They were having the argument again.

Every time. Without fail.

It had been a lazy Sunday afternoon in their apartment. Clank was reading Aristotle, or Plato, or some other dead boring Greek guy Ratchet didn't care about. Talwyn had been on the phone to Sasha, discussing an especially flatulent co-worker. And Ratchet had converted the dinner table into a workshop, busily tinkering with his Chick-n-Matic 4000. Sure, it still turned his enemies into chickens, but something had went wrong and they also became fifty feet tall, carnivorous, and capable of breathing fire.

All in all, a nice, normal day. Until the droning voice came from the TV.

"And now," they drawled, "the epic 1983 space opera, Star Wars: Return of the Jedi."

A second later, there was total silence.

"Crap." Ratchet muttered, the tiny screwdriver falling through his fingers. "Oh-ho-ho, crap, crap, crap. Now guys," he begged them, standing to his feet, "let's not do our usual thing and -"

Talwyn's dark eyebrows lowered, her gaze shifted to Clank. "Sasha?" She glowered. "I'll call you back."

Somewhere in his tiny body, Clank let out a sigh. "My apologies, Tacitus." He murmured, gently closing his heavy tome. "Something has come up."

And that something, Ratchet knew, was George goddamn Lucas.

"I do so enjoy this movie." Clank trilled, snuggling up on the couch.

"I enjoy laughing at it." Talwyn grunted, plonking herself right beside him. "I mean, Ewoks? Really? Ratchet's hucked up scarier things in the sink! And you're telling me we're meant to believe that the storm troopers are just going to roll over and die because they stumbled onto the teddy bears picnic?" Her ruddy lips twisted in derision. "Silly." She grimaced. "It's too silly."

Clank, perhaps having read too much of his philosophers, bobbed his silver head curiously. "Life is silly." He pointed out, an argument to which Talwyn could only blink, as though the wheels and cogs of her brain were struggling to process so insufficient an argument. "And you make it sillier by taking things so seriously."

"Go on." She almost smiled, Ratchet thought she sounded a little impressed.

"Consider," Clank argued, "you are sitting beside a talking robot, and are currently romantically affiliated with a space cat who is building a gun which can turn his enemies into chickens."

Talwyn gave a contemplative bob of the head, silently conceding the merit of his words. "Fair point." She hummed. "Fair point. But there's one thing you're missing."

"Which is?" Clank inquired, green eyes narrowing.

"Ewoks. Are. Ridiculous." She raged. "I mean, my God. Third film. Final movie. And how'd you end it? With those things! No effort. No real point. Ah, but you've gotta' move the merchandise, right? And what sells better than grunting, squeaking, pint-sized hair-balls?" Ratchet gave a nervous cough. "Oh, yeah. Light-sabres. Darth Vader. Luke. Obi Wan. Darth Maul. Boba Fett. Things which took work, things which were visually pleasing, which took more than five damn minutes to think up."

Clank's tiny arms folded, he was getting annoyed. "Miss Apogee." He glowered, and Ratchet swore he heard a tongue click. "You are being facetious."

"If I knew what that meant," she frowned, "I might take offense."

Ratchet took the cue. He skipped between them both, smiling nervously, his palms held up in truce. "Guys, guys, c'mon." He entreated them, trying to laugh. "Look, let's all agree that as bad as the Ewoks might, or might not've been, they're still better than Kylo Ren."

"Oh, God." Talwyn groaned, shaking her head. "I forgot about him."

"Terrible." Agreed Clank.

"And he's such a little whiner!" She went on, the two suddenly chuckling sweetly. "He's all like: Whoa, dude, look at my light-sabre, it's like THREE light-sabres, bro. I'm so totally extreme!"

"He has no personality." Clank agreed, making Ratchet smile. The little tin can didn't let his inner critic out often, but when he did, it was brutal. "And whilst I initially thought him just an inferior clone of Darth Vader, I have realised how wrong that was. A clone is not, by nature, the sum of its parts. Kylo is. He is more like a cheap and unhygienic burger, accumulating the grease and refuse of better burgers."

