Paris, a city of many sides, offering many treasures.

An elegant city, built with an eye for beauty from its gothic styled buildings and monuments to its balcony-spotted luxury homes and tree lined boulevards. A city of fine cuisine and art where patrons sipped wine before the works of the greatest artistic hands of the ages. A city of fashion, where godly garments and haute couture could be spotted on any person walking a sidewalk like a runway. A city of romance, blossomed between any two in the span of a single day. No tourist description or postcard could do its picturesque magnificence justice.

Every road sparkled, every pebble glittered; no wonder it was referred to as The City of Light. Yet as any with eyes could tell, the brightest lights cast dark shadows.

There was no treasure on Earth, let alone the city of Paris, that existed without a thief willing to steal it. If anyone hoped to sleep at all with their feathery beds of wealth intact, they would have to deal with noise from helicopters and police cars vigilantly scanning the streets for criminals lying in wait.

How sad for them that criminals were a crafty bunch and found a workaround.

There was a casino hotel on the western side of the city; its erotic woman-shaped neon sign looked able to reach its hands out and snatch every penny from every entering gambler. Its ringing slot machines, cluttered card tables, and spinning roulette wheels were all just veiled claws raking in coin from suckers looking for a quick fill for their wallets.

Any casino like it was just the same, the moment people entered, they made themselves part of a dangerous game with little to gain and much to lose. But in places like this, late at night, the thrill of the game was near tangible. It was easily mistaken for the cigar smoke or thick perfume intoxicating the room in spite of the active fans. Any gambling done here was done half-minded but not half-hearted, as victory was no more tempting than here.

Sadly, sounds of victorious laughter here were few and far-between. This casino had several rumors surrounding it that the machines were heavily rigged, leaving players with slim chances for winnings. The employees at the card tables were said to have cards up their sleeve, but players never caught so much as a single stray flick of the wrist. Too many violations of gaming law to count, yet the lawyers behind the place kept it all safely tucked under Interpol's nose.

From a balcony above came the owner of the casino, a weasel that looked as the full definition of gaudy. Dressed in a gaudy suit with a golden tooth flashed from his arrogant smirk, with rings on every finger and a smoking cigar in mouth. He perked up his ears, honing them with gleefully rapt attention for the sound of every machine at work.

"Hear that, Jerry?" He spoke to a rat standing behind him in a gangster-esque voice. "That's the sound of sweet, sweet moolah comin in."

"Uh, it's Terry, sir."

"Whatever… how's the profits this month? Plenty o' zeroes, I hope."

"Well, sir." He pulled out a tablet and typed at the screen. "'S looking like we lost a few thousand in the last couple of weeks."

The weasel crunched the butt of his cigar. "What'cha tryin ta tell me, Gary? 'Cause it don't sound too much like 'big bucks.'"

"Ah, Terry, sir… and well, Mr. Benedict, our loss of profits might be because Interpol doubling down on its investigations are getting people to buy into the rumors about the casino."

"Feh, mess with a few machines to hold out on winnings and suddenly you're a criminal." He spit out a puff of smoke. "What kinda world we livin' in, Barry?"

"Terry."

"Don't care."

"Mr. Benedict, at this rate it won't be long before Interpol finds out what we're up to. What… you're up to."

"Uh-uh," said Benedict with his cigar out and pointing towards the rat. "You ain't jumpin' ship. Just keep yer tail on. I pay my lawyers good money; they'll keep all this under wraps."

"Thank god I'm no lawyer…" Terry muttered stuffing his tablet away.

"Now den. All my guys know dat if there's one thing I hate, it's havin' a light wallet. So, what can we do ta get business boomin' round here?" Benedict smoked. "I'm thinkin' 'infomercial:' get some hot chicks, dress 'em up Broadway-style, and then we get ta the good stuff!"

"Yeah, that sounds cheap…"

The weasel's eye and whiskers twitched. "You got a better idea, Harry?"

"Terry."

