

Tintin stood in silent amazement. They had won. He couldn’t feel his throbbing fists; the adrenaline was currently coursing through him at intense speed. He stood up, silently, for what felt like an eternity, but was, truthfully, only a few seconds. His body was basking in the respite and the finality to that blow.

However, it wasn’t “final” enough to Lupin III. Tintin, while still standing somewhat dazed, unaware of the helicopter right above their heads, only just noticed that Lupin III was approaching the warden with something shiny in his hand when he was about halfway there.

He suddenly had a very clear feeling of dread. He had seen enough death today in defense; he was not about to have a death in cold blood occur. So, he began to move towards him, but found he could barely manage that. When he fell backwards from the first impact, he had landed on his back, his hep, and heard a popping noise come from his leg. He didn’t notice it in the final confrontation, no doubt because of the adrenaline. He nearly collapsed from the pain slowly being realised. However, he kept his wits about him to see Lupin III crouch down to the Warden.

A light from the helicopter shone brightly from behind him. He could barely hear a deep and gravelly voice call out over the helicopter. Lupin III didn’t respond to the calls, at least apparently. Then, Lupin III stood up and Tintin heard the piercing crack of two gunshots go into Warden Peatz. The second-hand impact from them sent Tintin to his knees.

He had never experienced or seen death dealt so carelessly before today. The thought of it consumed him just as he began to feel the throbbing in his hands and the scrapes from the impact of being sent across the roof. He didn’t notice Lupin III come up right in front of him until he heard his voice say, “C’mon Tintin, we gotta go. Let’s get you to your dog. We’ve got some things to talk about.”

Tintin could barely look at him, partly out of fear and partly out of disgust, but he responded “Why? What have we to talk about?”

“Well, first, we gotta get you healed up,” Lupin III acknowledged, hoisting him up, “you’ve been through hell. Secondly, our plan to steal that diamond was merely complicated when you tried to give it back to Fuji-cakes. With what our recently departed friend has told us, this plot just became far more interesting.”

Tintin said nothing. He just stared blankly at the floor of the helicopter; his face bruised, hair messed up, and clothes scuffed from this turbulent welcome to Borduria. He almost didn’t hear Lupin III say “Looks like you’re going to be sticking with us for a while, Tintin.”

He wanted to shout. He wanted to say something, anything, to the avail of “You will bring me my dog, and you will get me out of here so that I may get to Khemed as soon as possible,” but he just couldn’t. He could only manage to meet the big eyes of Lupin III. They glowed with a fiendish craving for adventure, but were backlit with an understanding. Something inside Tintin told him that Lupin III must’ve seen the same expression he was giving off; cold, dejected, confused. He looked around the helicopter. He saw the man with the fedora and the pointed beard shooting a pistol out of the door of the helicopter; the guards must have come through the bulkhead. He heard him shout to Lupin III that it was “time to go”. Lupin III expressed the same sentiment in kind and shouted to the cockpit, over the whirring helicopter blades and the ensuing gunfire, to get going.

Then he heard a voice call from the cockpit. He turned his head and saw the same hair and face of the woman he had a chance encounter with at the airport, whose diamond he had tried returning to her; Ms. Fujiko Mine. This time he was not so enraptured by her beauty to take his mind off of the given circumstance, and returned his gaze to the floor where it promptly stayed for the next few hours. The only thing he could think about with any sort of clarity was his expectant Milou.

Chapter Text

Milou did not like flying; the only time he had ever was when he was somewhat inebriated on medical spirits when he, Tintin, and Captain Haddock had escaped the Karaboudjan and quickly found themselves in a great thunderstorm over French Algeria. Milou hated airports more, however. Between the roars of the intercom, the constant fear of getting stepped on by an unsuspecting shoe, and the bamboozling array of smells both illicit and down-right disgusting, Milou was never short of reasons to prove his distaste. He preferred the sea where he could feel the wind in his face on either a dinghy or a great cruising or archaeological vessel and have enough room to walk around so as to not be completely bored.

‘This Bordurian airport,’ he thought to himself in a cage locked away in a grey and dimly lit room behind a door, ‘is no doubt the most horrid of all these horrid airports. It truly fits its namesake!’

Every so often, someone would pass by the glorified closet that Milou was held in. His ears would perk up and his tail would give a slight wag, naturally, as if his subconscious was hoping for someone to let him out or even share a joke or treat with him. When their shadow passed by though, his ears would rest and his tail would drop.

He continued, ‘If only that woman had kept her diamond–the Marshal’s Medal, was it? Why on earth would she leave it there? And Sponsz, oh, that stale piece of kibble! Without so much as a question, he pounced on Tintin like a ravenous lion. No doubt, he’s got a bone to pick with us about San Theodoros. Oh, I hope Tintin’s not been handled too poorly.’

Just as he finished the thought, he saw a shadow stop in front of his door and the crunching of keys in the door’s lock. His ears perked up and his tail cautiously began to wag. When he opened the door, however, his tail went straight up, brought his ears back, and bared his teeth. Two guards, one fat and tall, and the other lanky and short, but both with greased black hair, walked in. The tall one had very round eyes, while the short one had a permanent sneer on his face. They had been laughing as they walked in, but had gone silent when they met eyes with Milou.

“Well, well, well,” said the short one, “It looks like our celebrity has moved into his quarters well, ey, Prinsc-Szum?”

“Oh, come now, Apor-Trafè,” said the large one, “Don’t be so harsh with him. He is a little dog after all, not some wanted criminal.”

“Don’t be so soft!” Apor-Trafè said, “He is, after all, Tintin’s accomplice in all his crimes, much like that fishy-faced captain. He is just as valuable as he is and, now that Tintin is being transferred to Compound Müsstler, just as secure as our little four legged friend now. Perhaps we will get out of this dump and rise to the rank of Captain once we present him to Chief Brik-Val!”

‘At least we can agree that this place is a dump,’ Milou thought, though he did not break his defensive posture and snarled teeth.

“He still thinks this little guy is loose?” Prinsc-Szum exclaimed, “Apor-Trafè, that is a breach of conduct and could get us in serious trouble if we were to lose him. Also how do you know Tintin’s been transferred?”

“Lutz-Lipssenk told me,” interrupted Apor-Trafè, “As for the Chief, we are staying right here until he comes over so that we may present this little surprise to him.”

“Well, what’s going to happen to him once we do show him to the Chief?”

“I’m not sure and I don’t care. For all I know, the Chief will take him as his own or toss him in the pound for some little snot-nosed boy to claim. Either way, this little thing will be ours to take advantage of so that we can rise through the ranks!”

Milou didn’t know what to be offended more by; the fact that he would be tossed so callously aside or that he may find Borduria to be his home if he didn’t do something. So, he began to bark. It wasn’t just any old bark to chase the cats with or anything close to a cry for help. This bark was to attract attention.

‘Help,’ he cried, ‘These evil men straight from the bottom of the barrel want to see me off to some cretins of this miserable country. I need to find Tintin and get out of here if it’s the last thing I do in this canine life!’

“Hush up!” cried Apor-Trafè over the barking, “Hush up, or I’ll skin you!”

“Don’t threaten the dog!” Prinsc-Szum shouted over Apor-Trafè and Milou’s barking, “That’s several years of immediate bad luck, you know!”

