"Where are you going, Maude?"

I sigh exasperatedly at the question. Really, did Grandmamma have to bother every time I went out? Sometimes she even forgets and asks me where I am going after she has already assigned me to an errand.

"Just to ask the police if they've caught that pick-pocket Grandmamma. Perhaps they have my wallet!" I yell and hurriedly head out the door, being careful not to slam it. I really do like the old lady, even though I'd rather be at home in the country as opposed to here in dreary Brussels keeping her company. I promised Mother I would though, so I won't complain.

"Well, I will check the police, but not yet," I mutter under my breath. I take a deep breath of cold air and hurry down the staircase to turn left. The streets are grey and dim despite the fact that it is already 10 o'cock. I pull my coat tighter around my waist and peer through the fog. My feet tap impatiently against the cobblestones as I wait for a break in the traffic. There is reason for my delay in visiting the police station, indeed, that was only an excuse. Late last night, as I was reading Ivanhoe in the dark of my room, I heard gunshots. The pop-pop of the bullets had nearly caused me to jump out of my own skin. I carefully snuck to the window, and looked in the direction of the shots. There was a light on in Tintin's building. I caught a glimpse of the red-haired boy standing in the doorway. Then an ambulance came, and some injured and bloody man had been driven off. I sure had a hard time falling to sleep after that episode, and imagined that every rat scratch was some murderous intruder.

A car slows to a stop, and I nod my head in thanks and quickly scramble across the street. Well, I try to scramble across the street. Somehow I manage to lose my footing. My heart skips as I lurch forward and nearly fall, only to end up staggering to far sidewalk. I grab a lamppost to steady myself. The car honks and a hot blush rises on my cheeks as I hear laughter coming from the occupants. Surely it isn't that funny to watch a sixteen-year-old girl slip as she crosses the street. I have to admit to myself that perhaps I would've laughed as well, had I been the one watching.

I glare after the rude car, angry at my embarrassment. Someone touches my arm and I whip around in surprise. "Are you alright?"

A freckled face looks into mine, his eyes bright and inquisitive. My cheeks burn even hotter and I hurriedly say, "Yes. Yes, fine. Thank you." I have only met Tintin a few times before, but everyone in this area knows him in a way. He is a boy around the age of eighteen, and an active journalist. Freckles dot every inch of his round face, he's got a shock of ginger hair, and he's not very tall. Still, probably at least two inches taller than I am. It seems he frequents the streets between his apartment and the Police Station whenever he isn't off on some grand adventure. He's always friendly and remembers people's names. Once, he even helped clean up a bunch of eggs someone accidentally threw onto him as they rounded a corner. I shudder at the embarrassing memory and look away.

"Good. Well, I'll be off then, blast that pickpocket. Best be watchful when crossing the streets!" He says the last sentence with a chuckle at some inside joke or other, and whistles to his terrier before turning away.

I stand there for a moment, trying to get a wrap on self-composure. Wait, my mission! I about-face and run after him, yelling, "Wait, Tintin!" as I try to catch up to the obviously distracted boy.

He turns around from his muttering, eyebrows raised, and finally catch up enough to walk besides him. "I heard you mention the pickpocket. I've had my wallet stolen just the other day. Are you after him?" I ask, remembering how the downstairs renter had mentioned that Tintin had figured out some big-wig crimes lately.

He puts his hands in his pockets and walks on, looking very thoughtful. "No, actually, I hadn't heard about him until an hour ago! I was on another mystery, but I'm afraid that the man has foiled my trail."

"Does it have to do with the man that was shot?" I ask eagerly, surprised at my own boldness. I know that I'm blushing again, oh, why do I have to be so shy and bold at once!

He sighs and walks quicker, seeing something ahead. "Kind of, actually, I'm not sure. Don't gossip any of this, Maude, is it? It could put my and others lives in danger. Yours too." He says looking at me seriously before hurrying to his front door where someone is unloading a large crate.

"As if I would!" I retort quietly, and think much more un-lady like terms within the soundproof walls of my head. I stop walking and bend down to pet Tintin's little dog. The fluffy white pooch is just too friendly to not satisfy his desire for an ear scratching. I hear one of the deliverymen talking to Tintin, who had started mumbling to himself yet again, and my mind turns back to the lack of information I have received. "Dear doggie, your much more informative than your owner." I whisper to the dog as I give him a good scratch. The pup looks up at me with what almost looks like a grin on his canine face.

A muffled cry draws my attention away from the dog. I jump up at soon as my brain registers what is happening. The deliveryman is holding a cloth over Tintin's mouth harshly, and is forcing him head first into the crate. My mouth opens to scream as one of the men hits the back of Tintin's neck with a steel bar. The boy collapses into the case. Before more than a second of sound can escape a cloth is held against my face harshly. A strong man grabs around my middle and I struggle as much as I can, trying to get oxygen. My entire body is tense in fear and panic.