"Still don't care."

"Well, sir, for a more cost-effective idea, we could always-" The rat's voice was cut off by an abrupt beep from the device attached to his ear. "Yes?... What? Could you possibly be a little more specific than 'suspicious activity?"

Those last two words caught Benedict's attention. A former underling for one of the local mob bosses, his status and success were not obtained without tears, sweat, and sacrifice, specifically scraping for favors from numerous thugs. Most of these favors had already been paid off or the ones asking were now rotting in cells. He had wisely urged himself to form a sixth sense when fate had turned fickle and some came deciding to collect again for whatever reason.

"I don't really think I should have to remind you of your job description as head of security! If there's someone lurking around a restricted area, shoot first, ask questions later!"

The men on the other line obeyed and soon enough the casino became more like a prison on high alert. Security guards dressed in all black were scattered about the grounds, stoic as though the demeanor was a job requirement. Every entrance and exit was blocked by a quickly-filled wall of bodies. Blinding spotlights were aimed directly into the night sky as if to rip patches of light through the star-dotted darkness.

Such a rise in activity gave alert to the people still inside the casino, pausing their futile efforts at every table to rake in their chips. Every last one looked around believing any one of them could spot the source of the disturbance.

"We got a problem, Larry?"

"Terry."

"Seriously, do I look like I give a damn?" He angrily asked. "Wanna tell me why security decided ta give ya a ring?"

"Well, sir." Terry gulped. "It appears security spotted an intruder in the treasure room. Good news is, he didn't get any of the money, just some briefcase."

"WHAT!? He got my case?" Benedict yanked the earpiece out of his assistant's ear and all but screamed. "This here's the boss. Find the rat what tried ta take my briefcase and gun him down! You got me!? Gun him!"

Dashing through the shadows by then, perfectly concealed, said source jumped across the overhead lights without so much as a single creak from the fixtures. Such a being so versed in the ways of stealth was practically invisible to normal eyes, appearing as no more than a blur amongst the forests of light and color. All that gave hint to their presence and caused them to tense was the sound of the rushing wind, the only moving thing in a room where even time had begun to stand still.

At the end of the room, with the silver aura of the moon behind him, he rose to his full height and his beast-like features morphed into those of a man, revealed to no one in particular. From his blue shirt and boots atop his lean furry muscle and ringed tail, to the hard wood cane that glinted a simple gold gleam and the cap that covered his head. And the piercing daredevil gaze and triumphant smile that came with his prize, a small briefcase, safely in hand.

And with a catlike leap from his position, he was gone.

The raccoon thief caught the rope of a chandelier as he descended then flipped over to another light. He twirled his cane in hand as a small beep came in from his own earpiece. "Cyber Wiz to Shadow Hawk," came a hushed nasally voice from the other end. "Come in, Shadow Hawk. Do you read me, over?"

"You really need to cut back on the spy stuff, it's starting to look like an addiction." Joked the raccoon in a suave tone.

"Excuse me? I never hear you complaining on movie night!"

"Nor do you hear me coming up with dumb code names. Seriously, Shadow Hawk?"

"Whatever, Sly!" The voice shouted in frustration. "Just tell me you got what we came here for."

"Do you even have to ask, Bentley?" Sly's confirming knock on the metal shell of the case gave Bentley's ears the proof he needed. "Security around this thing was pretty weak, too. It's like ol' Benedict left a note saying, 'please rob me!'"

"Well, now that he's got all his guards on patrol, you'll definitely be getting some excitement. Be sure to stick to the plan and meet me and Murray at the rendezvous point."

"Aw, come on! You can't expect a master thief to walk out of a ritzy place like this with just a briefcase! The night's young, pal, and seeing as how our weasel friend is in such a generous mood…"

"You know we're only here for the briefcase, Sly! Just this once, let's quit while we're ahead!"

"Not really our style." Sly shrugged.