“I don’t care, I just want the dog to shut up,” he said, taking his baton out. Milou bore his teeth out as far as he’d go as the guard began to bang the cage with his baton. This only strengthened Milou’s resolve though and his reasoning to keep barking; the more noise, the more someone would notice.

“Quiet!” shouted Apor-Trafè so loud, his Adam’s Apple nearly popped off his neck. Suddenly, while Milou was taking a breath and as Apor-Trafè brought the baton back to rattle the cage some more, all three of the room’s occupants heard a near-silent rapping on the door. They all paused and looked. There was a shadow there, but the two guards waited to see if it was the Chief. Milou was waiting to see if they would pursue further.

They did. Another round of rapping ensued and Prinsc-Szum went to open the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Apor-Trafè, in a panicked whisper.

“I’m opening the door for the Chief,” answered Prinsc-Szum, simply.

“We don’t know if that’s the Chief! He hasn’t announced himself!”

“Perhaps he’s resting his voice?”

Apor-Trafè nearly threw his cap on the ground, but was stopped as Prinsc-Szum opened the door. Milou looked expectantly and eagerly! Perhaps Tintin had escaped and he was being rescued, at last! However, his eagerness turned to instant confusion. In the door stood a man who was taller than Apor-Trafè and shorter than Prinsc-Szum. However, his dress, which looked like robes plucked out of a Japanese history exhibition, made him look bigger than he seemed. He also wore a hat which looked like an upside down basket on his head, totally obscuring his face. He held a cane that looked just short for him.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said in a soothing voice, “It would appear you have confiscated my dog for no discernable reason. I have come to retrieve him.”

Both of the guards laughed, though Apor-Trafè laughed much harder than Prinsc-Szum did; he more so giggled. Milou was left baffled. By smell alone, he knew that this was not Tintin. He smelled more of pickled plums.

“I needed a laugh today,” said Apor-Trafè, sauntering towards the door, “Now, I suggest you get a move on before you get hurt, you relic.”

“The Buddha says that true confidence is equal to true modesty,” the figure at the door said, “and that there are only two mistakes one can make taking the great road; not going at all or stopping before the end. You have started with a rather poor attempt at intimidation. I suggest you follow through or give me my dog.” A clinking sound could be heard, but Milou couldn’t see where it came from.

“So, it’ll be a challenge then,” Apor-Trafè said, “All right, then! So be it!” The guard came at the figure wildly swinging his baton and screaming a faint attempt at a war cry. Suddenly, there were a few flashes of light, the sounds of subtle impact, and a whisper on the wind as the figure re-sheathed something. It was a sword, but Milou had not seen the figure take it out, much less use it. Neither had the guard, apparently, as he kept charging forward running into the opposite wall of the hallway. With a click, the figure put his sword fully away. As it clicked, the guard’s baton split into four different pieces, and the guard’s uniform spontaneously fell apart into a pile of rags leaving only his undershirt and striped undergarments exposed to the elements. Milou didn’t see any blood, so he presumed that the guard lay motionless on the ground purely because of the head-on impact into the wall.

Prinsc-Szum, however, didn’t notice the lack of blood and assumed this random stranger had just killed his co-worker in cold blood. Riled up, he began to wind up his fist for a proper wallop, but the figure was fast. Very fast, for Milou blinked and the stranger had now appeared in the room with the hilt of his sword deep into the stomach of the stranger. This sufficiently knocked the wind out of him, as the figure was able to take his left hand and jut it up into Prinsc-Szum’s chin, sending him into the ceiling. He soon collapsed onto the floor with an unceremonious “plop.”

Milou’s eyes practically bulged out of his eyes at the swiftness of the scene that just occurred. He didn’t even have time to fully process what had happened to the first guard before the figure had walked over to his cage, and unsheathed his sword. Milou laid down with his tail between his legs with no idea what was going to happen. The figure then swung his sword and then sheathed it again.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with the same click from before, the cage suddenly split open diagonally. The top half of the cage slid off onto the floor with a loud metallic clunk. Milou, too stunned to bark, backed himself further into the corner.

“Come, little one,” the figure said, extending his left hand. Milou was, understandably, cautious and quite nervous to accept the hand of the stranger that just took out two armed guards with the swiftness only reserved for the wind only after claiming himself as his owner.

‘Are you with Tintin, or is Tintin with you?’ asked Milou.

“Come, don’t worry,” the figure said, “My name is Goemon.”

‘Hello Goemon,’ Milou stated, ‘I’ll ask again. Where’s Tintin?’

“What a talkative specimen,” Goemon said, before pausing to think on what to say next before deciding on “While I cannot bring you to your master presently, I can bring you to people who will.”

Milou wondered why it always took humans three, if not more, times to answer the questions he had been asking the whole time. Humans have so many languages they use, ‘dog’ ought to be one of them. Granted, this was the least of his concerns right now. So, he decided to step closer to get a good sniff of the man named Goemon. The pickled plum scent was definitely omnipresent, but he also smelled blood; lots of blood from the steel blade held in his hand. This gave Milou pause, but it was either go with him or stay and wait to be carted off to be adopted by a family of wild Bordurians. The decision was easy enough for him.

Goemon was able to take Milou under his left arm with ease. Milou didn’t find this all too comfortable, but who was he to ask his rescuer for more preferable accommodations, especially when Goemon was speeding down the hallway? Somehow, his steps were so silent, Milou thought they had been gliding down the various hallways before looking down and seeing the wooden sandals of his hero moving faster than he had ever seen Tintin’s feet move.

They suddenly came to a stop, however, upon making a left turn. Goemon grunted, startled, and Milou’s hackles stood on end as they both stared down and met the eyes of Chief Brik-Val, and the former Colonel Sponsz. There was a third figure whose back was turned towards Goemon and Milou dressed in a black military overcoat and had a large mop of dark hair. They had all been grumbling about something.

“You! Halt!” commanded the Chief, pointing directly at Goemon. Sponsz, whose uniform had been updated since Milou saw it to look like the Chief’s, started to charge at them. The third figure merely cocked his head back, though, otherwise, did not move. Facing the incoming fury of Sponsz and Brik-Val, Goemon unsheathed his sword and held it out. Milou could almost hear a small prayer of some sort being whispered in Japanese.

Milou, not knowing what else to do, barked at the figures coming down the hall saying ‘Back off, you fascist scourge of the Balkans!’ He looked up at Goemon and added in a whimper, ‘Surely, you have a plan for this and aren’t going to just stand menacingly?’

His question was answered resolutely when Goemon launched forward and shouted a great war cry at the two figures. Sponsz, and Brik-Val were so taken aback that they stopped dead in their tracks and fell down on both of their rears. Sponsz quickly turned around and tried to scurry away towards the military figure. Milou let out a triumphant bark as they got closer to them, but then was startled when they started to ascend in the air. Goemon simply leapt over both the chief and Sponsz.

‘What are you doing?’ Milou barked, looking up at Goemon, ‘We’re not attacking them?’ He got no answer, not simply because Goemon didn’t seem to understand him, but because he was gravely silent. Milou saw the steely look in Goemon’s eyes of the fierce familiarity only reserved for seeing someone who may have done harm to him in the past. Looking back at the figure at the end of the hall, Milou noticed that the figure had still not moved.