"Take her?" The man asks another thug and grips me harder. My lungs start to burn from my gasping.

"She'll tell! Maybe she knows something," the thug answers and shoves me into the crate.

My face collides with the wood panels as I land on top of Tintin's unconscious form. I hear the dog barking urgently. Panic rises in my throat. There is a harsh movement, and my body weight shifts towards my head. My neck is cranked uncomfortably and I scream as it feels as if my head will be crushed with the pressure. Thankfully, they turn the box sideways again as its thrown onto a flat surface. I assume we are in the car, because it feels like we are moving.

The box is big enough so that Tintin and I can fit in it, but our bodies are scrunched up uncomfortably against each other and the crate. I asses my position and squirm so that my knee is no longer jammed into his neck. Continuing the only wiggling movements the small space allows, I try to place my limbs and body in a more comfortable position. As if this could be under any circumstances comfortable.

My head hurts from being banged against the bottom of the crate and I feel very hot. I wonder if this is how a coffin feels. I start breathing quickly, trying not to freak out, but heck, I have just been shoved in a box! Why shouldn't I freak out? I push against the box with all parts of my body and yell incoherent things at the top of my lungs.

"LET ME OUT!" I scream, but as soon as I do I feel the box ram into the side of the car. My body feels bruised as I try to recover from the shock. I have only begun to push Tintin's shoe out of my face when the car swerves again. This time my body slides down towards my feet. I start muttering a prayer under my breath, figuring that if anything I will die in a car crash.

It is so dark. So hot. So cramped. I brace my body for another swerve, but none come, thank God. "Tintin?" I ask, pinching his calf, which is next to my face. No response. "Oh God, I hope he's alive," I say desperately and become as still as possible. I listen and feel, as my body is pressed up against his, Finally I feel the soft rise and fall of his breath. I mumble a prayer of thanks and feel tears falling down my face as I realize the gravity of my situation. Who would have to care for Grandmother? My parents are going to be devastated! And what will these men do to me? I shudder as my mind starts to imagine all sorts of horrors.

I notice the car has stopped and wait, listening over the ringing in my ears. After a few suspenseful minutes, I feel the crate being lifted. Whoever is carrying it is sure doing a horrible job, and I cringe at every bumpy step they take.

Bam. I cry out in pain, more of a whimper than anything. These men are awful spiteful, dropping the crate like that. Nothing so bad follows, but what seems like forever passes until I feel the box being lifted and shoved about again. I hear a foghorn blast. We must be at the docks! Perhaps even being placed on a ship. The muffled sounds I hear from the guys directing where the box should be shoved confirm my hypothesis, and soon I can feel the gentle rocking back and forth of a ship at sea.

There are a few minutes of silence. Well, it could be anywhere from seconds to hours, time seems so confused in this box. Finally I hear voices opening a door or something and footsteps getting closer to where Tintin and I are in our premature coffin.

"You said you shoved the girl in there?" One voice asks, and I strain my ears to hear every detail.

"Yeah, what else would I do? She saw and started screaming as if I 'ad murdered the boy," another one says, presumably my captor.

They say a few more words that I can't comprehend but they sure don't sound happy. I jump when someone hits the crate, every muscle in my body tense. Light suddenly blinds my eyes, but I try to be as quiet as I possibly can. I know, I'll pretend that I am knocked out as well; maybe it'll save my hide.

The box is knocked over roughly, and both Tintin and I spew out of it. Me first and him on top. My eyes briefly open, but I quickly close them. I hope they didn't see my eyes open, because I sure saw their eyes. As expected, they are the exact men that kidnapped Tintin and I.

Tintin's body shudders ever so slightly, and I open one of my eyes just wide enough to watch as they roughly roll Tintin off the top of me. "Where's that rope? 'ere, you tie 'er 'ands and I got 'im."

The dank reek of rotting floorboards greets me as one of the men rolls me uncomfortably onto my face. My hands are grabbed, and without thinking I try to resist and squirm. "She's awake!" The man yells in surprise. No going back now. I try to sit up but am pushed harshly to the ground again and one of them puts a hard hand on my back. The other grabs my wrists. I turn my head to the side and yell, "Let me go you blind fools, you're hurting me! Ow!" When I had said 'you're hurting me' the rope that was being tied around my wrists was pulled unbearably so in spite. I feel the cords dig into my skin and start to kick, doing anything to stop this madness.

Against my will they pick me up and hurl me into what looks like an over-sized lion cage. Bam. My nose hits the floor the same time as the rest of my body, and tears smart from my eyes as I struggle to regain my composure. I wiggle myself around so that I am half sitting up against the metal bars, and watch my captors drag Tintin into the cage as well. His eyes are open, but they don't seem to 'see' much of anything.