"Alright, clearly it once again falls on me to deliver to you the proper incentive. Take a listen to this." At that point, Bentley's voice disappeared, replaced with garbled static that varied in volume making Sly cringe. There were clear signs of a conversation going on, yet only bits and fragments of speech came across." 'Suspect,' 'disturbance,' 'west side,' 'Cooper Gang.' "That is the admittedly obscure sound of Interpol hot on our tails, a hundred cops and their now standard issue shock pistols strong. So unless the idea of a law-enforcing legion looking to drag you to the slammer in chains is by some disturbed stretch of the imagination appealing to you-"

"What can I say? I'm irresistible."

"For crying out loud, get moving! We'll provide support from our ends."

"Copy that, Wiz." Sly humorously saluted. "Hawk taking flight, over and out."

"Now you go along with it..."

Sly shut off his communicator and proceeded to leap across the lights with such cursive agility and grace, a feather's touch would have caused greater disturbance. With his cane stretched far he grabbed high-up ledges and swung across the hanging cables. Each effortless movement he made seemed to come with centuries of rehearsed refinement negating any physical law that raised its voice against it.

"Sly!" Came in Bentley's voice from the earpiece again. "Looks like Murray managed to get most of the security looking the other way. You should be all clear to head out."

The master thief had landed perfectly on a single point on a flashing structure when the call came in after an Olympic-class backflip. He offered a quick "thanks, pal" and proceeded down a row of similar structures, hitting their points within the split second their lights came alive. As soon as he leapt atop a wide balcony, he locked on to the passage with 'EXIT' above it in large flashing letters past a flimsy barricade of velvet rope and a small row of stairs.

The raccoon dropped down from the railing and strolled down with a happy tune whistled from his lips. His tail's twitch at the presence of danger was gone, lifting his spirits at the apparent ease. But Sly had a way of knowing when things were easy because he made it that way, or when it strangely was too easy.

"HOLD IT!"

And almost from out of nowhere, two security guards ran out from the sides. They came armed with beat sticks coursing with electricity, like lightning bolts in their firm grips. Sly dropped the happy tune with a slow whistle, looking snide when another guard dropped behind him from the next story.

"Bentley, do we need to have a word about your interpretation of 'all clear?'"

"Sorry… ol' Benedict's a little more paranoid than I thought…"

From the upper level came the weasel in question along with his assistant. He gave a toothy wild-eye smirk down at Sly and puffed from his cigar. "Well, well, well, ain't this somethin' fer late night news? Folks'll be pretty impressed hearin' my joint got a visit from the Sly Cooper."

"I wouldn't go sticking that on any billboards, pal." Sly mocked. "My gang and I have a bit of a theme when it comes to what we do."

"He has a point, sir." Terry said from behind.

"Shut it, Mary."

"SERIOUSLY!? That's a woman's name!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know how you and your buddies operate." Benedict ignored his associate as he smoked out a large plume from his cigar, the fire in the tobacco still lit as he put it aside. "But, no, I'm thinkin' they hear this is where Sly Cooper bit the dirt, an' I practically got me a national landmark on my hands!"

"Yeah, 'cause nothing says 'tourist magnet' like a corpse…" Sly deadpanned.

"But, I tell ya what?" The weasel leaned down onto the railing with his past nerves dispelled, like all the cards were in his hand. Oh, how many of Sly's opponent's in the past had made the same mistake. "You give me back that there briefcase and we go our separate ways. Live an' let live, right? Fuggetaboutit. I might even cover fer yer mangy hide when yer lady friend at Interpol comes a shootin'…"

"Hey, next to getting the goods, that's my favorite part of the job! Although…"

Sly popped his cane hard on the ground to issue the challenge with the crack upon the hard floor. At the instant it returned to his hand, he shot free into a quadruple-leap flowing freely in midair landing precisely onto the charging lead guard's stone shoulders. It added to his frustration when Sly dodged the ribbons of voltage surging from his flailing stick by purposeful hairs, twirling and dancing with old-timey poise. He ducked limbo low beneath another swing with a smile flashed at his victim's face and hooked his cane onto the guard's uniform. A leap backward followed with the momentum launching the guard upward and down hard onto the ground, unconscious and groaning.