‘You’re going after him?’ Milou barked, noticing that Goemon had also started to pick up speed. It was naught, however, for as soon as Milou looked back at the figure, he saw smoke billowing out from underneath the overcoat which quickly enveloped the figure. As Goemon let out another war cry and brought his sword to bear, he also heard ominous and echoing laughter coming from the figure. Milou tucked in his tail and covered his eyes with both front paws as the two of them charged into the laughing cloud of smoke.

There was a sound of impact, but not of steel against flesh. This slice made impact with something much harder, and, through closed eyes, Milou felt the light of day encompass him. Had he died and this was a warm embrace to heaven?

As he opened his eyes, Milou was relieved to find the answer was a staunch no. What befell them, however, was a much more awkward circumstance. Milou observed that he was being held by a Japanese man dressed in robes, holding an unsheathed sword, while behind him lay the ruins of a sliced door and a billowing cloud of smoke. The crowds of airport-goers, Bordurian and foreign alike, stood mouths agape and eyes bulging at the scene. Milou could practically feel the embarrassment emanating off of his rescuer. Goemon, also astutely observing the scene, quickly sheathed his sword, bowed, said to the crowd “Sorry,” and took off for the door. The two of them were just at the door when, from out of the smoke, came Sponsz and the Chief Brik-Val breathless and their faces red.

“Guards!” they both shouted just as Goemon put his hand on the glass door’s push bar, “Seize that samurai!” Neither Goemon nor Milou looked behind themselves, but they did hear the sudden roar of angry guards coming their way.

‘Hurry, or we’re all in the dog house!’ Milou barked, starting to writhe. He figured he could make good time out of there; however, he wouldn’t know where to until he could pick up Tintin’s scent.

“Transcend your worry,” Goemon said as he practically glided over and through the crowd, holding on to Milou tight. The crash of the glass doors being forced open did nothing to phase him, although it did startle Milou.

‘How can I transcend it when this has been one of the single most turbulent days I’ve had?’ Milou whimpered, ‘I feel like I’ve aged three dog years!’ Goemon remained unfazed as Milou looked up at him for sympathy. He realised that the samurai must have his eyes on a target or destination of some kind. Looking out past the crowd of airport goers, white taxi cabs, red buses, and many black personal cars, he saw a glint of yellow. From the sunroof of the cab stood a gentleman clad in a dark suit, a ragged fedora, with a beard that came to a singular point.

“C’mon Goemon, get your rear in gear, and let’s get the hell outta here,” he said to Goemon while pulling a revolver out from his belt. He fired a slug towards them, and Milou couldn’t help himself but to flinch and cover his eyes. When, again, he wasn’t met with a visual of puppy heaven, his mind remembered that they were being chased by guards. What he didn’t account for was that Goemon would be leaping over fired the bullets and, with the pointy bearded man getting out of the way, plunge himself into the car feet first.

“Hey, Lupin, drive!” the same bearded fellow shouted at the driver.

“Right on, Jigen!” said the driver back, clad in a green jacket, “Everyone, fasten your seatbelts or just hold on to something!” Within two seconds, the little yellow car was speeding away at 112 KPH, dodging the serpentine airport traffic, and, on a painfully obvious occasion as the car temporarily went diagonal, skimmed the railing of the off-ramp to get on the main highway. Milou was lucky enough to keep his mid-flight lunch from coming back up for the second time today. It wasn’t too long when the little car was coasting again, so Milou, and the three men in the car, all took the opportunity to relax.

“So, we got the pup?” Lupin III asked Goemon, who only grunted affirmatively. Milou looked up at his apparent rescuer, and noticed he had gone into a meditative state with his eyes shut and hands folded into the other’s sleeves while his sword sat along him.

“So, Lupin,” asked Jigen, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag, “What has this dog got to do with anything? You’re all quiet about this plan of yours.”

“It’ll all be explained when we meet Fujiko back at the house, my friend,” Lupin III said.

“Okay, so it’s going to be like that,” Jigen said, “Guess I’m gonna have to play 20 questions or something. Is the pup related to the ginger who stole the Marshal’s Diamond? Does the pup have a super nose or something? Blackmail?”

“Yes, no, at least, not that I know of, and no,” Lupin III said, “We may be career criminals, but I’m not so low as to put a dog in harm’s way for information.” He tipped the rearview mirror towards the dog and added, “Besides, who wants to be put in a grey cage anyway, Mister Snowy?”

Milou gave a happy chirp at the mention of his name given by the American press. He had rather liked the name, and he was always tickled to meet a stranger who knew of him, and wasn’t trying to actively harm him.

“Oh, who-sh a good boy?” Lupin III said in a schmaltzy tone and while making goo goo eyes at him.

“All right, give me a break,” Jigen said, after blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke out the window, “I can understand going cuckoo for celebrities, but this is a new low, even for you. Don’t they say ‘never meet your heroes’ anyway?” A sly smirk appeared on his face at this.

“Please,” Lupin III said, returning the smile, tongue-in-cheekily, “now that we have Snowy here, and we, at the very least, know Tintin isn’t too far away, we’ll be able to get some answers in no time. For now, let’s enjoy the countryside and some good music.” Lupin went to turn on the radio and was immediately greeted by Bordurian marching music and a patriotic speech by the newly crowned Marshal, Tempred-Gladz at full volume. The horns and drum nearly blew out the speakers and the ear drums of everyone in the car, though Goemon would never admit it despite the obvious and sudden discomfort on his face. In the haste of turning the sound off, Lupin III nearly drove off the road two separate times. Jigen was the one to finally turn it off. The group sat in stunned silence when finally the only sound that permeated was the hum of rubber to tarmac.

“Or silence, silence is good,” Lupin III said.

“Yup,” Jigen replied, his cigarette clumsily hanging off his lip.

“Agreed,” Goemon stated.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Milou chirped, his dog ears still ringing.

As they drove along the countryside, the sun descended into the sky to give way to the orange hues of afternoon. Milou was able to convince Lupin III to open the window so he could feel the wind against his fur; he would be damned before getting locked up in a moving vehicle without fresh air again. The cool breeze became cold in the shade, and more so frigid when the sun disappeared over the tall Bordurian mountainsides. Contrary to what the city and airports may tell you, Borduria actually smelled nice; the scent of pines, lilacs, and oak trees filled his nose.

It was a bittersweet peace. In a particularly intoxicating episode, he turned his head away from the wind fully expecting Tintin to be there and to give him pats. However, he was met with the steely exterior of Goemon. While he was grateful for his rescuer, he was no Tintin. Milou whimpered at the thought of Tintin’s whereabouts and hoped he was all right, when he felt a hand begin to scratch his back. Slightly startled, he was comforted to find out the hand was, in fact, Goemon’s. He contemplated going belly-up for him, but given the cumbersomeness of the movement, and he still had no idea what he was doing with this group of three, he decided against it.

“There she is,” Lupin III said, just as the car rounded a corner. Milou stood on Goemon’s lap and could see a small cabin tucked away on the mountainside with the lights on. As they got closer, the shack got apparently more dilapidated and Milou realized that it must’ve been abandoned for some time now.

