Conflict of Interest; Chapter 1
Well, here's the first chapter of my huge Sly Cooper fanfic...finally. Much thanks to stokerbramwell for betaing for me. Formatting's a bit borked, possibly. I'll fix it in the morning if neccessary.
Fandom: Sly Cooper
Title: Conflict of Interest
Rating: T, though later chapters may have M level violence.
Pairings: Sly/Carmelita, Bentley/Penelope, OC/OC
Ch.1: The Old Crab and the Sea
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The fog rolled into the bay, giving the night an eerie quality to it. Waves lapped eagerly at the wharf as a group of muscled thugs worked tirelessly unloading crates from a rusted freighter. The captain stood at the top of the ship’s gangplank, a large and particularly nasty looking fiddler crab. He had a pipe clutched in his mandibles, from which emitted thin plumes of gray smoke.
The crab’s eye swiveled to one side, falling on a nearby wharf rat who seemed to be struggling with one of the crates.
“Careful, ye basket-hilted bottom feeder! That cargo’s worth more’n yer hide.”
The rat set down the crate as neatly as he could, then nodded.
“Of course Mr. Cuttlefish, I’ll be more care-“
The crab scuttled down the gangplank at high speed, coming to rest before the crewman.
“What was that ye said, pray tell? I’m not so good at hearin’.”
The crewman gulped.
“I was just saying, Mr. Cuttlefish, that-“
“Ach, there, ye said it again,” Mr. Cuttlefish interrupted.
“Sir?”
Cuttlefish retrieved the pipe from his mouth with his smaller claw. He then threw his larger claw around the rat’s shoulder like they were old friends.
“Ye’re new to my crew, aren’t ye…Mr…Scrap, was it?”
A nearby sea lion shook his head ruefully as he overheard the conversation. The unfortunate Scrap just nodded.
“I’m not one fer too much formality, Mr. Scrap. Ye can refer to me as ‘Cap’n’ or ‘Chief’ or even ‘Silas’.”
Silas emptied his pipe by striking it against his larger claw before speaking again. Scrap blanched as an ember or two came too close for comfort.
“But the one thing I will not stand t’be called by any man, living or dead…”
An almost inaudible whine escaped Scrap’s lips as the captain suddenly seized his arm in a vice grip.
“Is CUTTLEFISH!”
With a bellow, Silas Cuttlefish raised his claws into the air, lifting the rat high over his head. Pivoting on his legs, he flung Scrap fifteen feet through the air. The unfortunate projectile collided with a heavy crate, crumpling into a dazed heap.
Silas began calmly refilling his pipe. “That was yer only warning, lad. Do I make myself clear?”
Scrap managed a shaky salute. “Aye-aye…Cap’n.”
The fiddler crab’s eyes glinted as he replaced the newly-lit pipe in his mouth.
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A solitary figure watched the scene unfold from a hiding place atop a nearby warehouse. He turned and leapt silently to a stack of crates, and from the crates to the ground. Quick purposeful strides soon brought him to another warehouse with far less activity. Spotting another figure standing in the shadows, he waved.
His partner glanced up, the tension on her face easing.
“What’s the report?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” he answered, a slight smirk on his face. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to be bored any longer, Carmelita.”
Carmelita Fox nodded, resisting the urge to smile. “So it’s him, then.”
“No question,” Sly jerked his thumb back the way he came. “Looks like Silas brought in a big shipment this time.”
Anticipating Carmelita’s next question, he continued. “I saw what was in some of the crates. Looks like enough weapons to start a small war.”
“We’ll have to be careful, Sly,” Carmelita said. “Cuttlefish is unpredictable. If we just charge in guns blazing we could have a full-scale battle on our hands.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Sly asked wryly. “Walk in there nice as you please and ask them to surrender?”
The fox smiled. “Something like that, Cooper. Something like that.”
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“The Captain’s a bit sensitive, eh Smithy?”
Smithy, a grizzled Walrus and the oldest smuggler in the group, glanced up at the speaker. “Shut yer feathery gob, Bill, you addlebrained twit! You trying to make him mad?”
The seagull shrugged his greasy shoulders. He scratched at a bald patch on the side of his head.