"This comes as a close third." Sly smiled giving a tilt of his cap with his cane's hook to show his daring glare.

Benedict growled, biting his cigar so hard it fell to the floor. "DON'T JUST STAND DERE, YA MOOKS! GET HIM!"

The remaining guards charged at him, their sticks raised high in near slow-motion. The electricity flashed dangerously, almost coursing through their very arms, adding to their swings. Sly gave a mildly interested grin. Deadliness was part of the appeal, he always thought.

His cane brought the guard's arm down, and a whack to his face followed by a swift kick to his midsection brought the rest of him tumbling after. His stick came into contact with the guard behind him, electrocuting him and knocking him out. A third guard came running to Sly's mere stroll forward, but the raccoon's single handled cane casually swiped from under his feet, tripping him. He bonked him once with the hook, then again with the end, and ended with a reach into the guard's pockets just as he fell limp. His airborne wallet landed right into Sly's gloved palm just as he collapsed.

"Thank you for your generous donation, Mr. Benedict." He said storing the wallet away into a red pouch on his left leg and raised the briefcase again. "Every little bit helps."

"GAAAAAHH!" Benedict screamed and grabbed his assistant by his collar. "YOU! Get every guard down here now! I want that raccoon dead, you hear me!? DEAD!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

Sly took that as his cue to exit. He back flipped up onto a nearby light fixture, then up again to the third level. The two watched as the thief escaped through an open exit right behind him. "As they say in Paris, au revoir."

"YOU AIN'T GETTING' AWAY THAT EASY, COOPER!"

The back room that Sly escaped to was nothing like the lit room behind him. A dance floor of lavish decor for the rampant waltzes of joy and greed was all just a heavily financed façade for this stark reality. Thick murk keeping even one's hand out of sight, with grungy grease-coated pipes behind protective fences humming and sucking heat away from the glamorous casino floor below. Flickering lights above one's head would only expose the grimy environment for a second before darkness overtook the senses again. Sly mentally gave blessings to his species' natural night-vision abilities, like seeing the truth past the glitter and glamour.

According to Bentley's layout, he was near the back computer rooms where numbers were crunched and finances kept in check. The exit wasn't much further. Just a run around and he would be back near the front.

"Bentley, I'm in the back room," Sly chimed in. "Got a heads-up on any trouble?"

"I've hacked into the cameras. Looks like Benedict's got every nook and cranny covered by guards, and they're packing more than just sticks this time!"

"I see what you mean." Sly had been running down steps and through the hall throughout the entire conversation. He thrust himself behind a nearby crate when he noticed an armed guard at the end of a hallway. "Think that big brain of yours could lend a helping thought?"

"I'll do you one better."

An explosion sounded nearby, frighteningly loud even with all the walls muffling the sound. The guard was so startled his rifle fell from his hand and ran towards the source. Sly watched his retreating figure and shook his head with a smile. "That Bentley… always gotta do things big…"

Sly's friend in question walked, or more accurately rolled out of the smoke caused by his distracting detonation. Given how close the turtle man was when he set the bombs to blow up the building HVAC, his safari outfit and technologically enhanced wheelchair only suffered light coatings of dust that he brushed away. He gave his pith helmet and glasses slight adjustments and scooted behind a wall before any of the janitors or guards could catch him.

The pipe-lined room Bentley wheeled through had little difference to Sly's dungeon-like pathway, the sole exception being better lighting. The littered tarps and tools lying around staining a floor of solidified dirt made the area no more sinister than it was just messy, and Bentley, having moved through sewers and underground hideaways, knew messy. He was just glad that this time, he was dealing with decade-old dust and the occasional whiff of dead-rat, and not the unmistakable eau de latrine.