Stepping out of the car, Milou was wondering how it was still standing; the windows were cracked if not fully smashed, the brick was chipping at the foundation, the roof was warped and bowed, weeds and ivy were climbing up the walls, and the front door was barely on either of its hinges. Milou was quite surprised when Lupin III, Jigen, and even Goemon began walking to the house with the confident familiarity usually reserved for homeowners walking to their own front door. He stepped forward cautiously when, all of a sudden, his nose picked up a new smell.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, sniffing the air with greater intensity with each inhale, ‘that alluring scent could only belong to one person, and I’ve only just met them.’ He charged inside, barrelling past the feet of all three men, and nearly breaking down the door.

‘Ms. Fujiko Mine,’ he barked, as he began to dance around her feet.

“Well, hello there, Milou!” Fujiko said in a similarly schmaltzy tone as Lupin III had done earlier, though Milou did not mind half as much. He was so caught up in the frenzy of seeing anyone familiar that he went belly up for her. She, in kind, rubbed his belly and, not soon after, picked him up and held him like a baby.

“Aw Fuji-cakes, you said you were going to hold me that way tonight,” Lupin III said, earning looks of disgust from both Jigen and Milou.

“Only if you behave and finally tell us what’s going on,” Fujiko said, still holding Milou, “And you can do that while you cook us some dinner. I’m starved.”

“Yeah, I could go for a bite to eat,” Jigen added, “Besides, the wine in Szohôd is so watered down, a whole bottle of red could pass for a kid’s grape juice. I couldn’t even get a buzz.”

“All right, all right, quit your grumbling, old man,” Lupin III said, taking off his jacket and slipping on an apron, “tonight’s meal will consist of instant ramen and pork. I’ll make enough for each of us, and an extra slice of pork for our first guest of honour. I’m going to keep an extra one off to the side so that when our second guest of honour joins us, he’ll be totally refreshed to join us on our expedition for the Marshal’s Medal, since he so kindly in the name of chivalry threw us off balance.”

“Second guest of honor?” Jigen charged, somewhat rhetorically.

“That means…” Fujiko began.

“Yes, indeed, my rose in a garden of weeds,” Lupin III interrupted, “We’re going to find Tintin tonight!”

Milou grew all the more curious. On the one hand, he was ecstatic that the group was going to find Tintin, but he wasn’t too thrilled that they were going to impress him into a heist. So, Milou waited to see what exactly the intent was before making his feelings known. Besides, he was still enjoying Fujiko’s belly rubs.

“Oi, Lupin, it’s impolite to interrupt,” Fujiko was able to interject before adding, “Now cut the crap and tell us what your master plan is, oh grandson of Arsene Lupin.”

“Of course, my beloved Fuji-cakes,” he said, lovingly, as he lit up a single-burner portable camping stove, placed a pot atop it, and proceeded to pour water from a litre bottle into it. As he tore the ramen packets open in anticipation of boiling water, he said “So, gang, it’s simple really why I’m hellbent on finding Tintin, and it’s not just to return his pup back to him or to see what he wanted to do with the diamond after he and his dog so carelessly interrupted our plan.”

‘Pardon me, but why would you leave a jewel unattended in the middle of a busy airport, especially one of great importance?’ Milou glared at him.

“What plan?” Jigen asked, “It’s obvious that your little Ms. Cake here was going to plant it on the poor fellow because she was getting tailed by secret police. She was lucky that they were both chronically clumsy enough to lose her with our little distraction. Then what? You were going to flee on your own with the diamond?” At this revelation, Milou leapt out of Fujiko’s arms and sent his hackles up in a rage.

‘You mean to tell me you set him up?’ Milou growled.

“Oh, you men are all the same,” Fujiko scoffed, “You all were obviously slow to catch up.”

“It was needlessly complicated and recklessly executed,” Goemon chimed in from a wicker chair in the corner.

“Fine,” Lupin III said, placing the ramen into the boiling water, “I will admit, we’ve all been a bit rusty since we encountered that Mamo fella, but we all could’ve done better with one more–”

“Cut the crap, Lupin,” Jigen said, “You couldn’t confront Fujiko here because you’re blinded by infatuation and because Tintin got in the way. Now you want to bring him back for what?”

“Simple really,” Lupin III said, adding some diced green onion and a packet of seasoning, “It’s a little bit of payback for interfering in a plan he didn’t know about, and he knows Borduria. Plus, with all of the weird stuff coming out about this new Marshal, Tempred-Gladz, I figured I wanted to see the guy with my own eyes. Get a peek behind the curtain at the great and powerful Oz, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jigen scoffed, “The Wizard Kid of Borduria, makes Rasputin look like a cheap children’s magician. Also, you really gotta stop watching the Wizard of Oz.”

Milou, letting his hackles fall back down, but still remaining guarded, was also utterly dumbfounded. Not only was this the most dysfunctional group of criminals he had probably ever encountered thus far, but it was also the most sinister without taking themselves too seriously. Impressing Lupin III into their gang for a one off heist so callously and expectantly was something out of the pulp mob stories. It wasn’t enough to rescue him, he had to pay back for interference in a plan he had no knowledge about. He also wished to see Tintin again.

“You should know I saw him today,” Goemon said, still sat as still as a statue.

“Who, Frank Morgan?” asked Lupin, putting in the pieces of pork into the ramen, “I don’t know how you could’ve unless he’s got a known doppelganger. The man’s been dead since ‘49.”

“No,” Goemon said, “Tempred-Gladz.”

“Huh?” asked Lupin III, Jigen, and Fujiko. Milou’s ear’s perked.

“Yes,” Goemon said, “He was speaking with the chief of the airport security and one of the officer’s, Sponsz. From hearing his speech in the car, and the three men speaking at the end of the hall when I rescued the little one, there can be no doubt in my mind.”

He stood up, stepped towards Lupin, and steeled his gaze further, “You must be careful Lupin. A dark spirit clouds the magic he uses. It is a spirit that we have encountered before, though I do not wish to speculate on its origins without further proof.”

“Right oh, my samurai friend,” Lupin III said, turning off the gas stove and bringing the pot to the coffee table, “anyways, soup’s on! Get it while it’s hot.”

He ran out the door and grabbed four bowls, a plate, and some chopsticks from the car for all of the eating parties tonight. Lupin, however, grabbed two long pieces of pork from the pot, put them on the aforementioned plate and handed it to Milou. While apprehensive about the meat, Milou’s stomach let out a not so subtle growl; it would be the first meal he would have on solid ground since arriving.

“Hungry, eh Snowy?” asked Lupin III before snickering. Milou let out a “hrumpf” before getting a good sniff of the meat. Once he realized that it had been cooked properly and that he could at least trust this group in that regard, he took a bite. They all promptly dug into the ramen when Milou began.

The twilight hours had just begun when they finished eating, cleared the table and had begun to go over the plan in earnest. Overlit by a portable lamp, the four soon-to-be rescuers of Tintin were huddled around the table overlooking several maps of the Marshal’s palace, a map of the country’s highway system, and a street map of Szohôd. Milou was lying feigning a post-dinner nap while keeping an open ear towards the conversation. There was the beginnings of a little science experiment on the counter where Lupin III had made the ramen; he was going to be perfecting his flash grenade recipe once the plan had been settled.