“It’s just, well, I mean, he really don’t like bein’ called by his last name, do he?”
“Right master of the obvious, that’s what you are, Bill.”
“I mean, if he don’t like that name, why don’t he just, I dunno…change it?”
Smithy snorted. “Why’re you askin’ me?”
“Well I mean, you’ve been with the crew the longest, eh?” Bill nodded sagely. “Thus, er, ipsy-factsy, you would have the, uh, greatest chance of knowin’.”
Smithy snorted again and rolled his eyes. “It probably has somethin’ to do with his mother,” he grunted sarcastically.
“Oh, that makes sense,” Bill said, satisfied.
The walrus leaned forward, grabbing the collar of the gull’s stained jacket.
“Look, it doesn’t matter why he doesn’t like the name. You just need to know that he doesn’t like it, and what he’ll do t’you if you use it.”
Smithy took a breath before continuing, his tone mimicking Bill’s.
“Thus, ipsy-factsy, all you have to do is never say anything like-“
“FREEZE, CUTTLEFISH!”
All activity on the mist-shrouded dock suddenly ceased as twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the source of the voice. Carmelita Fox stood atop a pile of crates, shock pistol primed and ready.
“You and your crew are all under arrest.”
Smithy winced and shook his head, glancing towards his captain, who appeared to be chewing his pipe in anger.
“I wish she hadn’t said that.”
Silas sputtered, then attempted to calm himself. Swallowing his anger (and nearly his pipe), the smuggler pointed at Carmelita with his large claw.
“Under arrest? Me dear, I haven’t the foggiest idea what yer talkin’ about. On what charges would ye be arrestin’ me, then?”
Carmelita gestured towards some of the cargo being unloaded. “Let’s try gunrunning, for starters.”
“Gunrunning?” Silas’s crusty face was the picture of innocence. “Now what would give ye that crazy idea, miss? What guns?”
At that moment, a nearby thug sneezed, accidentally knocking into one of the crates, which fell over and broke open. The contents, which seemed to consist of a number of machine guns, clattered to the wharf.
Silas scoffed and attempted to give Carmelita a sheepish smile, but wavered at the unamused expression on her face.
“Oh, those guns,” he said dryly, shooting a death glare at his clumsy cohort. “Those are me…personal firearms. Strictly fer defense, and…erm…hunting?”
“Nice try. Now, all of you, put those hands where I can see them!”
Silas slowly raised his claws halfway above his head, then paused. Shaking his head ruefully, he lowered his arms.
“Now, ye see, Miss Cop. There be a bit of a problem with that.”
Carmelita tensed, glancing briefly down to one side before returning her gaze to the smuggler.
“Ye see, I’m just a humble man of the sea. Not a learned man by any means.”
The crab puffed a particularly large cloud of smoke before continuing.
“But I can count,” he growled, glaring at the Interpol officer. “There are twenty of us, and but one of you. Now, if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t like those odds.”
Carmelita smiled grimly, then let out a piercing whistle. All at once, uniformed police officers burst into view, weapons drawn and ready. The smugglers found themselves outnumbered more than two to one.
“Neither would I,” Carmelita replied.
Sly Cooper made his way out of the shadows to stand at the base of his partner’s platform.
“Now, if I were a betting man, Mr. Cuttlefish,” Sly said, smiling as the crab stiffened in anger. “The smart money’s on us.”
Silas opened and closed his claws several times, eyestalks swiveling as he looked for an avenue of escape.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, pal,” Sly warned him.
“Bah! The devil take the lot of ye!” Silas sputtered, launching himself up the gangplank in a desperate scuttle.
Carmelita fired off a warning shot from her shock pistol. The blast impacted with the railing at the top of the gangplank, sending sparks flying near the fleeing crab. Silas burbled in alarm, and quickened his pace, ducking around one of the ship’s bulkheads.
The other thugs made no move for weapons, and were quickly subdued by the police officers. All that remained was Silas Cuttlefish. Sly and Carmelita looked up at the freighter from the bottom of the gangplank. The swirling fog gave the ship a sinister appearance.
“He’s got nowhere left to run.”