A keyboard of light appeared on his lap and a screen popped open at his side displaying a map of the area. "The things I do for love…" Bentley muttered. "Alright, Sly, just sit tight. I've got Benedict's hoard thinned out a bit, but there's still some trouble on your side."

"Eh, I need to catch up on the comics anyway."

Bentley shook his head and rolled down the stairs quickly but with memorized navigation. He ducked behind a wall just as the guards passed by. Robotic limbs emerged from the back of his chair, their digits spreading out and locking into place around a small hole in the center. He took aim processing equations and angles of trajectory in milliseconds, and with a click the darts fired, striking the guards and knocking them out cold.

"Technology, what would I do without you?" Bentley said chuckling as he rolled away.

"Stop the presses, you sound like you're enjoying yourself."

"What in the name of Newton's Third Law could lead you to make an assumption like that?"

"Wasn't that your 'I sleep-darted some moron' chuckle? Sure, it sounds like your 'I can do advanced calculous in my sleep' guffaw but you learn to pick up on those distinctive tones."

Bentley sighed. "You know me like a book."

Sly raised an interesting point if only as a joke. Sometimes, the boldness with which he could perform such actions as incapacitating a person was startling. There was once a time where, as the resident brain, his talents were best put to use behind a computer screen in whatever hole served as their temporary hideout. It helped as the unstable road of their career in thievery provided challenges that forced him out of his comfort zone. The resulting experience took his nerves and common criminal elements and assembled them into a time-tested system.

He continued down towards a seemingly empty hallway. Nothing but a wide stretch forward across cement so coated in dust and footprints it blended into one muddy color in between two poster-littered walls. A welcome pause in the gauntlet, for some. But Bentley's glasses weren't so rose-colored as to believe it.

Questioning what lied on the surface made up the prime core of knowledge in his opinion, especially when failing to do had led to some of the greatest setbacks in his own life. More than his genius, he thought solemnly, had been tested throughout the years when those variables presented themselves. The surprise twists that led to his physical confinement left with nothing but his gadgetry and steeled resolve made preparation and doubt all but virtues.

"Ah, an invisible laser array." He noticed with the infrared display of his computerized binoculars, the Cooper Gang's invaluable Binocucom. "Nice try, but you can't trick a turtle."

With technology as his beacon, Bentley swerved and scooted past the grid. The wheels of his chair slid low allowing him to duck, jumped up with that little bit of turbo juice, and the arms grabbed him by the waist tossing him up high. It made him feel like a lump of dough or rag doll being tossed. His wheelchair actually had such a defect once when he first upgraded it, but like all other glitches, Bentley found a way to make it work.

He made it to the end of the hall and found the elevator. Rather archaic with those gated bars, and definitely creaky once he got it working, but it got him down to the lower level well enough. The door to the computer room down below was flung open with all the screens frozen in mid-use, papers tossed on the floor, and not a soul around.

"Perfect. That bomb scare should still have them running like headless turkeys." He cracked his knuckles and gave a confident grin moving to the nearest computer. "Now, while the staff is away, the hackers will play."

The way the brilliant turtle saw it, sleight of hand and fleetness of foot had their use, but such things made no difference to him when fleetness of fingers could fizz firewalls and corrode away codebases in mere moments. Complicated servers and algorithms in Bentley's bespectacled eyes became a low-graphic video game where breaking through the danger-riddled cyberspace was no more challenge for him and his digital avatar than merely gaining top score.

And Bentley always got top score.

"That should take care of that. Sly, what's up on your end?"

"Spotlights over here are going down. Tech saves the day again."

"It's a little too soon to be celebrating. There is still the miniscule matter of the small army right outside the casino ready to blow us to Kingdom Come."

"Right. Time to call in some big guns of our own."

"Alright Murray, you know the drill. Get in there and go wild on those guys." Bentley rang in through the earpiece.

"Got it, chum! 'The Murray's' going Animal Kingdom on these lightweights!"