"Should we check 'er?" one asks, looking at me uneasily.

My eyes get wide; I don't want anyone doing any kind checking about me. "Yeah, she might be in league with 'im."

They come over to me and start searching my pockets, much to my utter disgrace. "Don't touch me!" I snap, unhappy, and I aim a kick at a fellow's leg when his hands linger too long over my bosom. The gruff looking man slaps my face and my eyes start to water again, the tears tickle my chin since I can't wipe them away.

"Nothing on 'er, he's sure to 'ave it." They turn their attention from me to Tintin, to my relief. I watch as they check his pockets and even his socks, but my attention changes when someone opens the door with a bang.

"Have you found it yet?" A man asks, and I recognize his voice as the one who asked about me when I was still in that horrid box.

"No, we 'aven't," the one with the blue shirt says, the one I kicked a moment ago.

"He doesn't have it boss, neither does she. It's not 'ere!" Our captor says.

What on earth are they talking about? I don't have anything! I just remain as quiet as I can be in the corner, wishing the pain in my wrists would go away.

"Not here, then where is it?" The man asks angrily, beating the side of the bars with his cane, causing both Tintin and I to startle.

"Where is what?" Tintin asks, finally to his senses. He tries to see the angry man pacing behind him and doesn't notice me in the corner, my black skirts probably helping conceal myself. I must look like a giant blanket.

"Oh, I am tired of your games." The scarlet-cloaked man mutters and enters the cage. "A scroll. From the Unicorn. A piece of paper like this." He holds a strange, yellowed little piece of paper in front of Tintin's face, and I crane my neck to see what it says, but I cannot read the faded words.

"From the model ship." Tintin says, as if he was talking to himself and not this horrible old man.

"Yes."

"The poem written in old English."

"Yes."

"It was concealed in a cylinder."

"Yes!"

"That was hidden in the mast."

"Yes!" The man says, very frustrated. Tintin clearly has something to do with this piece of paper.

After a pause, Tintin finally responds, " I don't have it."

Silence. Than the man turns his attention to me, his eyebrows raised in a manner that makes my insides quake. Obviously he is expecting me to say something, and so I will. "I don't know what this is all about. I don't know what the Unicorn is, and I've never seen anything like that paper before. I don't even know this boy very well! You've made a mistake!" I yell, very emotional and with unintentional sobs racking my breath in between sentences. While I had been talking, Tintin had looked over to me with a confused look on his face, as if having seen me for the first time. I ignore his gaze. There was no way that I am going to make it look like I know him.

The man looks back at Tintin and holds out his cane to the men besides him. My eyes widen as steel flashes. The outside of the cane had been taken off in one swift motion. A bright sword is pointed at Tintin's neck. The boy looks just as surprised to see the blade as I am, but does not waver his gaze from the man's cold glare.

"You must have it. Why else would you take it?" the man asks, staring down the sword.

"Two ships. Two scrolls, both part of the puzzle. You've got one, and you need the other. But that's not it. There's something else," Tintin says to himself, almost in a whisper. I stop my sniffling and listen, amazed that he doesn't seem worried about the barbaric weapon pointed at him.

The man kneels, now the sword poised across Tintin's neck, and I feel the need to look away in case he slits the boy's throat. But there isn't any way that I could possibly advert my eyes; they are glued to scene in front of me. "I will get it, with or without your help. Or hers." I gulp; I don't want to die alone on a filthy ship. "You need to think about exactly how useful you are to me."

The sword is sheathed within the cane again, and the man looks at me. "The same goes for you. Consider how much you value your lives, and how much you value your bones unbroken." The three men walk out of the cage and out of the room. Tintin and I finally make eye contact for the first time in an hour or so. His still bright blue eyes stare into mine, both of them filled to the brim with questions.

Instead of yelling something dramatically about this whole mess, which is what I truly feel like doing, I ask quietly, "What is the Unicorn?"

He sighs. "A ship that's been sunken for four-hundred years, but that wasn't the one we were talking about. He was talking about a model ship that I bought at the market. Oh, what is it that he wants?" He drifts off, talking to himself and I sigh loudly. My dried tears itch uncomfortably against my cheeks.

I guess this is how my life will end: on a ship, cold, in pain, at the hands of brutal men, and with a companion who always ends his sentences by talking to himself. Just the thought makes my eyes burn and feel as if I am going to cry again.

AN: Hey you all, glad you found my story! This was actually written last year, but I'm just trying to convince myself to finish it by posting it online. The next chapter should be out in a week or so.

UPDATE: Edited a bit on 6/27/17 due to rereading it and realizing the state of my sentences. This was originally written four years ago, in 2013, so give me some grace haha