"A Mock-Donald whopper with extra fail." Talwyn grinned.

Clank wagged a silvery finger, approving. "Mock-Donald." He smiled. "Precisely."

And that, it appeared, had settled the Ewok debate. It was often so between them. Most of the time they were the best of friends, and although Clank might have huffed when Talwyn scooped him up for a hug, he smiled when no one was watching. But when they disagreed, all bets were off. The two were as stubborn as each other.

Smiling at their chatter, Ratchet almost didn't hear the rap at the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." He sighed, shaking himself back to his senses.

The knock came again, louder, more desperate.

"Shut up, already!" He snapped. "You'll bust the hinges."

The hinges, though, still served their purpose. When Ratchet turned the handle, and opened the door, it didn't jam or stick. He saw their guest perfectly.

The sight turned his stomach. That grey fur, those beady eyes which always seemed to dart and shift, the long claws which fiddled and fidgeted. And, as always, the stench of cheap cologne nabbed from a motel bedstand.

Ratchet breathed in, gritted his fangs. "Sly." He gulped. "What do you want?"

Behind him, the TV went dead. Nothing stirred. It was as though they had all seen a ghost.

The raccoon, bizarrely, had not come in his usual garb. It was common to see him in his flap cap, twiddling the hilt of his shimmering cane. Now, though, he seemed distinctly less impressive. Plain white white, grey slacks. Sly looked as though he'd just stepped out of an office cubicle.

"Or a jail cell." Ratchet warned himself.

Their guest raised a grey palm, leaning his head in, smiling at Clank and Talwyn. "Hiya." He smiled nervously, speaking slow and soft. "Been a while, huh? Hey, erm, Ratchet. Could I, I mean," he sighed, his eyes dropping, "can I come in, man? Just for a minute? Just to talk?"

Baffled, and half sure it was all a horrible dream, Ratchet stepped aside.

Sly walked beneath the threshold, but did not strut as he used to. His shoulders were hunched up, his step less sure. "Nice place." He remarked, looking all around. "Real nice place, man. You've done well for yourself out here, I'm happy for you."

"NOSILVERWARE!" Ratchet blurted out before he could stop himself.

The raccoon flinched back. "What?"

"We don't keep any silverware here." He repeated, finding a little courage. "We eat take-out most nights. And we don't have any cash hidden under our beds, or stuffed under the couch, or whatever."

Sly shook his head, his pointy ears drooping a little. "C'mon," he winced, "c'mon, now. It ain't like that, man."

Behind him, Talwyn sprung to her feet. Her teal eyes bulging. "Oh, no?" She roared. "Remember back when I was single? Remember when you ran that dating agency?" Sly mumbled something inaudible. "Remember how much money I paid up front?"

"Yeah." Sly squeaked, shrinking inwards.

"How much?" She prodded. "Come on, tell me. How much money did I give you. The exact amount."

His shoulders shrugged. "Five-hundred bucks."

"Five-hundred bucks." Spat Talwyn. "And who'd you set me up with? Who was it again? A rich, successful actor? And who actually turned up? A cardboard cut-out of Ted Danson. Which I had to sign for!"

"And when I wanted a dog." Clank scowled. "What was I provided with, instead? An anatomically incorrect drawing. Dogs do not have tentacles."

"My niece drew it." Sly fumbled, not knowing where to look. "She was really into Manga at the time, and - "

"To Hell with your niece." Growled Talwyn.

"So there's no dog?" Moped Clank.

With a sigh, Ratchet spoke up, veiling his face with his hands. "Why'd you come here?" He grumbled. "Last time we met, you were going to be this big movie star, and then nothing. So, unless you've got some money, or a spare sports car maybe, I don't think we've got much to say to each other."

"No money." Sly mourned, his head hanging low. "No sports cars, either. Hollywood doesn't want me anymore. And things were going so well, too."