Sly eyed the large number of crates visible on the ship’s deck. “Plenty of places to hide.”
“If we go in too hard, he’ll panic,” Carmelita shook her head. “And with all those weapons on board…”
Sly twirled his stun-baton in one hand. “Then we’ll have to handle this more delicately.”
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Sly looked across the rusty ship’s deck, which was deserted save for several rows of large crates and a one-man crane which seemed to be suspending an oversized crate marked ‘Pineapples’. Unlike other parts of the ship, the crane seemed smooth and worn, as though it had seen constant use over the years. He made his way down one row of crates.
As he reached the end of the row, Sly heard a loud metallic click.
“DOWN!” he bellowed, flinging himself onto Carmelita. The two hit the ground as a burst of automatic fire thudded into the nearby crates at about head level. The two scrambled for cover, hiding behind another row of crates. Sly cursed and peeked out. There at the end of the row stood Silas Cuttlefish, a machine gun gripped tightly in his smaller claw.
“I won’t be goin’ down without a fight!” he whooped triumphantly. “Chew on these, you beetle-browed buffoons!”
Another hail of bullets soared towards the crouching cops. Carmelita waited until she heard a pause in the firing, then popped up and snapped off two shots with her pistol. The smuggler raised his claw in front of his face to ward of the shots, growling in pain as the electricity shot through his claw.
“You’ll have to do better than that!”
A third shot came in fast, passing so close to the crab’s eyestalks that he would have been blinded had he not instinctively retracted them.
“Arrrrgh!” Incensed, Silas opened fire again.
Carmelita dove for the ground to avoid Silas’s counterattack. Looking up, she noticed Sly kneeling next to her.
“Any bright ideas?” she asked sarcastically.
Sly glanced quickly around the ship. He smiled. “Not especially. Think you can keep him busy?”
Several bullets impacted against the crate as Silas sprayed wildly.
“I think so.”
“Good,” Sly smiled, pointing towards the crane. “Cover me.”
With that, Sly darted from behind the crates. Immediately, Silas swiveled, bringing his weapon to bear. Before he could pull the trigger, another volley of shock pistol rounds came his way, triggering a string of angry curses. Shaking the sparks from his vision and bringing his gun up again, Silas found that Sly had vanished. He gnashed his mandibles in irritation as another blast came his way.
Sly slid into the crane operator’s seat on the bridge. He was in luck; the last operator of the crane had left it on. Casting a quick glance out at the deck, he began manipulating the controls.
Silas Cuttlefish stalked down the aisle of crates, idly loading his weapon with one claw and warding off electrical blasts with the other.
“Ye can’t hurt me with that toy, missy! Surrender!”
His only answer was another shock pistol blast. Snarling in irritation, he cocked his weapon and opened fire, forcing Carmelita to dive out of the way again.
“All that dodgin’. Ye’ll get tired eventually, lass.”
Silas’s gun ran dry again. Flipping it open, he began to methodically reload the weapon.
“One of my bullets is sure to find ye eventually. Law of averages, and all that.”
A fully charged shock pistol round struck his upraised claw, forcing the smuggler back and causing him to grunt in pain.
“And I’m afraid it’ll take more than some electroshock therapy to take down the likes of me.”
Carmelita glared at him for a moment, then her eyes seemed suddenly drawn to something nearby.
At that moment, Silas finished reloading, closing the gun with a loud snap. A louder noise from above and to the side answered it. Silas looked up in confusion as the ship’s crane flung its cargo in an arc towards him.
He had time for only one word.
“Bugger.”
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“You call that delicate?” Carmelita asked in an incredulous tone.
Sly looked down at Silas, who was now covered by the shattered crate’s contents: hundreds of grenades, their explosive cores removed.
He shrugged.
Carmelita shook her head. “And where did you learn to operate a crane like that?”
Sly thought back to his adventures in the Australian outback. In particular, he recalled flinging exploding barrels at a 200 foot-tall Carmelita Fox.
“I don’t remember,” he lied, smiling apologetically.