The stylized van tore up the road well enough with tire tracks like claw marks. It plowed through the grounds wrapped in a veil of exhaust fumes reducing the décor and spotlights to ruin. Just racking up points in dent form as the driver swerved and skidded to a halt.

Thick smoke curtains finally drew past to reveal the team van, painted with cliché flames along the hood and a raccoon's stylized face on the side. Dents and patches of oil and grime along its from and cracks in the headlights were symbolic of not only severe disrepair but the many adventures the team spent globetrotting in that rickety vehicle. And despite all its damages and its relative size, it hummed and roared with the ferocity of a monster truck.

In an instant the dangerous vehicle was circled by fifty or so guards. Unsteady hands at the triggers of their rifles guaranteed a shooting whether or not the driver emerged. Anxious breaths in the seconds passed turned to near-hyperventilation.

CRASH!

The door swung open and a large pink mass shot out like a cannon.

"Fear 'The Murray!"

That unlucky guard right in the way got an unexpected visit from a red gloved fist, knocking sever teeth out in the entry. Towering in triumph over his unconscious form with a foot on his chest stood the mighty pink hippo. A red mask and gloves, white racing scarf, blue shirt and belt, this third criminal had all the garb of a champion clothing him, like stepping out of the ring while still being somewhere in it. For a while he stood flexing, basking in the identifying lights as some uncrowned king.

"You chumps ready!?" Boomed Murray's raucous voice. "Here's the thunder that'll send you under! THUNDER FLOP!"

A shockwave of a gust ejected from his rotund body suddenly launched upward. The hippo came crashing down atop multiple guards with audible cracks in their bones, like the impact of an earthquake onto a single point. Bouncing in recoil he saw them turned flatter than pancakes.

"Oh, YEAH!" He shouted to the rest. "Behold 'The Murray's" magnanimous magnitudinal might! Your boss is gonna have to peel you off the sidewalk after that thrashing!"

Out of fear, the guards forgot the long-range capabilities and charged in all at once. Good. Murray liked a close-quarters fight more than anything else. They came at him and he countered with a hard left-right-left, each guard was out with a single punch.

Left punch, right jab, left blow, right uppercut. An overhand tossed guard knocking the rest down like bowling pins for good measure. He was firing on all cylinders like his beloved van. "Feel free to get your buddies out! The Murray's always up for cracking a few more skulls!"

Murray found infantile satisfaction in these more intense moments of the mission. As the team's muscle and getaway driver, he found his times to shine were mostly near the end when the theft was successful and all that was left was to dash away laughing into the night with the loot in hand. Prior, he'd tackle the odd job with complex plots and priority stealth pulling his strings. A bit player in the opening act. His assumed character would announce with hard metal limbs thrust forward in a punch that if anything, his edgy and daring talents were the main event.

"That's right! Eat it! Cooper Gang for the win!"

"Murray, heads up!"

Bentley's warning screamed as guards rained from above. It seems they had heeded the hippo's earlier request as they surged from the building. They had jumped forward to dogpile the mighty hippo as a last resort. One by one their bodies piled onto him, buckling Murray down to his knees as more and more clambered onto the mass of black. Heavier and heavier like boulders. Until…

"RAAAGGHHH!" With his full juggernaut-level strength, Murray unleashed a powerful spin. The guards were sent flying with explosive force in multiple directions, crashing into metal and stone with loud smashes.

"Behold the Pink Tornado!"

"Uh, yeah. I still say that makes it sound girly." Bentley muttered.

"Okay, so it's a working title! But who says pink can't be a man's color?"

"Let's save the color theory discussion for another time. Looks like you've managed to clear out the last of Benedict's security. We're on the move, so get the van ready for a quick exit."

"On it!" The turtle had no way of seeing, but the confident thumbs-up from his brawny friend managed to seep through.

"Perimeter secure, Sly. Time to blow this place."

