Author's Note:

This takes place a few months after the end of Sly 3. I've tried to stay consistent with canon and I hope that any slips won't detract from the story. Feedback and constructive comments are certainly appreciated.

The first draft is finally complete. Now I'm uploading chapters as I edit them. (And it's my first time posting here, too.) Enjoy!

Story by Nicodemus. Some characters and settings are the property of Suckerpunch Productions.

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Sly Cooper and the gang in:

"Jynxed Affairs"

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Inspector Fox entered the chief's office, her tail twitching. She hated being called into meetings at the end of the day when she just wanted to go home and relax. And these meetings with the chief were never relaxing.

"What did you want to talk about, chief?"

"Sly Cooper," he said simply. The chief closed his mouth with his cigar jutting up from one corner like an exclamation point.

Carmelita glanced away. It wasn't the first time that he'd raised the subject recently and it became a bit tougher to deal with each time that he did.

"You know precisely what I'm getting at," he said. "You two have a cozy arrangement now but that doesn't erase a criminal past. It's our duty to arrest him, not employ him."

"But he's got amnesia," Carmelita protested. "He doesn't even remember being a thief."

"He's still a criminal ringleader that we've been after for years."

"Not by his recollection. I've managed to convince him that he's been a constable with Interpol for years. He's been cooperative and helpful. Surely, that's worth something."

"That is for a jury to decide, Inspector Fox. Not you."

"Beyond that, though, what about the help that he's been giving us with cases?" She could see the chief's expression flicker into a frown. He appreciated the working arrangement that they had; she pressed this advantage. "He's still occasionally remembering things from his past. He believes they're details from 'past cases' that he was working on. You know that this information has helped us make some major arrests in this city."

"That's true," the chief said slowly.

"As long as he's a valuable source of information, it makes sense to take advantage of it, does it not? Whatever he might've been in the past, right now he's contributing to this department's success."

The chief growled to himself and crossed his arms. His stub of a cigar flicked indecisively back and forth across his mouth as he chewed on it. Carmelita wondered if he ever actually smoked it.

"Fine," he said at last. "We'll continue with the current arrangement as long as it's paying dividends. But, sooner or later, he's going to start putting the pieces together. You'd better watch him. Because when that day arrives, I want him in our cells before he can get away from you again. Is that clear?"

"Absolutely, chief," said Carmelita promptly.

He gave her a long look across his nose for a moment before saying, "Dismissed."

She turned and left the office, allowing herself a small sigh of relief. Another reprieve for another week.

Downstairs and halfway across a large grid of desks, Sly was sorting through case files. He sat with a slump, paging through the documents and making notes. His slump disappeared when he saw Carmelita approaching.

"Hi, ringtail," she said. "Ready to head home?"

"Am I ever." With a single move he turned off his monitor and flipped his notebook closed.

She said, "I was wondering if you might like to go out for dinner."

"Sorry, love. It's my poker night, remember?"

They went to the garage below the building. Carmelita's red sports car was parked at the far end of one row.

After she'd practically carried him from the ruins of his family vault, Sly immediately began asking questions. She'd had to invent the details of his fictional past as Constable Cooper. One thing that he didn't have was a car, as far as she knew. The Cooper Gang had always driven around in that ridiculous modified van of theirs.

On the spur of the moment, she told him that his personal car had been totaled while he was on a recent case. She'd come up with some cash, notionally the insurance settlement, which they'd used to buy him a motorcycle. Since they both worked at Interpol's central Paris office, they often just carpooled.

She'd also come up with a story about where he lived. As far as he knew now, they'd been dating for a year and he'd just moved into her apartment's spare room. She was most pleased that she'd invented that story. Come to think of it, he didn't seem to be too unhappy with it, either.

Sly pulled his bike off the main street into a dark alley beside the club and killed the engine. He could just hear the distant thumping of a rave beat over the sounds of the evening traffic. He left his helmet on as he went to a small side door. Faded patches of stenciled white paint marked it as "Le Chateau Noir."

He walked through the narrow kitchen. The cook, a massive bear with a crooked front tooth, looked over and nodded to him as he passed.

Out in the main room of the club, the music was pounding and the lights were flashing. People spun on the dance floor with carefree moves. At booths and tables all around the perimeter of the club, knots of friends were having conversations over drinks.

The raccoon weaved his way around the edge of the crowd towards one person in particular. A turtle with thick glasses sat alone in a corner booth. One might've thought he was just a shy wallflower except that he didn't show any interest or envy of the other people having fun. He had his green nose buried in a book.

The raccoon sat on the opposite bench and, glancing around to ensure no one was eying him, pulled off his helmet. "Good to see you again, Bentley."

"Hi, Sly," said the turtle, closing his book. "Here for our weekly 'poker night,' as I believe you call it?"

"Hey, I have to tell Carmelita something, right? It was the best cover story I could think of." He put his helmet down on the table and leaned forwards. "What I want to know is how you guys are doing. Any exciting jobs this week?"

"Well, there is something I need to tell you about, but I—"

"C'mon, Bentley," said Sly, encouraging him. "You know I have to live vicariously through you guys, now."

The turtle cleared his throat. "Look, Sly, I have to tell you about what we found when we got back from the latest job. I think you'd better sit down."

Sly looked at the bench that he was already sitting on. He blinked at Bentley a few times before saying, "I am sitting down."

"I know. But it just seemed like I should really preface this bad news with something like that."

"What bad news?"

"Someone broke into our headquarters. A silent alarm was triggered while we were out on our mission."

Sly involuntarily tensed. A cold, still feeling spread through his stomach.

"We got back as soon as we could, of course, to see what had happened," Bentley continued. "But the thief had already been and gone."

"Please," Sly whispered, "don't tell me that the Thievius Raccoonus was stolen. Please, Bentley. Not again."

He shook his head and Sly let out a sigh of relief.

"No, that's still locked in the hidden safe. Even you would need several hours to break into that monstrosity."

"Thank goodness. I was worried that—"

"Your cane was stolen."