Silas chose that moment to attempt to shakily rise to his feet, frothing at the mouth. Without giving him a second glance, Sly stuck his shock baton into a joint in the crab’s armored claw and depressed a button. The smuggler went rigid as a jolt of electricity passed through his entire body. Sly held the button for a couple seconds before letting go, allowing the brute to crumple into a smoking, unconscious heap.
Carmelita prodded the criminal with her foot. “Well, I guess that’s it. We should book this idiot and then call it a night.”
Sly’s smile had vanished. “Not quite.”
“What do you-“
“None of the other officers came on board with us, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sly pointed back towards the stern. “Then why did I just see someone heading below deck?”
Carmelita brought up her pistol. “Shall we?”
The raccoon shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll check it out.” Seeing Carmelita’s unsure expression, he continued: “I’ll be careful. You just secure this joker.”
She sighed. “…Fine.”
Sly quickly began heading for the hold.
“Sly?”
He looked back quickly. “Yeah?”
A wave of inscrutable emotion seemed to pass over Carmelita’s face, but it quickly cleared.
“Be careful.”
He gave a reassuring smile. “Always.”
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The hold was rusty and dimly lit.
Silas sure doesn’t take very good care of his ship. Sly thought, swiping a finger along a grime-coated railing. A small fluttering moth banged itself against a nearby flickering light. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom, Sly slowly made his way deeper into the hold, watching carefully for any sign of movement. He soon reached the far side of the hold.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Guess I was just seeing things.”
“People are always seeing things, Sly Cooper,” a voice from behind him graveled. “I, myself, see many things.”
Sly spun around in a flash, weapon at the ready. There, not ten feet in front of him, crouched a curious figure. Though he appeared male, Sly couldn’t be sure of anything else about him, as his ornate black cape obscured most details. He seemed to be wearing a pure white suit, while a mismatched pair of gloves, one black, one white, covered the man’s hands. The face was covered in an ornate silver and black mask, half-smiling and half-frowning. The masked man cocked his head to one side, regarding Sly.
“Who, who are you?” Sly asked once he recovered from his surprise.
“Who am I?” the figure asked, before lapsing into a short chuckle. “I have asked myself that very question many times. It is certainly a question deserving some sort of answer. There are many cryptic and foolish-sounding answers I could give you, but I suppose a name would be answer enough.”
The masked man cocked his head the other direction. “I am called Faust.”
Sly took a cautious step back. “And what are you doing here?”
“Why, speaking to you, of course. I thought that would be obvious.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Indeed I do. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Cooper. I was simply amusing myself.”
Something else had caught Sly’s attention. “How do you know my name?”
“I make it a point to know the names of interesting people, Sly Cooper. The last of the great Cooper thief clan, destroyer of the old bird…”
“You’re talking about Clockwerk.”
“The man who, upon discovering the legacy of his family, gave up his old life for the love of a woman. How delightfully dramatic.”
Sly looked hard at Faust, who simply continued speaking.
“From orphan, to master thief, to officer of the law. Oh, yes, you are indeed a most entertaining fellow!“ Faust turned his back to Sly, looking back over his shoulder. “But still, I ramble. You were asking what I was doing here.”
When Sly did not reply, Faust continued. “I am simply here to tell you to be careful.”
“That’s it? That’s why you lured me down here, to tell me to be careful?”
“Yes,” Faust answered, then began walking into the darkness. “Things are about to get very interesting. Past, present, future…I’d hate for you to be caught totally unprepared.”
Sly took a step towards the retreating figure. “Unprepared for what?”
In answer, Faust flipped a small object towards Sly, which he caught easily. “That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
Sly glanced at the object. It was a small steel medallion. Emblazoned on one side was a strange insignia: a skeletal face framed by four black wings. The other side had a symbol resembling a metal gauntlet. Sly studied it for a moment, then glanced up.
“What’s this?”
But he was gone. An answer came back to Sly faintly, as though from a distance.
“It is the answer, or perhaps the question. You’ll figure it out. I have every confidence in you, Sly Cooper.”
Sly stared at the shadows that Faust had seemingly melted into for over a minute. A voice from above startled him.
“You all right?” Carmelita called. “What’d you find down there?”