"Hope you're not talking literally." As Bentley noted, the raccoon was darting up a flight of stairs. A paltry fraction of Benedict's thugs was still hot on his heels. Only through his veteran levels of agility was he maintaining the distance.

"Of course not! Just hurry up and get down here!"

"Keep your shell on. I'll be down in 8."

"8 MINUTES!?"

"No… seconds."

Sly shoved open the door that lied in wait at the top of the stairs, coming above the balcony overseeing the entrance. Escape lied ahead past a half-mile intangible floor barred by a denying marble railing. Vivid lights shone from the spiral chandeliers like crystalline flames reflecting off hundreds of colored pieces composing the stained glass window at the end. The thief stared ahead at the blinding barrier already feeling caught in the headlights when the foreboding sound of guns clicking came from behind him.

The intrepid smirk that crossed his face was offered as a silent farewell. He leapt onto the railing and ran its distance, jumping and swinging on the chandelier cables when the barrage of gunfire came after. The public down below gasped in anticipation watching the scene. He hopped swiftly along the gem stepping stones and made it to the other side, taking one final amused look at the guards scrambling about in futile hope of capturing him.

He leapt away, crashing through the window and out of reach.

Such an image of the master thief, spinning freely like a leaf in the night wind amidst the twinkling of glass shards. The romance as his silhouette soared past the moon. The mystery to others perceiving nothing but an enigmatic shadow that all but suddenly seemed to burst into reality. The rush of how he laughed in danger's face as gravity would soon take effect. For Sly himself, it was a mixture of all those things and more that made the thief's path ignite the blaze of life in him. Up in the rafters, running across the rooftops, uncertainty in every move he made as he pursued his prize.

There could be no greater joy. Nothing so fulfilling as this dark adrenaline. His face reflected in the polished gold of his cane showed him there could be no other life for him.

He somersaulted down and tumbled onto the base of the sign just outside. The glass shards came down after him like falling stardust. He remained low almost waiting for some final twist to come. And sure enough, it came as a flash of multiple spotlights and a rigid resonance of blaring sirens mere feet below him.

From amidst the gathered battalion of policemen came a female fox of electrifying beauty, armed with a dangerous-looking pistol. Garbed in gloves, long pants, knee-high boots and a long jacket gave the impression she harshly severed any emotions that might hinder the fierce dedication to her work. But the curves of her figure and curling blue locks gave the clear hint she was a woman nonetheless. A woman cop looking for years on end to slap the cuffs on the thief currently in her sights.

"Hitting a casino, ringtail?" She spoke though the megaphone handed to her in a seductive but firm Hispanic voice. "A little cliché, don't you think?"

"Probably. But maybe I like to save the surprises for our get-togethers…" His favorite part of the job, indeed.

"You wanna 'get together?' Come on down into my squad car! We'll have plenty of quality time on our way to your new cell."

"Speaking of clichés… I'm pretty sure you can come up with better romantic settings than prison."

She huffed playfully. "Sure. I just figured you'd care more for getting cozy than getting shocked."

"At this point the only thing that shocks me is how we're not getting cozy together right now. How 'bout it, Inspector Fox? You and me, a night on the town, an accordion playing our song?"

"The only song you should be thinking about is 'Doin' Time!"

"Eh, not my style. How about… 'Bye, Bye, Bye?'"

Sly leapt, keeping his eyes on the female inspector until the last, hoping to see hers behind the shock pistol she aimed right at his face. Before anyone gathered could even blink the master thief had disappeared with the Cooper van as it zoomed by, leaving papers fluttering in the wake. Police cars were already on the move as Benedict and his assistant came running out to hopefully catch their intruders in chains.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Benedict screamed as he saw no trace of the raccoon. "Interpol sends in da troops and Cooper still gets away scot free!?"

"You might as well get used to it, like everyone else." Inspector Fox called.

Benedict threw his cigar down in fury. "Well I trust you clowns are gonna be doin' somethin' about this mess."

