A/N: Hey guys, welcome to the (rewrite of) my first Tintin fanfic! Now, if you're one of my long-time fans and readers, you already know that I'm rewriting this story on account of inconsistent plot and little description. That's fine, just read each newly-written chapter as I post it. If you're one of the Tintin fans who just said "Oh, this looks interesting" and have absolutely no idea what the heck I'm talking about, that's alright. I'm rewriting this story from my previous edition (which should be down by the time I publish this, so don't even think about reading ahead!). No matter who you are, I hope that you like Legend of the Shadowwalker: Second Edition, and feel free to tell me if you want anything added or removed! ~RP164
PS: This chapter is longer than my chapters will usually will be. I just have to fit this long chain of events into one chapter. :)
PPS: I said earlier that I would begin this in December. Well, I lied. I was having writer's block with chapter 4 of one of my other fanfics, so I decided to go ahead and write this. Two days for around 2,200 words of writing. I feel so accomplished. :D

The Legend of the Shadowwalker

Prologue

"Get up! On your feet!"

It was barely past dawn. Cold, dim light shone through the tiny barred window from above the distant hills of Ischia, falling in streaks across the equally cold concrete floor. He'd had a restless night – after all, it was hard to sleep when your head is resting on a piece of rotted wood and the floor beneath you is relentlessly hard. He had only been awaken by the sound of the guard's rasping voice and the barely audible click of a gun's safety being turned off behind him.

The guard, however was having a wonderful time. He was very well rested and in a better mood than usual, even though his scowling face and indignant demeanor didn't show it at all. Normally, he would have been close to tearing his hear out by now – working with Akass had done something to him over the years, he decided. But then again, he didn't often have the chance to pull a gun on anyone.

"Get moving," the guard – who, for everyone's sakes, we will call Mr. Fiero De Santis of Empoli, Italy – growled to the ginger-haired prisoner. "It's time for you to be turned into a César..."

The teenager complied without question, and Mr. De Santis was pleased. Secretly, the man thought that this whole ordeal was crazy. His orders were to bring the kid to Akass, and leave him there to endure his torture; if he tried to escape, he was ordered to shoot. He didn't approve. This kid was the most famous reporter in all of Belgium. Certainly someone would notice if he suddenly…er, disappeared. But the man would do nearly anything for a few extra Liras - debt doesn't pay itself, after all, especially when it's for gambling - so he agreed. And his little deal looked to be paying off already.

-x-

In his mind, he thought as his wrists were bound behind him, only one thing was for sure: Tintin was scared. Sure, he had been shot at, chloroformed, kidnapped, exploited, and nearly killed time and time again, in nearly every corner of the world. The concept of possible death wasn't new to him at all. But this time, he seemed to be so close he could look right up Death's nose and inform him of his overgrown nose hairs. No one was in sight; not Snowy, or the Captain, or even the Thompsons. It was only himself and the man with his gun pressed into his back walking together into the dark abyss of the corridor ahead. Normally that wouldn't matter; every time it happened to him, someone was always on their way, barging in at the last second to save him. But this time, they were so close that he knew no one was coming. And the silence of the man told him that it was all over.

Something didn't seem right. Tintin didn't know how he knew it, but there was just something in the air, a tension that seemed to follow him as he was led through a dark hall to his presumable death. It might have been the years of reporting and exploring getting to his head all of a sudden, but he would've been sure that there was a third person in the hall if he actually saw someone.

De Santis noticed the reporter pause for just a moment, so he nudged him forward, the muzzle of the gun pressed firmly into his spine. He wasn't going to let this brat get in the way of his money, no matter what his conscience thought of the idea. "Move it!" He had absolutely no idea why he had stopped – maybe he's afraid of the dark, he thought with a devious grin, considering actually asking this of the boy...

...Until his gun was ripped from his hand.

Dazed and confused, De Santis spun around, his hands instinctively balling into fists. However, nothing he could do would have prepared him for what he saw: his gun was hovering in midair, the handle hidden from view as if being held by a shadow, the muzzle aimed at the center of his head. Just beyond it, the face of his assailant – he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes – was just a mask of Caucasian skin, only visible around the eyes, a ninja in the Near East. He stood silently, his mouth agape, unsure of how to respond until the shadow spoke.

"Don't move." The voice was unlike anything De Santis had ever heard: it was calm, the French accent flowing smoothly with its words, yet sounded deadlier than a striking cobra. The gun supposedly hanging in mid-air gestured to the bottom of the nearest concrete wall. "Sit, monsieur. If you speak, if you move, I put a bullet in your head."

Lost in the moment, De Santis couldn't think of anything else to do but sit.

-x-

Tintin felt the pressure of the gun on his spine disappear, he paused mid-step. He heard the voice and broke into a cold sweat. He knew they were being followed! But by who? He was just about to sit down when a hand clasped his shoulder. He looked at it; it had vanished into darkness. "Not you," the Frenchman spoke from behind him, the voice suddenly laced with sympathy. Tintin felt the binds around his wrists loosen, and he rubbed them gratefully. Before he could do anything more, something cold and hard was pressed into his right hand: a pistol.

"Take this," the Frenchman continued. "I have contacted help. They will be here momentarily. But for now, go down the hall. You will know what to do."

Tintin turned on his heel, desperate to get a good look at his savior. He wasn't sure how to process what he saw. Against the weak light coming from the other end of the corridor, the Frenchman was little more than a shadow, clothed in black from head to toe except for his eyes, an intense emerald green color. There was a certain look in those eyes that he couldn't identify, but it seemed to reflect quite a lot of experience in very limited time.