“Oh, it…it was nothing,” he replied, clenching the medallion as he slipped it into his pocket. “Just chasing shadows.”
Fandom: Sly Cooper
Title: Conflict of Interest
Rating: T, though later chapters may have M level violence.
Pairings: Sly/Carmelita, Bentley/Penelope, OC/OC
Ch.1: The Old Crab and the Sea
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The fog rolled into the bay, giving the night an eerie quality to it. Waves lapped eagerly at the wharf as a group of muscled thugs worked tirelessly unloading crates from a rusted freighter. The captain stood at the top of the ship’s gangplank, a large and particularly nasty looking fiddler crab. He had a pipe clutched in his mandibles, from which emitted thin plumes of gray smoke.
The crab’s eye swiveled to one side, falling on a nearby wharf rat who seemed to be struggling with one of the crates.
“Careful, ye basket-hilted bottom feeder! That cargo’s worth more’n yer hide.”
The rat set down the crate as neatly as he could, then nodded.
“Of course Mr. Cuttlefish, I’ll be more care-“
The crab scuttled down the gangplank at high speed, coming to rest before the crewman.
“What was that ye said, pray tell? I’m not so good at hearin’.”
The crewman gulped.
“I was just saying, Mr. Cuttlefish, that-“
“Ach, there, ye said it again,” Mr. Cuttlefish interrupted.
“Sir?”
Cuttlefish retrieved the pipe from his mouth with his smaller claw. He then threw his larger claw around the rat’s shoulder like they were old friends.
“Ye’re new to my crew, aren’t ye…Mr…Scrap, was it?”
A nearby sea lion shook his head ruefully as he overheard the conversation. The unfortunate Scrap just nodded.
“I’m not one fer too much formality, Mr. Scrap. Ye can refer to me as ‘Cap’n’ or ‘Chief’ or even ‘Silas’.”
Silas emptied his pipe by striking it against his larger claw before speaking again. Scrap blanched as an ember or two came too close for comfort.
“But the one thing I will not stand t’be called by any man, living or dead…”
An almost inaudible whine escaped Scrap’s lips as the captain suddenly seized his arm in a vice grip.
“Is CUTTLEFISH!”
With a bellow, Silas Cuttlefish raised his claws into the air, lifting the rat high over his head. Pivoting on his legs, he flung Scrap fifteen feet through the air. The unfortunate projectile collided with a heavy crate, crumpling into a dazed heap.
Silas began calmly refilling his pipe. “That was yer only warning, lad. Do I make myself clear?”
Scrap managed a shaky salute. “Aye-aye…Cap’n.”
The fiddler crab’s eyes glinted as he replaced the newly-lit pipe in his mouth.
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A solitary figure watched the scene unfold from a hiding place atop a nearby warehouse. He turned and leapt silently to a stack of crates, and from the crates to the ground. Quick purposeful strides soon brought him to another warehouse with far less activity. Spotting another figure standing in the shadows, he waved.
His partner glanced up, the tension on her face easing.
“What’s the report?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” he answered, a slight smirk on his face. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to be bored any longer, Carmelita.”
Carmelita Fox nodded, resisting the urge to smile. “So it’s him, then.”
“No question,” Sly jerked his thumb back the way he came. “Looks like Silas brought in a big shipment this time.”
Anticipating Carmelita’s next question, he continued. “I saw what was in some of the crates. Looks like enough weapons to start a small war.”
“We’ll have to be careful, Sly,” Carmelita said. “Cuttlefish is unpredictable. If we just charge in guns blazing we could have a full-scale battle on our hands.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Sly asked wryly. “Walk in there nice as you please and ask them to surrender?”
The fox smiled. “Something like that, Cooper. Something like that.”
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“The Captain’s a bit sensitive, eh Smithy?”
Smithy, a grizzled Walrus and the oldest smuggler in the group, glanced up at the speaker. “Shut yer feathery gob, Bill, you addlebrained twit! You trying to make him mad?”
The seagull shrugged his greasy shoulders. He scratched at a bald patch on the side of his head.
“It’s just, well, I mean, he really don’t like bein’ called by his last name, do he?”
“Right master of the obvious, that’s what you are, Bill.”