"Sure, but you won't be laughing."

"Say wha?"

She flashed her badge out to him. "Our boys did a little investigation and we've got more than enough evidence stacked up. Andrew Benedict, in accordance with federal law, you're under arrest for accounts of illegal gambling. We're shutting you down."

"WHAT!?"

Both men were immediately restrained by officers and shoved down to the cars. The weasel struggled in fury at how his scavenged empire was destroyed in the span of a single night. He glared back at the fox who was issuing commands to the other officers escorting the confused populace out. By the time the both of them handcuffed and in the car, his boiling anger had cooled to a despairing simmer.

"Well, sir." His assistant muttered. "I hate to say I told you so."

"Aw, shut up, Jerry…"

"… MY NAME IS TERRY!"

"Bentley, you owe me big time for this one…"

The raccoon had already crawled into the van, sullen in mood as he looked to his friends. Not even a thrilling chase from Carmelita Fox as he escaped with a briefcase as his only prize. The smooth thrum from the van's metal interior as they slowed to a standard gear in still breakneck speed only hit the dull evening home to the daredevil criminal. Needless to say the evening had not gone as well as he had hoped it would.

"Sorry, Sly." Bentley drawled. "Next time I'll set up a heist at Fort Knox. How does that sound?"

"Seriously!?" His eyes sparkled with excitement.

"You, sir, will be the death of me…"

"Uh, guys?" Murray called from the front at the wheel. "Since we got it and all, shouldn't we checked to see what's inside?"

The two friends looked dumbfounded at Murray and then at each other. They had almost forgotten the innate curiosity they had themselves for the case's contents when they first arrived at the casino. To gamble their freedoms on such a paltry price at the behest of an anonymous caller meant there had to be something of greater value than normal riches inside. Complying, Sly undid the locks on the case and carefully opened it.

But they could never have predicted what was inside.

"GADZOOKS!"

"N-No way…"

"What? What is it? Come on, guys, I'm driving here!"

Sly was disappointed and intrigued all at once when he had felt the unexpected lightness of the case. Nothing but the standard weight carried all throughout the ritzy guard-infested gauntlet. He had never once suspected to only find a scrap of paper inside, but not just any scrap.

It was a calling card, the very same used by the Cooper clan, his lineage, throughout the centuries. The paper was old and worn, its colors dulled, with tears on the edges. But that design of a raccoon's face, cut in that shape, it was unmistakable no matter how its apparent age deluded the senses. As Sly turned it to the back, there was a message written in long-since dried cursive strokes of a different language, but easily recognized by the ring-tailed thief.

"A Cooper is only as skilled as his spoils are valuable. A treasure greater than any other awaits."

Hello again, Fanfiction! Hope you've enjoyed this first chapter of Secret of the Kings. It was a bit of a dream project so to speak from a few years back, and now I'm excited to share with you now. You can consider this another one of those 'what-if' stories. As in what if that cliffhanger at the end of Sly 4 never happened. That issue may very well be resolved whenever Sly 5 comes out, so maybe consider this a Sly 6?

To elaborate, I once conceived this as a possible plot for a Sly Cooper television series, but after a few years of letting the idea simmer, I decided to flesh it out. This along with my other new story, dedicated to a lesser-known anime called Future Card Buddyfight, are written with a bit more confidence compared to my improvised HTTYD stories.

Also, with news on the status of the Sly Cooper movie, let alone any news on Sly Cooper in general, being lacking as it is, I have decided to share this with all the Sly fan groups I'm a part of on Facebook. The main Sly fan page, the Sly Cooper 5 Fan Group, and 'I Want Sly Cooper in his Own Animated Series,' where the idea was first posted. Fanfiction is advertisement in itself done by the fans, as a coworker of mine described it. So consider this something to enjoy until the movie comes, whenever it may come.

Any questions or comments, feel free to post them in the review section or in a PM. As I usually say, review, favorite, follow! This is Chaos, signing out for now.