“Okay, so, given the severity of Tintin’s reputation here, there are probably three compounds or prisons where he’ll most likely be held. All three either lead directly to the main highway via undisclosed routes here, here, and here. They also either have or are near military establishments. However, only two of them have on-site runways and aircraft; thanks for the reconnaissance, fellas.”

“Yeah, I’m still plucking leaves from out of my hair,” Jigen said, “so keep talking.”

“It really doesn’t matter which base of the two Tintin is held at,” Lupin continued, “we’re going to take a helicopter outta there, fly over to this field here, then high-tail it back here to go over the heist properly. I don’t imagine it’ll be hard either way to get in; I’ll take the car, speed in front of some cops, make a ruckus, get intentionally arrested–what low-level guard wouldn’t want to bring the great Lupin III in–and get Tintin out from there!”

‘Well, that’s fine and dandy,’ Milou grumbled, rolling over to face them, ‘but you still don’t know where he is.’

“Well, that’s fine and dandy,’ Jigen grumbled, while lighting a cigarette, ‘but we still don’t know where he is!”

‘I just said that!’ Milou scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“I mean, c’mon Lupin,” Fujiko agreed, “You’re counting your eggs before they’ve been laid. We probably won’t know until tomorrow morning’s papers where Tintin was held, if at all, and if they don’t say something, it’ll take weeks for us all to get individually arrested, transferred to different prisons, find Tintin, break him out, then break us all out, and then come up with a plan. There are plenty of jewels out there for us to snatch.”

Milou suddenly felt a great sinking feeling that he’d never see Tintin again; that he would become a dog on the run with these fellas. He never wished to be a criminal. Sure, he could stomach it, he was a brave pooch after all, but he would miss Tintin, the Captain, Nestor, and Marlinspike Hall too much to even consider it. He would walk across Europe or even break into the prison just to be with Tintin.

‘Wait a minute,’ he thought, ‘I know where Tintin is!’ He sprang up on his feet and started to bark wildly in excitement and repeated ‘I know where he is! I know where he is!’

“Eh, shut up,” Jigen said, taking a drag, and talking over the dog added, “Lupin, we got to find this out now. Is Tintin here at the Compound Benitolf or is he at the Compound Müsstler? We’ve got to figure this out now or there won’t be a rescue or there won’t be a– HEY!”

Milou had jumped on to Jigen, interrupting and startling him. With the commotion, Jigen was nearly sent backwards and almost flipped the table with flailing legs. Milou wouldn’t stop barking.

“You’d think he knows something,” Lupin III said, surprised with a wide-eyed look on his face.

“Perhaps he does,” Goemon said, back on his wicker chair.

“Milou, come here,” Fujiko said, extending her hands out, “It’s all Milou, we’re working on it.” Milou jumped, but not at Fujiko. He jumped on the table and swatted away both the map of Szohôd and the map of the Marshal’s palace, and began to scan the map of the highway system. Lupin III and the gang had been kind enough to circle where the three compounds were and label them in red pen. Milou stayed his barking and found each of them.

Benitolf? No. Derfuhrfatz? No. Müsstler?

As soon as he saw the name Müsstler, the memory of Apor-Trafè’s and Prinsc-Szum’s discussion flashed in his head. He barked and tapped his front paws on Müsstler repeatedly. Once or twice he did a “point” motion before getting excited again and resuming his hops.

“Which one’s he tapping on, Fujiko?” asked Lupin, who was picking Jigen up from the floor.

“Müsstler,” she said, peering over Milou, eyes suddenly glowing with possibility.

“Well, then, that settles it!” Lupin III said, while giving Milou a pat on the head, “I’m glad we got this mutt after all!”

The plan there was simple. Jigen and Fujiko, being the sharpshooter and the only one with a valid pilot’s license and the charm to get on the base, would go rob a helicopter while Lupin would get arrested right outside of the base; they would hide in the backseat and then take off once Lupin III was out of the car. From there, Lupin would break Tintin out and head for the roof, while the two of them would leave the car at that aforementioned field, secure a helicopter, fly on over, retrieve them, head to that field, and drive back to the cottage to discuss next steps. Goemon wordlessly volunteered to be lookout over the cottage and it was agreed by all, including Milou, that the dog would stay with him.

As they all drove off, Goemon and Milou stood outside the front door of the cottage. They had turned the lights off, so all the light they had was the moon and stars that would peek out from the clouds every so often. Milou looked up at the sky in anticipation of that helicopter any minute now. He accidentally let out a sad whimper that he was deeply embarrassed by.

“Fear not, little one,” Goemon said, startling Milou, slightly, “They are guided by their ancestors and will ensure the retrieval of your friend. They are more steadfast than they appear.”

‘I hope you’re right,’ Milou said, before resuming his gaze at the stars. Milou would fall asleep in earnest while waiting for the helicopter. It wouldn’t be for a few more hours. However, the sound of the approaching rumble of tires and hum of an engine was enough to wake Milou. What got him standing up right was the familiar scent of Tintin. What made him bark for joy was the cry of “Milou!” coming from inside the car of a boy who had really missed his dog.

Chapter Text

Tintin sat quietly for the remainder of the voyage in the helicopter. His mind hadn’t ceased racing in the calm with thoughts recounting the past, presumably, 24 hours, his friends, poor Milou, and the crew who was now helping, or possibly, impressing him into their criminal enterprise. He didn’t want to speak, or, perhaps, he couldn’t, for if he did, his whole façade would come crashing down upon them. He had been so enraptured by his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Lupin III, who had taken the co-pilot seat next to Fujiko Mine, shout to the back that they were coming up on “the field.” Whatever that meant, he didn’t even feel the craft land on it.

“All right, Tintin ol’ boy,” Lupin III said, patting him on the shoulder, “Time to get going.” While Tintin didn’t see it, Lupin III’s face suddenly became stoic and even a tad concerned from his usual jovial expression. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or several.”

Without a word, Tintin got up. The man with the pointy beard, whom the group had called “Jigen” had already opened the door and was outside lighting up a cigarette. Tintin just meandered past him while Lupin III and Fujiko hastily left the aircraft.

“What’s with him?” asked Jigen, with a drag.

“Shellshock, I imagine,” said Lupin III, “he did get hit pretty hard back there. I’m surprised he’s moving as well as he is. You patched him up, right?”

“Yeah, a few cuts here and there and a bruise along his ribs he’ll feel in the morning, but he’ll be fine,” Jigen said, before adding “Physically, at least.”

“He’s had a big night,” Lupin III said, “We both have. I’ve got something to tell you all about when we get back to the cottage.”

“Come on, boys,” Fujiko said, jogging towards the car with the black box in hand, “Let’s go before the whole of Borduria knows we’re here.”

“Yes, Fuji-cakes!” Lupin III said, in hot pursuit. Jigen, disgusted by the turn around of Lupin’s mood, ambled towards the car.