“I mean, if he don’t like that name, why don’t he just, I dunno…change it?”
Smithy snorted. “Why’re you askin’ me?”
“Well I mean, you’ve been with the crew the longest, eh?” Bill nodded sagely. “Thus, er, ipsy-factsy, you would have the, uh, greatest chance of knowin’.”
Smithy snorted again and rolled his eyes. “It probably has somethin’ to do with his mother,” he grunted sarcastically.
“Oh, that makes sense,” Bill said, satisfied.
The walrus leaned forward, grabbing the collar of the gull’s stained jacket.
“Look, it doesn’t matter why he doesn’t like the name. You just need to know that he doesn’t like it, and what he’ll do t’you if you use it.”
Smithy took a breath before continuing, his tone mimicking Bill’s.
“Thus, ipsy-factsy, all you have to do is never say anything like-“
“FREEZE, CUTTLEFISH!”
All activity on the mist-shrouded dock suddenly ceased as twenty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the source of the voice. Carmelita Fox stood atop a pile of crates, shock pistol primed and ready.
“You and your crew are all under arrest.”
Smithy winced and shook his head, glancing towards his captain, who appeared to be chewing his pipe in anger.
“I wish she hadn’t said that.”
Silas sputtered, then attempted to calm himself. Swallowing his anger (and nearly his pipe), the smuggler pointed at Carmelita with his large claw.
“Under arrest? Me dear, I haven’t the foggiest idea what yer talkin’ about. On what charges would ye be arrestin’ me, then?”
Carmelita gestured towards some of the cargo being unloaded. “Let’s try gunrunning, for starters.”
“Gunrunning?” Silas’s crusty face was the picture of innocence. “Now what would give ye that crazy idea, miss? What guns?”
At that moment, a nearby thug sneezed, accidentally knocking into one of the crates, which fell over and broke open. The contents, which seemed to consist of a number of machine guns, clattered to the wharf.
Silas scoffed and attempted to give Carmelita a sheepish smile, but wavered at the unamused expression on her face.
“Oh, those guns,” he said dryly, shooting a death glare at his clumsy cohort. “Those are me…personal firearms. Strictly fer defense, and…erm…hunting?”
“Nice try. Now, all of you, put those hands where I can see them!”
Silas slowly raised his claws halfway above his head, then paused. Shaking his head ruefully, he lowered his arms.
“Now, ye see, Miss Cop. There be a bit of a problem with that.”
Carmelita tensed, glancing briefly down to one side before returning her gaze to the smuggler.
“Ye see, I’m just a humble man of the sea. Not a learned man by any means.”
The crab puffed a particularly large cloud of smoke before continuing.
“But I can count,” he growled, glaring at the Interpol officer. “There are twenty of us, and but one of you. Now, if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t like those odds.”
Carmelita smiled grimly, then let out a piercing whistle. All at once, uniformed police officers burst into view, weapons drawn and ready. The smugglers found themselves outnumbered more than two to one.
“Neither would I,” Carmelita replied.
Sly Cooper made his way out of the shadows to stand at the base of his partner’s platform.
“Now, if I were a betting man, Mr. Cuttlefish,” Sly said, smiling as the crab stiffened in anger. “The smart money’s on us.”
Silas opened and closed his claws several times, eyestalks swiveling as he looked for an avenue of escape.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, pal,” Sly warned him.
“Bah! The devil take the lot of ye!” Silas sputtered, launching himself up the gangplank in a desperate scuttle.
Carmelita fired off a warning shot from her shock pistol. The blast impacted with the railing at the top of the gangplank, sending sparks flying near the fleeing crab. Silas burbled in alarm, and quickened his pace, ducking around one of the ship’s bulkheads.
The other thugs made no move for weapons, and were quickly subdued by the police officers. All that remained was Silas Cuttlefish. Sly and Carmelita looked up at the freighter from the bottom of the gangplank. The swirling fog gave the ship a sinister appearance.
“He’s got nowhere left to run.”
Sly eyed the large number of crates visible on the ship’s deck. “Plenty of places to hide.”