"So how'd you screw it all up?" Asked Ratchet. "Drugs? Booze?"

"What? No!" Balked Sly. "Brendan Fraser. Buddy comedy. Massive disaster. Look, I don't want to talk about it. Point is, after I was ran out of town, things got worse. I found myself wandering every back alley from here to Syracuse, playing the evil boyfriend in some British soap opera, and, at my lowest ebb, I even took a job in Call of Duty."

They all gasped.

"I lost the fire, man." Sly sulked. "Like, there was no point to nothing. I was dead, I was DEAD dead. I saw the white light, my life flashing, everything, and then, out of nowhere, it happened."

Ratchet raised an eyebrow. "What?"

The raccoon took his shoulder, stared deep in his eyes, and smiled. "I found Jesus!"

"You can meet anyone in a perp-walk." Scoffed Talwyn.

"The JC saved me." Sly explained, nodding sagely. "I have seen the light, my friends! And now I know what I have to do, I have to find everyone I screwed over, and ask their forgiveness. So, how bout it? Ratchet? Clank? Tal?"

"Talwyn." She hissed.

"Will you forgive me?" Begged Sly, arms outstretched. "Will you forgive a damn fool raccoon who's sorry? Will you accept my apology? For Jesus?"

Ratchet scratched his head. "Uh, I'm actually agnostic, so..."

Tutting, the raccoon took his hand, and held it tight. "This isn't about religion." Ratchet blanched, noticing the sparkle of fresh tears in his eyes. "This is about me making everything right, and turning over a new leaf. And I have a lot to say sorry for. To you, especially. For being so arrogant, so stuck-up, for that time I stole your hat, and tried to con you into giving me power of attorney, and all those rumours I've been spreading about you on the internet."

"Wait, what?"

"Just a lot of nonsense about gerbils and funnels, that's not the point." Sly waved away the subject. "I'm just asking for a clean slate. Haven't you ever wanted that? Haven't you ever made mistakes? Done something wrong? Wanted to atone?"

He nodded to himself, looking away. In his mind, he could hear old voices, one of them his own. He could see Alister, desperate and clinging, manipulating him like a puppet. He could see Clank, leaving, vanishing, as he stood there, just gawking away. He could see himself, pining for a world he had never known, pushing others away, abandoning them.

"Ratchet," Sly whispered, "I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes, tried to smile. "Okay."

For Talwyn and Clank, that seemed to be enough. With smiles on their face, they walked over and shook his hand. Apologies were made, and whilst no friendships were forged, those apologies were accepted. By the time the raccoon left, the air seemed sweeter, and all their arguing over Star Wars suddenly didn't seem quite so important.

"Whew!" Ratchet exhaled, shutting the door behind Sly. "That was different, huh?"

Clank called his name.

"Y'know," he chuckled, resting his head against the wood, "I had that guy figured wrong. Well, not for the first ten years I knew him. For the first ten years he was pretty awful. But now?"

Talwyn gave a sharp whistle, waved her arms.

"Now," Ratchet mused, turning around, "I can really say, hand-on-heart, that Sly Cooper is a WHERE'S THE TV?"

There was nothing left but an empty space. It was gone. Gone along with that galaxy far, far away. Gone along with Luke and Vader. Gone, right along with those damned Ewoks.

The window was open. It had been a hot day. And that was all he needed. A distraction, turned backs, and a few seconds.

Cursing, spitting, hissing, they all peered out through the frame, and glared down, down to the street and beyond all the tiny heads. A van was moving fast, and someone was hanging from the back. Someone clad all in blue, leaning against a blurred speck of gold, which might well have been a cane, and waving.

"Ratchet," Talwyn whispered, massaging her temple, "that gun you've been working on. How much longer til it's ready?"

"Bout three hours." He sulked.

Smiling doggedly, she clapped him on the shoulder, gifting the fleeing van with a creative hand gesture. "Make it one."