Tintin just watched his feet pass through the grass. He occasionally looked up to see where this car was and made sure he was on the right path to reach it. Hearing Fujiko Mine run past, and hearing Lupin III’s excited giggles literally chasing a woman, also helped gather where he was going. Eventually, the field turned into gravel, pebbles, dirt, and rock as he reached the raised road where the car was parked. Judging by the smell of tobacco, he could also tell Jigen wasn’t too far behind. Lupin III had been “flirting” with Fujiko as she was placing the black box in the back of the car; presumably where Tintin would sit possibly with her.

“Lupin, we’ve been on so many adventures, but you seriously can’t resist getting playfully obscene. If you’re going to remain unoriginal, save it for your pillow,” Tintin heard her say. Yet, Lupin remained undeterred, began rattling off quotes pulled straight from English Lit 101, and Tintin went back to disassociating.

“Hey kid,” Jigen whispered, in a tone now familiar to Tintin, “Wanna drag?” He hadn’t noticed the smell of cigarette smoke, but Jigen had caught up with him and was holding one out to him, unlit.

“No thanks,” Tintin replied, with a slight wave of the hand.

“Suit yourself,” Jigen said. He threw away the decrepit one that was in his mouth, stamped it out, and lit the new one. On his exhale, he added “You’ve seen some real serious stuff today, yeah?”

“What makes you say that?” Tintin asked, his head sinking ever so slightly at the thought of it all coming back into focus.

“You don’t have a killer bone in your body, kid,” Jigen said, “Half of the stuff I’ve read of you looks like it came straight out of an adventure comic. You’ve had brushes with death, but you don’t seem to be the kinda guy to exact judgement.”

Tintin said nothing, but he felt just a tad lighter from the idea that there was at least one person in the group who might understand what he was going through.

“Listen, you’ve been rescued by a group of people who deal in death like a game of blackjack in Vegas. I’m not expecting you to become a cold killer over the next 24 hours, but I just wanted to let you know just who you’re dealing with. If you fall behind, don’t expect me to come get you. I’m here for Lupin and even that can get downright– well, anyway, just make sure you keep up.” With that, he walked up towards the street. Tintin caught a glimpse of his holstered magnum pistol.

That was no comfort, he thought, climbing up to the street, That was a warning. He went quiet again. This time, it wasn’t out of shock. This was out of fear. Just what kind of group did he find himself involved with, he didn’t want to know. It didn’t help that when everyone got in the car, he was sat next to Jigen while Lupin III drove, and Fujiko took a nap in the shotgun passenger seat. It was painfully silent as they took off. The only sound which permeated through was the sound of the tires on the pavement, the hum of the engine, and the wind quickening as they passed a telephone pole or sign; they happened to pass one which proclaimed this the “Marshal Plesky-Gladz National Motor-Way” with a big “Glory to Borduria! Glory to Tempred-Gladz!” emblazoned below the dedication.

Tintin saw Lupin III’s expression stiffen just a bit in the rear-view mirror. It was the same stiffness that he saw on his face when he saw Warden Peatz floating above them. The image, so unnatural, stuck to Tintin like a stamp on a letter.

“We’re almost home, guys,” Lupin III said; the ride had turned out quicker than Tintin had anticipated. This road that they were going up was much rockier than the Motor-Way as kicked up rocks were hitting the undercarriage in an awful xylophonic tune. On particularly tight corners or steep climbs, the tires would run free and kick up a cloud of dust only barely seen by the moonlight. Luckily, the latter episodes were few, but they did break Tintin’s mood, if only to replace it with a sudden hope for traction.

“Dammit Lupin,” Jigen cried from the back, “We’re gonna be running on fumes and you’re gonna run out the tires if you keep putting your foot down on the gas like that!”

“Honestly, give it a rest Lupin,” Fujiko added, “It’s not like the house is going anywhere.”

“My old friends speed and power would like to disagree, Jigen,” Lupin III said, “Besides, like I’ve said before, I’ve been running on fumes my entire life and look at where it’s gotten me!”

It’s gotten you in quite the bit of trouble, Tintin thought, and I’ve become stuck in it.

The tires spun for two seconds more before finally catching and lurching the car forward. Tintin was held back by the seatbelt, Jigen flew forward into Fujiko’s seat, and Fujiko, luckily, only got acute whiplash as she had been gripping the dashboard with white knuckles. Groans were had by all at the sudden movement and the carelessness of the driver.

“Besides, my dearest Fujiko,” Lupin III added, as the car coasted up the road, “Not only do I need to fill you in, we also have a surprise guest waiting for us. In fact, you can see him just now standing with our statuesque samurai.”

Great snakes, another surprise guest, Tintin thought, dejectedly exasperated. Nevertheless, he thought he’d spare himself any of the incoming shock as to who would be joining the group. What next? A crooked Bordurian cop? A Russian ballerina? A steel toothed lumberjack? Nothing could surprise him when it came to potential members of Lupin III’s criminal band of misfits. The light coming from the cottage caught his eye as they went over the final hump in the road. As he looked out the window, he was able to make out the aforementioned samurai, but he didn't see either a crooked Bordurian cop, a Russian ballerina, or a steel toothed lumberjack. In fact, he saw no other person with the samurai.

“Am I to assume that’s the Goemon you mentioned at the compound?” Tintin asked.

“Indeed, my deductive tuft of ginger,” Lupin III said, “but he’s not the surprise guest.”

“Is he waiting inside that dilapidated cottage?” Tintin asked.

“From what I can see,” Lupin III said, as he stopped the car, “No, he’s sitting right next to Goemon.”

Tintin unbuckled his seatbelt, moved to the center of the back seat, and peered through the windscreen, fully expecting another man to be sitting there. Instead, what he saw brought tears of joy to his eyes instantaneously.

“Milou,” he whispered. As soon as his dog’s name left his lips, Tintin had thrown open the car door and began to call for him, throwing open his arms to receive him. Milou, equally happy to see his companion back and safe, galloped towards Tintin and leapt into his open arms, kissing him furiously. The both of them wept as if they had not seen each other for a hundred years, with Tintin giggling out of pure adrenaline.

“My dear Milou,” he cried through free falling happy tears, “I’ve missed you so much. Are you okay? Where did they keep you? Oh never mind that, you’re safe, I’m safe, and we are here together.”

‘Oh, my friend Tintin, let’s never come back to this country,’ Milou yelped, ‘If only you could understand what I’m saying. I have so much to tell you about these wonderful, if a little insane, people. Oh, if only you could understand me. I’ve missed you too!”

Tintin wiped away the tears and light snot from his face with his blue sweater, holding Milou tight with one arm. It took a while for his legs to not feel like jelly, but he was eventually able to stand. As he did, Tintin suddenly met eyes with Goemon, who stood stoically with his sword in front of him like a cane. His black hair and robes flowed with a slight breeze that Tintin could only barely feel.

“You are lucky to have such a dutiful and faithful companion,” he said, in a monotone voice equally as stoic as his stance, “He holds you dear to his heart.”

“Well, I hold him close to my heart,” Tintin said, “Am I to assume you and your crew rescued him?” Goemon nodded with a small smirk illuminating his face, and Tintin added “Thank you so much for recovering him.” Goemon nodded, again.

“I told you our guest was special,” Lupin III said cheekily, as he threw his arm around Tintin’s shoulders, “Now I don’t know about you, but I am getting hungry. Who wants a pick-me-up?”