“If we go in too hard, he’ll panic,” Carmelita shook her head. “And with all those weapons on board…”
Sly twirled his stun-baton in one hand. “Then we’ll have to handle this more delicately.”
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Sly looked across the rusty ship’s deck, which was deserted save for several rows of large crates and a one-man crane which seemed to be suspending an oversized crate marked ‘Pineapples’. Unlike other parts of the ship, the crane seemed smooth and worn, as though it had seen constant use over the years. He made his way down one row of crates.
As he reached the end of the row, Sly heard a loud metallic click.
“DOWN!” he bellowed, flinging himself onto Carmelita. The two hit the ground as a burst of automatic fire thudded into the nearby crates at about head level. The two scrambled for cover, hiding behind another row of crates. Sly cursed and peeked out. There at the end of the row stood Silas Cuttlefish, a machine gun gripped tightly in his smaller claw.
“I won’t be goin’ down without a fight!” he whooped triumphantly. “Chew on these, you beetle-browed buffoons!”
Another hail of bullets soared towards the crouching cops. Carmelita waited until she heard a pause in the firing, then popped up and snapped off two shots with her pistol. The smuggler raised his claw in front of his face to ward of the shots, growling in pain as the electricity shot through his claw.
“You’ll have to do better than that!”
A third shot came in fast, passing so close to the crab’s eyestalks that he would have been blinded had he not instinctively retracted them.
“Arrrrgh!” Incensed, Silas opened fire again.
Carmelita dove for the ground to avoid Silas’s counterattack. Looking up, she noticed Sly kneeling next to her.
“Any bright ideas?” she asked sarcastically.
Sly glanced quickly around the ship. He smiled. “Not especially. Think you can keep him busy?”
Several bullets impacted against the crate as Silas sprayed wildly.
“I think so.”
“Good,” Sly smiled, pointing towards the crane. “Cover me.”
With that, Sly darted from behind the crates. Immediately, Silas swiveled, bringing his weapon to bear. Before he could pull the trigger, another volley of shock pistol rounds came his way, triggering a string of angry curses. Shaking the sparks from his vision and bringing his gun up again, Silas found that Sly had vanished. He gnashed his mandibles in irritation as another blast came his way.
Sly slid into the crane operator’s seat on the bridge. He was in luck; the last operator of the crane had left it on. Casting a quick glance out at the deck, he began manipulating the controls.
Silas Cuttlefish stalked down the aisle of crates, idly loading his weapon with one claw and warding off electrical blasts with the other.
“Ye can’t hurt me with that toy, missy! Surrender!”
His only answer was another shock pistol blast. Snarling in irritation, he cocked his weapon and opened fire, forcing Carmelita to dive out of the way again.
“All that dodgin’. Ye’ll get tired eventually, lass.”
Silas’s gun ran dry again. Flipping it open, he began to methodically reload the weapon.
“One of my bullets is sure to find ye eventually. Law of averages, and all that.”
A fully charged shock pistol round struck his upraised claw, forcing the smuggler back and causing him to grunt in pain.
“And I’m afraid it’ll take more than some electroshock therapy to take down the likes of me.”
Carmelita glared at him for a moment, then her eyes seemed suddenly drawn to something nearby.
At that moment, Silas finished reloading, closing the gun with a loud snap. A louder noise from above and to the side answered it. Silas looked up in confusion as the ship’s crane flung its cargo in an arc towards him.
He had time for only one word.
“Bugger.”
------------------
“You call that delicate?” Carmelita asked in an incredulous tone.
Sly looked down at Silas, who was now covered by the shattered crate’s contents: hundreds of grenades, their explosive cores removed.
He shrugged.
Carmelita shook her head. “And where did you learn to operate a crane like that?”
Sly thought back to his adventures in the Australian outback. In particular, he recalled flinging exploding barrels at a 200 foot-tall Carmelita Fox.
“I don’t remember,” he lied, smiling apologetically.
Silas chose that moment to attempt to shakily rise to his feet, frothing at the mouth. Without giving him a second glance, Sly stuck his shock baton into a joint in the crab’s armored claw and depressed a button. The smuggler went rigid as a jolt of electricity passed through his entire body. Sly held the button for a couple seconds before letting go, allowing the brute to crumple into a smoking, unconscious heap.
