Disclaimer: Tintin, of course, does not belong to me. He belongs to everyone. More specifically, he belongs to the Hergé Foundation and Moulinsart.

One

He hopped down from the train, wincing as the strap of his bag wrapped itself painfully around his hand and began to pinch his skin. Because of this, his head was down as he scrabbled to release the loop that had worked its way around his fingers. He took two or three steps forward before his painful dilemma was at an end and he was finally able to raise his head and take a look at Paris.

La Gare du Nord was huge. He wandered along, slightly dazed as he followed the signs to the exit. It was, he knew, one of the busiest train stations in Europe, so the huge crowd was to be expected, but the word crowd seemed like an understatement of how busy it was, but for the life of him he couldn't think of a single word that could sum it up.

Still dazed, he left the chill shadows of the train station and stepped out in to the city. He turned left with the flow of people around him and looked around. A grin involuntarily plastered itself onto his face. He was sick with nerves as the enormity of what he'd done finally hit home: he had run away to Paris. It was the furthest he'd ever been from home. Sure, he'd run away before, but the farthest he'd ever gotten was Antwerp, when he'd been picked up at the wharf trying to get work on some boat or other. He'd only been ten then – a mere child – and had harboured romantic dreams about sailing the world and having adventures, but now, at the manly age of thirteen and a quarter, he was sure he had it all figured out.

Run away. Done.

Get to Brussels. Done.

Get to Paris. Done.

Don't get caught. Well, we'll see.

First things first, he needed a place to stay. He'd sorted that out a while ago, using the computers in the library in town to browse estate agencies and letting agencies, until he'd found a cheap bed-sit – and it was a bed-sit, he was certain, no matter how the landlord had tried to gussy it up by calling it a studio apartment – in the city. It wasn't in the best part of course, but it was close to the city centre and he could afford it. He'd already paid his first month's rent and had an appointment to pick up the keys in an hour.

It had actually disappointed him when he realised how short the journey was. He'd imagined it would be epic; days of dramatic weather hampering their train, and a blizzard battering them (even though it was May and the weather had been perfectly pleasant all over Europe) and an eerie, atmospheric piece of music playing throughout it all, but when he'd been on the phone with the landlord, who'd asked him what time he could pick up the keys, he'd checked the time-table and saw that it was less than two hours from Brussels to Paris, and a little voice inside his head had said; "Aww!" and hung its head in sorrow.

He'd been terrified when he'd boarded the Eurostar in Bruxelles-Midi. He'd gotten there early, and had sat practically chewing the seat in front of him for fifteen minutes, certain that any second now the gendarmes would arrive and cart him back to the children's home. The seconds had ticked by slowly and when the train jolted underneath him he'd almost cried in relief. For most of the first hour, he kept his hood up, hoping it would hide his face, but after a while he forgot about that and stared avidly out of the window, trying to chart each and every sight he saw, so he could remember everything. He'd store it up and think about it later, when there was time to digest it all.

It flashed by quickly, and soon after that he was in Paris, and now he was there. He was there, surrounded by it all. He could smell the Sienne before he could see it, and when he had finally seen it he had stopped and stared, amazed that more people around him weren't doing the same. But Paris was big, and Paris was busy, and the Parisians weren't happy with gawking tourists. He was bumped into and pushed aside as he made his way to the letting agency, carefully following the directions he had been given earlier that morning.

It was located beside a grimy-looking arcade. He entered the small door set in the red-brick façade of the building and knocked at the first door he could see. A woman in a grubby business suit opened it and stared at him.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Tintin. I'm looking for Monsieur Douillet."

"Ah," she said. "Congratulations. Your references checked out." She took a red plastic key-ring out of her pocket and handed it to him. He took it, glancing at the two keys on the ring. They looked identical.

"One's a spare," she offered. "You can move in straight away." She smiled briskly and shut the door in his face.

He blinked, and looked down at the keys again. That had been surprisingly easy. His grin returned, wider than ever, as he slowly turned around and made his way back to the street. He was practically skipping as he hopped onto a bus and made his way to his new home.

He was slightly less enthusiastic when he saw the neighbourhood, and completely disappointed (and a little afraid) when he saw the building. By the time he'd seen his room he was ready to turn around and spend another €70 on a ticket home. Even the children's home hadn't been this… this manky. Half of the floor was linoleum, and every inch of that had been sticky. The other half was a snot-green carpet which, by some magical turn of fate, also managed to be sticky. The soles of his trainers squeaked and squelched as he made his way to the bed and put his bag down on it.

One metal bed-frame and a mattress, a few battered cupboards, a tiny fridge - no freezer - and an oven with two hobs. Nothing else. With a sigh, he sat down next to his bag and looked around, Master of his Cupboards and Oven. Well, he was in it now. This was all part of his grand plan. And if it didn't work out, he could leave at the end of the month and treat it like a delightful excursion into what was clearly some criminal gang's territory.

The next step was slightly harder. He had to get a job. In theory, any job would do, but his whole reason for running away was to become a reporter for one of the big European newspapers. Right now, it was unrealistic – he knew that without being told – but it wasn't unrealistic for a school drop-out to get a job as an office boy or errand boy. Even a receptionist or something. But to do that, he'd need to prove his age. It was time to get a fake passport.

He'd been given the name of someone that could get it for him. He'd called, spoken to someone about it, and agreed to hand over €300 for a new identity. Once he'd given the money over, that was it. He would be almost broke. He'd have enough for Pot Noodles and toilet paper, but only for about a week or so. He'd have to find a job quick or he'd starve to death. He wouldn't even have enough money to get a train home.

It took him a while to find the right place in Clichy-sous-Bois. If he had thought his own five storey building was bad, it was nothing compared to the squalid high–rises out there. He was directed to a basement nearby, where a young Asian man sat on a battered couch that leaked cheap foam stuffing. He'd given his name and handed over his money, and the young man had wordlessly produced a clear plastic baggie that held a brand new life.

He had a new passport, a French driving licence, a French birth certificate, and another identity card, a cart nationale d'identité sécurisée, which was used all over France and was the most popular form of I.D. to carry, all in the name of Tintin.

His grin and his optimism returned as he made his way to the offices of The Daily Reporter, which was one of the biggest newspapers in Europe. Who knows? he thought. Maybe my luck will hold out!

Updated weekly, maybe. Probably the day after Alph Art.