“If you mean dinner, then yes,” Fujiko said, “Just don’t burn the tofu.”

“Oh, you pierce me with your words, Ms. Fujiko,” Lupin III said, taking his arm off of Tintin’s shoulders and throwing it over his eyes, forlornly, “Can a man ever make up for his mistakes?”

“Not when you burned the meat earlier today,” Jigen said.

“Grow up!” Lupin III charged.

“Wanna bet?” Jigen charged back. In no time, the two men were suddenly embroiled in what Tintin could only describe as a one-sided affair as Jigen wrapped Lupin III around himself like a towel after a shower and contorted him in ways he didn’t know the body could go.

“Uncle, uncle, uncle!” Lupin III shouted, before being dropped to the ground. He added, “Next time, I won’t let you win.”

“You won’t see next time coming,” Jigen threatened before kicking the cottage door in and saying, “I’m cooking. And everyone is getting medium rare tonight. If you want tofu, cook it your-damned-self.”

Tintin was too shocked to speak for a minute as Lupin dusted himself off and walked into the cottage like nothing had happened. He looked to his left and right and saw disinterest on both Goemon and Fujiko’s faces.

“I assume that’s a regular occurrence?” Tintin asked.

“You could say they’re brothers from different mothers in almost every conceivable way,” Fujiko said, before striding into the cottage herself.

“Pretty much,” Goemon added, before walking in himself.

Tintin stood there for a minute longer. He contemplated just walking away for only half a second before realizing that the entire Bordurian military was going to be looking for him. So, he looked at Milou, looked at the cottage, and timidly walked inside.

Chapter Text

In the cabin, Tintin and Milou were both greeted to the smell of ramen seasoning and venison being seared on a hot plate. Tintin and Milou, upon encountering such an immediate alluring smell, realised just how hungry they were and immediately began to salivate. Milou was so taken by the smell, he jumped from Tintin’s arms and sat next to Jigen, who was manning the meat like a mad scientist.

Tintin looked around the cottage. There was so much unsaid history from the way the cheap “modern” plaster’s long wounds cracked down the walls, leaving exposed the original stone and mortar. The bronze handles on the cupboards were worn to a golden shine, while Lupin III used a small chair, no doubt formerly belonging to a child, as part of his set up to create more of those flash grenades he had used in the compound. The couch that Fujiko was now sitting upon, enjoying a cigarette out of a long holder and pocket-sized copy of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, had its upholstery worn from consistent use and decay. Even the wicker chair that Goemon had been meditating on since Tintin walked in was similarly dilapidated from the passage of time. This was a loved cabin once, and despite its state of total disrepair, Tintin could not help but feel that the cabin was inviting them to stay; enjoy my space, for you always be welcome and I am grateful to have you use it. It wanted to be a home again, only if just for another night.

“Hey, soup’s on!” Jigen said, triumphantly, “Hey kid, come get some bowls and set the table, will you?” Tintin obliged, but he found himself holding the bowls as Jigen carried over a wok, where the ramen had been cooking and the venison, with a few additional ingredients had been added, and placed it in the center of the table. Once the wok had been placed, he handed the bowls to Fujiko, Goemon, Jigen, himself, and placed one down for Lupin III. Milou, who had not gotten a slice of meat, sat expectantly next to Tintin who gave him a few pats.

“Lupin, aren’t you going to join us?” Tintin asked.

“Yeah, Lupin, you said in the car you have a revelation you had to tell until we all got together,” Jigen chimed in and, gesturing to the table with his chopsticks, added “We’re all here.”

“In a minute, old man,” Lupin III said, in almost a whisper, “I can’t stop what has been started.”

“Great, he’s getting cryptic,” Fujiko said, before she began to fill her bowl, “Tintin, please, help yourself. He’s going to be a while and you must be starving.”

“I call Lupin’s portion of meat,” Jigen jabbed before sinking his chopsticks in. Tintin looked before him at the wok. Inside a golden broth, glistening from the rendered fat of the venison, were maybe three packs of instant ramen noodles, green onions, radish, and the aforementioned meat. It was nothing special and resembled a soup one’s mother would make on a cold day when everyone in the house had drippy noses and a cough that just wouldn’t go away. This did not stop him; his traveling had expanded his food palette and, besides, his stomach was not going to simply turn away offered food. He took a great length of noodles which caught a few of the green onions with it, took three slabs of venison, he was lucky enough to grab them as Goemon had nearly picked the wok clean of meat, and two slices of radish. He gave one slice of venison to Milou, and then dug in himself. The flavors of the meat with the saltiness of the broth and the slight sweetness of both the green onions and radish, brought together by the fat, sent Tintin into a nearly psychedelic state. He froze only allowing for the slow movement of his chews to emulsify the flavors together into a beautiful symphony in his mouth.

“That good, huh?” Jigen asked, impressed that such a simple meal could have that effect on someone.

“I haven’t eaten any proper food since landing here in the country,” Tintin said, “and even then, I’ve completely forgotten what my in-flight meal was. I do remember it came on a blue tray no bigger than that chair’s seat.” Tintin gestured to the former child’s seat Lupin had been using.

“You’ve had quite the welcome, then,” Fujiko said, with a slight cheekiness.

“Yes,” Tintin said, as he finished slurping a batch of noodles into his mouth, “Ms. Fujiko, pardon my bluntness, but did you leave that medal on the airport seat on purpose?”

“Well, you see–” she began.

“To cut this story short,” Jigen interrupted, “She was getting tracked by the Bordurian secret police, and wanted to lose it quick. We didn’t anticipate your nose getting dug into our plan, but here we are. Which reminds me…”

Lupin III had finished his third flash grenade and sat at his spot at the table, by the time Jigen had started to try and bring the conversation back to the nugget of information that was still being withheld from the group. He sat down, patted his jacket to make sure a box of cigarettes were there for an after dinner smoke, and looked at what remained in the wok.

“Hey!” he screamed, “Who the hell left me the gristle and a single radish to go with these noodles?”

“Grow up, and eat what you got,” Jigen chided, “You didn’t show up in time.”

“You ravenous wolves couldn’t wait a minute more?” Lupin asked, “Even you, my beloved?”

“First come first serve,” Jigen said, agitated.

“Oh, poor baby won’t get his meat,” Fujiko added.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you would take so long,” Tintin chimed in.

‘You can’t blame me here,’ Milou chirped, ‘I was only at the mercy of whoever was feeling generous enough to donate their own slices of meat.’

Goemon said nothing, as he was busy shoveling a slab of meat into his mouth. He didn’t even acknowledge Lupin III’s minor tantrum.

“Well, some friends you are,” Lupin III charged, “After all, I even rescued you from prison–”

“If I have to ask again,” Jigen began, slamming the table with his whole fist, “I’m gonna hand you over to Pops, myself! Dammit Lupin! What is this crucial piece of information you have for us now that you brought Tintin here, who’s supposedly a crucial part of this plan to get the Marshal’s Medal back?”

A stillness permeated the room. Everybody knew Lupin III was stalling, but they didn’t know why. For dramatic effect? Hunger? Stress? Either way, the patience was quickly being lost and everyone was waiting for something to happen or for information to be spilled.