Carmelita prodded the criminal with her foot. “Well, I guess that’s it. We should book this idiot and then call it a night.”
Sly’s smile had vanished. “Not quite.”
“What do you-“
“None of the other officers came on board with us, right?”
“I don’t think so.”
Sly pointed back towards the stern. “Then why did I just see someone heading below deck?”
Carmelita brought up her pistol. “Shall we?”
The raccoon shook his head. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll check it out.” Seeing Carmelita’s unsure expression, he continued: “I’ll be careful. You just secure this joker.”
She sighed. “…Fine.”
Sly quickly began heading for the hold.
“Sly?”
He looked back quickly. “Yeah?”
A wave of inscrutable emotion seemed to pass over Carmelita’s face, but it quickly cleared.
“Be careful.”
He gave a reassuring smile. “Always.”
----------------------
The hold was rusty and dimly lit.
Silas sure doesn’t take very good care of his ship. Sly thought, swiping a finger along a grime-coated railing. A small fluttering moth banged itself against a nearby flickering light. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom, Sly slowly made his way deeper into the hold, watching carefully for any sign of movement. He soon reached the far side of the hold.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Guess I was just seeing things.”
“People are always seeing things, Sly Cooper,” a voice from behind him graveled. “I, myself, see many things.”
Sly spun around in a flash, weapon at the ready. There, not ten feet in front of him, crouched a curious figure. Though he appeared male, Sly couldn’t be sure of anything else about him, as his ornate black cape obscured most details. He seemed to be wearing a pure white suit, while a mismatched pair of gloves, one black, one white, covered the man’s hands. The face was covered in an ornate silver and black mask, half-smiling and half-frowning. The masked man cocked his head to one side, regarding Sly.
“Who, who are you?” Sly asked once he recovered from his surprise.
“Who am I?” the figure asked, before lapsing into a short chuckle. “I have asked myself that very question many times. It is certainly a question deserving some sort of answer. There are many cryptic and foolish-sounding answers I could give you, but I suppose a name would be answer enough.”
The masked man cocked his head the other direction. “I am called Faust.”
Sly took a cautious step back. “And what are you doing here?”
“Why, speaking to you, of course. I thought that would be obvious.”
“You know what I meant.”
“Indeed I do. You’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Cooper. I was simply amusing myself.”
Something else had caught Sly’s attention. “How do you know my name?”
“I make it a point to know the names of interesting people, Sly Cooper. The last of the great Cooper thief clan, destroyer of the old bird…”
“You’re talking about Clockwerk.”
“The man who, upon discovering the legacy of his family, gave up his old life for the love of a woman. How delightfully dramatic.”
Sly looked hard at Faust, who simply continued speaking.
“From orphan, to master thief, to officer of the law. Oh, yes, you are indeed a most entertaining fellow!“ Faust turned his back to Sly, looking back over his shoulder. “But still, I ramble. You were asking what I was doing here.”
When Sly did not reply, Faust continued. “I am simply here to tell you to be careful.”
“That’s it? That’s why you lured me down here, to tell me to be careful?”
“Yes,” Faust answered, then began walking into the darkness. “Things are about to get very interesting. Past, present, future…I’d hate for you to be caught totally unprepared.”
Sly took a step towards the retreating figure. “Unprepared for what?”
In answer, Faust flipped a small object towards Sly, which he caught easily. “That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
Sly glanced at the object. It was a small steel medallion. Emblazoned on one side was a strange insignia: a skeletal face framed by four black wings. The other side had a symbol resembling a metal gauntlet. Sly studied it for a moment, then glanced up.
“What’s this?”
But he was gone. An answer came back to Sly faintly, as though from a distance.
“It is the answer, or perhaps the question. You’ll figure it out. I have every confidence in you, Sly Cooper.”
Sly stared at the shadows that Faust had seemingly melted into for over a minute. A voice from above startled him.
“You all right?” Carmelita called. “What’d you find down there?”
“Oh, it…it was nothing,” he replied, clenching the medallion as he slipped it into his pocket. “Just chasing shadows.”