But then, he was gone. He simply vanished into the darkness, leaving the reporter alone with his thoughts.

Tintin took a moment to look down at the gun in his hand. It was strange, but he could have sworn that he'd seen those eyes before, somewhere in Brussels... Forget it. You have to get out of here. Clinging tightly to the gun's handle, he dashed down the hall, his heart going ninety miles an hour.

-x-

But that wasn't the only thing going ninety miles an hour.

There were two men in the black Sedan, with two trademarked bowler hats and mustaches flapping around in the wind. Any onlookers would have thought without a shadow of a doubt that they were twins – from their similar surnames to the same raw, determined look in their eyes. Just an hour ago, the two detectives were working on a case in Rome when a phone call from a certain Captain friend alerted them of a certain reporter in trouble in Ischia. They immediately dropped everything and ran out to save their friend (after tripping over everything they dropped, of course). Now, they were less than half an hour away from Akass's residence, a thought crossed their minds.

"What do you think is going on?" they asked each other, in unison.

Another thought crossed their minds: Maybe we are twins.

-x-

"Oh, where is he?"

Akass was not happy. He anxiously paced the floor, casting annoyed glances at the equipment, walls, and people surrounding him. The room itself was dark and cold, the shabby white walls and stained concrete floor lit by naked bulbs dangling from the ceiling. It seemed very unlikely that such a prison-like complex could be hidden right under the noses of the snooty, rich Ischia, but there it was, no more than a meter beneath their feet.

Akass paused, then turned angrily to one of his men, a Chinese with small circular glasses. "I thought you sent De Santis to get the brat!"

The Chinese shook like a leaf at the accusation. He hated being approached like this. "I-I did, sir!"

Akass glared at him, fiddling with something in his pocket. "Then go get him! What are you standing around for?"

"Th-the polyester, sir!" The Chinese shot worried glances at Akass's pocket, desperately hoping that there wasn't a gun in there. "It needs to be-"

"Worry about that once we get the brat in here. Now go!"

Tintin heard every word of this brief conversation from a hiding place behind a crumbling wall. He glanced once around the corner, squinting in the bright light and silently surveying his surroundings. This situation was nothing new to Tintin, but he couldn't help but break into a sweat when Akass's man started toward him. He watched his every step, slowly shrinking back into a corner until...

THUD.

The sound reverberated around the room, snapping everyone;s attention away from the Chinese and toward the corridor leading to the stairs.

THUD.

There it was again, something hitting against the locked wooden door on the ground floor. Akass pulled a knife from his pocket and glared at every man in the room, silently telling them all to forget about their puny lives and get over there.

THUD...CRACK! Two identical men rocketed down from the newly-broken door and plummeted down the stairs, landing in a heap on the floor. Two bowler hats skidded across the floor away from them. "Police!"

Tintin jumped at the opportunity, leaping out from behind the wall and toward Akass, holding the gun confidently in front of him. "I wouldn't move, if I were you."

Akass jumped, not expecting anything from behind, and dropped the knife, the blade nearly slicing the toe of his right shoe. "You...!" he growled angrily. "Where did you come from?!"

Tintin simply smiled. "Brussels, originally."

-x-

"That was quite an amazing escape you made there, lad!"

It was 7 am, two hours after dawn and the thrilling conclusion to the Akass fiasco. Tintin, the Thompsons, and a less worried Captain Haddock were sitting around a large cherry-wood table in Akass's home, with Castafiore standing behind the Captain's chair. He didn't notice her come in; she had been quiet, for once, and that was how he preferred it.

Snowy, meanwhile, was sitting contentedly at Tintin's feet, glad to have his master back.

"Thank you, Captain," Tintin replied quietly, not wanting to sound full of himself. He turned his attention back to the Thompsons. "Do you know what was happening in there?"

"Well," Thomson began, glancing down at the paper containing the notes collected on the case, "like you discovered, the whole Alph-Art business was a front for large-scale forgeries of famous works of art. Akass was planning to sell he paintings and sculptures for small fortunes, and then bring Ramo Nash down with him if he got caught."

"The Chinese man you saw with Akass spilled everything to us," Thompson briefly explained. "As it turns out, he was working for Akass, who was in turn working for Rastapopoulos – who, surprisingly enough, lost his entire empire to Allan Thompson in a game of poker while he was in prison – and was working for Allan to try and get it back."

Thompson nodded in agreement. "To be precise, Akass was working for Allan with the Chinese, who was working for you and..." A blank look passed over his face, and he looked at his fellow detective. "...What was it again?"

Tintin, who could barely hold back a chuckle, smiled politely. "Thank you very much for your help, detectives. I think we should begin traveling back to Belgium, Captain."

"I agree, lad," the Captain replied, a yawn piercing his words half-way through his sentence. "Let's go before I pass out." He got up from his chair.

Tintin followed suit, thanking the Thompsons once again and saying one last farewell to Castafiore before heading out the door, Snowy trotting playfully at his heels. He suddenly stopped, right in the middle of the doorway, feeling a hard something in his pocket. Strange, he thought, I'm sure I didn't leave anything in there... He pulled out a small thick paper, roughly the size and shape of a business card, with three lines of writing inscribed on it:

SHADOWWALKER
40 MOCKINGBIRD ROAD, BRUSSELS
BAXTER'S

The Captain stopped walking and looked back at him. He was already stepping across the tarmac that led to the villa's gate. "What's the matter?"

For a second Tintin didn't looked up from the card, answering the Captain's question with a question."Do you mind if we make a stop in Brussels before we arrive in Moulinsart? I believe there's someone I need to meet.