FIC: Present Possessive, Future Tense: Prologue
Title: Present Possessive, Future Tense
Fandom: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo/Tintin
Genre: Drama, Mystery
Pairing: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: Lisbeth needs the help of a retired Belgian reporter to solve a crime from more than sixty years ago. And yes, I realize that it's a very odd crossover.
Warnings: Violence, murder, thousands of thundering typhoons, Lisbeth Salander
Prologue
There was a box inside a box. It was made of metal- cast iron- and weighed a ton. The outer box was really a chest, thick slats of oak and slightly rusted locks that gleamed a little in the dull light of the attic. Beatrice Hoder was seventy-nine years old, and had needed the help of her son Lucas to get the box upstairs.
It had to go upstairs. The basement was too damp, and the ground floor was too obvious. The attic was better- dry and full of dark corners. It was perfect for hiding something.
Beatrice was an old woman. The chest was also old. The metal box was of a more recent make. But it was what was inside both boxes that was the oldest thing of all.
Beatrice spoke Swedish with a faint Russian accent. It was a relic of her childhood. She answered the door, smiling, and politely asked, “Hello?” Her tongue rolled on the vowels.
And then there was a bang, and she simply gasped.
The old woman crumpled to the ground, but the man on her doorstep hauled her up again by the arm. Beatrice wailed and pressed a palm to her stomach, blood seeping out from between her fingers, and she was dragged into her kitchen and thrown onto the linoleum floor.
The man worked silently, pulling out drawers and checking under cabinets and in doors without a word. Beatrice moaned and then sobbed as the man kicked her.
He found the stairs just as her toes began to go numb.
As her vision started to go black at the edges, he used the butt of his gun to smash open the rusty lock on the chest. He reached in, pulled out the heavy metal box, and wrapped it carefully in his dark wool coat.
He crept down the stairs carefully as Beatrice began to choke on her own blood. As her fingers scrabbled at the leg of the closest chair, he flicked the safety off his gun and pressed it to her temple.
To the neighbors, it sounded as if a car had backfired.
The man left the house and strolled out into the black night, his bundled up coat tucked securely under one arm. He unlocked the door of his forest green Volvo and started the engine. It purred as he drove down the quiet street, the metal box and its contents hidden under the back seat of his car.
On the floor of her kitchen in a suburb of Stockholm, Beatrice Hoder’s brains leaked into the collar of her cardigan.
It was nine o’clock at night.
Fandom: The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo/Tintin
Genre: Drama, Mystery
Pairing: N/A
Rating: R
Summary: Lisbeth needs the help of a retired Belgian reporter to solve a crime from more than sixty years ago. And yes, I realize that it's a very odd crossover.
Warnings: Violence, murder, thousands of thundering typhoons, Lisbeth Salander
Prologue
There was a box inside a box. It was made of metal- cast iron- and weighed a ton. The outer box was really a chest, thick slats of oak and slightly rusted locks that gleamed a little in the dull light of the attic. Beatrice Hoder was seventy-nine years old, and had needed the help of her son Lucas to get the box upstairs.
It had to go upstairs. The basement was too damp, and the ground floor was too obvious. The attic was better- dry and full of dark corners. It was perfect for hiding something.
Beatrice was an old woman. The chest was also old. The metal box was of a more recent make. But it was what was inside both boxes that was the oldest thing of all.
Beatrice spoke Swedish with a faint Russian accent. It was a relic of her childhood. She answered the door, smiling, and politely asked, “Hello?” Her tongue rolled on the vowels.
And then there was a bang, and she simply gasped.
The old woman crumpled to the ground, but the man on her doorstep hauled her up again by the arm. Beatrice wailed and pressed a palm to her stomach, blood seeping out from between her fingers, and she was dragged into her kitchen and thrown onto the linoleum floor.
The man worked silently, pulling out drawers and checking under cabinets and in doors without a word. Beatrice moaned and then sobbed as the man kicked her.
He found the stairs just as her toes began to go numb.
As her vision started to go black at the edges, he used the butt of his gun to smash open the rusty lock on the chest. He reached in, pulled out the heavy metal box, and wrapped it carefully in his dark wool coat.
He crept down the stairs carefully as Beatrice began to choke on her own blood. As her fingers scrabbled at the leg of the closest chair, he flicked the safety off his gun and pressed it to her temple.
To the neighbors, it sounded as if a car had backfired.
The man left the house and strolled out into the black night, his bundled up coat tucked securely under one arm. He unlocked the door of his forest green Volvo and started the engine. It purred as he drove down the quiet street, the metal box and its contents hidden under the back seat of his car.
On the floor of her kitchen in a suburb of Stockholm, Beatrice Hoder’s brains leaked into the collar of her cardigan.
It was nine o’clock at night.