“All right, you guys” Lupin III said, dropping the pushy act with an intensity that startled Tintin, “It’s about time I tell you what Tintin and I saw tonight at the Compound.” He quickly filled his bowl and set it in front of him. “Tonight, we witnessed something that I haven’t seen in five years or so. A man took flight, levitating on his own—”

“You were a Superman wannabe just a short time ago and do I even need to bring up that Mamo guy?” Jigen interjected, “So what?”

“This man was a guard. In fact, he was the head warden of the Compound,” Tintin found himself interjecting, “This wasn’t just a one off criminal, but a state-sponsored official.”

“Exactly, my ginger friend,” Lupin III said, “Along with his contempt for gravity, and your contempt for the gravitas of the situation, the man’s pose was familiar. It was too similar to a past adversary of ours that it’s impossible for it to be a coincidence that it must’ve been taught. It looked a little something like this.”

He then replicated the stance with utter ease. His legs were shoulder width apart, his arms were straight down from the shoulder, and he held himself eerily stiff.

“You look like you have to take a crap,” Jigen said.

“Lupin, stop performing and just tell it who it is,” Fujiko said, “And I thought I was a tease.”

“You guys have no sense of theatrics and no memory to boot,” Lupin III said, “Fine, then. Here it is. I mean, come on guys, don’t you remember Pycal?”

“You mean the guy who died spectacularly five years ago?” Fujiko asked, “You think he’s back?”

“Fuji-cakes, the pose was undeniable,” Lupin III said, “I don’t know how he got out of it, but I think this new Marshal has either hired his services or that he’s in league with him somehow.”

“Can someone please tell me who this ‘Pie-cuhl’ is and how he’s involved with the floating Warden,” asked Tintin, before adding, “and also why you happen to have come across numerous floating men?”

“Pycal is a damned creep who’s got nothing but tricks up his sleeves,” Jigen said, rather harshly, “Most importantly, he was burned alive and died after falling off of a goddamn waterfall! It’s about as ‘end of story’ as you can get.”

“Jigen, if you saw what I saw, you would know that he had a hand in this,” Lupin III said.

“I will admit,” Tintin said, “I’ve never met this man, and I’ve never even heard of him, but if this is how you talk about him, then I have to trust your judgement, Lupin.”

“Except he died!” Jigen said, before getting up from the table and heading out the door of the cottage while feeling through his jacket for something; a smoke, no doubt. Lupin III stood for a second, but then followed him out.

“What’s got Jigen in such a mood?” Tintin asked both Fujiko and Goemon, who were still sitting and finishing their food.

‘I’ll say,’ Milou concurred, ‘He seemed more bent out of shape than a dog trying and failing to get his tail.’

“Jigen is as superstitious as an old man,” Fujiko said with a bite of judgement, “He believes in all things spooks and ghouls behind that hard and tough sharpshooter exterior that he’s made for himself.”

“Fear of the occult grips him unflinchingly,” Goemon added, placing his bowl on the table, “Yet, he consumes himself with games of chance and his steely image.”

“That’s basically what I said,” Fujiko said, rolling her eyes while Goemon flushed red in embarrassment, “Lupin’s gonna talk him off the cliff and we’ll eventually get on to this big plan of his with this medal. Gee, I should’ve just left when I had the chance.”

“So, you were planning on leaving with the medal?” Tintin asked, surprised at this offhanded revelation.

“Yeah, but I knew I was getting tailed,” Fujiko sighed, relaxing and spreading her arms along the couch, “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t think you would be so chivalrous as to try and return it to me. I admire that in a man, but I am sorry I roped you into this.”

“So,” Tintin said, acknowledging the apology, but still confused, “why stay then?” Just as he asked this question, Jigen and Lupin III came back into the cottage. He probably wouldn’t have gotten an answer from Fujiko anyway, he suspected, even if the reentry of the two men didn’t provide the perfect cover.

“Are we made up?” Fujiko asked, further cementing to Tintin that he wasn’t going to get an answer tonight.

“We’re all in the clear,” Lupin III said, while Jigen only grumbled while letting out a puff of smoke from his newly lit cigarette before adding, “Now, with Pycal’s potential involvement to consider with the Bordurian government, our plan has got to change. Our target remains that same delicious blue diamond belonging to his majesty, the good Marshal Tempred-Gladz, but how we get it is going to have to change.”

He took the wok off the table and swiftly replaced it with a few maps of a great building. Tintin’s suspicions were confirmed when he saw, in big Bordurian print at the bottom of the blueprints, Marshal’s Palace in white ink. He looked up, about to raise the question of why did they need him and these blueprints, but was met with the grinning face of Lupin III, the steel gaze of Jigen, the expecting look of Fujiko, and the meditative state of Goemon.

“This is where you come in,” Lupin III said, “Now, before I begin, I need you to hold your questions until after the presentation.”

Tintin said nothing. He had only been to Borduria two times, and never made it to, much less seen, the Marshal’s Palace. These plans were as foreign to him as the idea of willingly joining this group of people in a life of crime and, based on some of Lupin III’s comments to Fujiko earlier at the car, utter debauchery. However, his silence was taken as acquiescence.

“Good, now let’s begin,” Lupin III began, “You will be our prisoner. We, meaning Jigen and I, are going to pose as guards of the Bordurian Secret Police. With our ZEP uniforms, and Fujiko posing as staff, she’ll be able to locate and snatch the medal from the young Tempred-Gladz’s residence as we demand an armed audience with the Marshal and keep him distracted, all while Goemon plays lookout in case things get fishy. Once dismissed, we’ll meet up with Fuji-cakes here, just at the entrance of the east wing at the top of the central stairway. Then, we’ll get the heck out of dodge with the medal in hand, the Marshal will be a couple hundred million dollars poorer, you, my dear Tintin, will be free to return home, or wherever it was you were going, and we will never have to see each other again!”

Given the fact that Tintin only just met Lupin III a few hours ago, he had continued to surprise him. It was a surprisingly thorough yet simple plan. While Fujiko did wish to go for the diamond, possibly on her own accord, it did seem concrete enough to deal with ulterior motives. Milou, likewise, was pleased at the plan, except for one detail that Tintin likewise had a qualm with.

“Where will Milou be?” asked Tintin.

“Since he’s seemed to have hit it off with Goemon here, he’ll be with him,” Lupin III said, without hesitation, “Unless you, Snowy, or Goemon have any reservations.”

Goemon was silent, possibly waiting for Tintin. Milou barked in approval and looked to Tintin, smiling; he had largely enjoyed his time with Goemon and had been waiting for a slice of adventure. Tintin looked at the both of them, turned his eyes back to Fujiko, who had formed a slight grin on her face, to Jigen, still professing a steely exterior with his cigarette sticking out of his face, and to Lupin.

“Let’s do it,” Tintin said.

Lupin III giggled that all-too-suddenly-familiar giggle and proclaimed, standing before the group with his fire raised in the air, “And so, let it be that the great Lupin III and Tintin, the thief and the reporter, and a trusty band of renegades, take on Borduria for glory and to take down a former adversary in Pycal! Three cheers for us! Hip hip…”

Nobody said anything. Not even Milou barked in approval.

“You guys really know how to take the wind out of my sails,” said Lupin, “and now my soup’s cold.”