Zer0, a sly cooper fanfic

This idea was pitched to me by slycooperandcarlosfox on Tumblr, so full credit to them. As soon as I heard it, I had to write it as a fic. Please enjoy your horrendous villain angst c:

Clockwerk's life was numbers.

That was true of him even before he replaced his brain with cold, perfect steel. He may have been organic once, but even in those days he had held himself to strict standards. Robotic standards. Perfection.

As time rolled by, as flesh gave way to metal, Clockwerk found that numbers were the way forward. Gold pieces to roubles. V to 5 to 00110101. Years to decades to centuries to millennia.

Coopers killed.

It was never enough. There was always a descendant, a cousin, another branch on their disgusting family tree. But that was fine. He was eternal. Endless. Everlasting. He would surpass them all. And he had plenty of time for pruning.

That was why Clockwerk was immortal. That was why he had to be immortal. He could not let them win. He could not allow their name to eclipse his, not when they were so much worse than his perfection; talentless insects, crude, simplistic filth.

He despised them.

That hatred sustained him, ensured his supremacy. But it did not end the fight. The Coopers were tricksy opponents. Cunning. Sly. They were defiant to the last, every one, and never accepted their ends gently. That was good. That kept it interesting.

But even still, a being like Clockwerk – a perfect creature, transcending mortal thought – had room in his limitless mind for... boredom. Centuries of victories, perfect, inevitable victories, began to grow dull. Every triumph bleeding into the last, a vague continuum of dying raccoons.

So he had began to experiment.

He had long ago pinpointed the means through which the Coopers preserved what could charitably described as their 'knowledge'; a scrapbook of scrawlings they called the Thievius Raccoonus. He was aware it contained their history, their techniques. A series of horror stories about Clockwerk himself. All unfinished.

This was how the Coopers sustained their lineage, passing a torch from one generation to the next in a pathetic attempt to contest him. To stand against an immortal, perfect foe. It would be all too easy to destroy it outright. But Clockwerk was above such thinking.

Instead, more than once, he had separated a Cooper nestling from the book before they had a chance to learn from it. This early method, as expected, was ineffective. Stealing their precious little scrapbook led to the predictable result of the elder Cooper (or Coopers) stealing it back. No matter how securely Clockwerk contained it, they would find a way. They were driven.

There was a simple solution to this problem.

The second model entailed murdering the parental Coopers immediately. Preferably in front of the child, to maximise psychological trauma. Clockwerk was beyond attachments. He felt no remorse or loss. But he knew that lesser beings did. The Coopers especially. Empathy was always their weakness.

That accomplished, the nestling would be left bereft of both parents and the Thievius Raccoonus. But there again, the Coopers defied him. They had an uncanny ability to find each other, drifting together as if by magnetism. The nestling may be without parents, but they would find an uncle or aunt. A cousin. Some elder relative, no matter how physically and biologically distant, would step in and help them reclaim the book.

There was a simple solution to that as well.

And so Clockwerk's final model was set into place. Every branch of the Cooper tree cut short with his razor-sharp talons. All but one.

His test subjects.

The wife killed in the hallway, before she could arm herself, screaming her defiance in vain. The father killed soon after, a frenzied and pitiful defence of his home. The book claimed and scattered. And the nestling spared, but left with nothing. An orphan. A loose end, without a destiny.

And yet again, Clockwerk was defied.

He had known this was coming. He had known the moment he learned Raleigh had fallen, captured by police after an interloper infiltrated his stronghold and destroyed his operation. Clockwerk had known what that meant. He had known. From the start.

So he had been unsurprised as the data continued to come in, following the most statistically likely pattern. Muggshot, Mz Ruby, the Panda King. All defeated. All shown – proven to be weak.

They were insects to him. But they were useful insects, insects who served a purpose. They were talented in their own insignificant, insect ways. This newest Cooper would suffer for his arrogance.

He despised him.

This upstart, this youngest of weaklings, this 'Sly Cooper' had breached his home. His lair. Transgressed and violated. But Clockwerk had allowed for that. He had planned. Foresaw this possibility, remote as it was.

The data was clear. This Cooper was just like the others. Irrational, driven by emotion and lust. No logic. No pure, cold brain of gleaming metal. Only blood and hormones.

Clockwerk had pinpointed this Cooper's weakness. His object of desire. A vixen. An officer of the law. Clockwerk did not find the irony amusing. It was merely another testament to the bizarre stupidity of the Cooper line.

This officer was strong. Passionate. She fought tooth and claw. But no mortal could contest Clockwerk's power. So the officer had become a hostage. His bait. Rudimentary, but efficient. Sly Cooper walked straight into a trap – knowingly into a trap, unwilling to discard his empathy, unwilling to do what was logical and safe – and choked on a neurotoxin of Clockwerk's own design. He had watched it. He had laughed.

And yet again, Clockwerk was defied.

Little friends. Sly Cooper had little friends, reaching into Clockwerk's machines and rubbing their dirty hands on his perfect software. Violating his code. The gas valve shut off. Sly Cooper and the hostage recovered. They rallied and regrouped and stood before Clockwerk. Ants. Ants with a death wish.

And now they were fighting. Now Clockwerk's Death Ray, the finest device he had yet produced, lay in ruins. Now Sly Cooper had commandeered a jet-pack – an advanced model, with an integrated weapons system, cutting edge – and was facing him in an aerial battle. Directly over the Krakarov Volcano, directly over the caldera, directly over the lava.

And now the hostage was shooting at him, creating fleeting, unimportant gaps in his invincible armour. Allowing Sly Cooper to press the advantage with the tiny, insignificant cannons on his little jet-pack. They were actually doing some damage. He had underestimated him. Underestimated them both. This one was clever.

Not that he was about to admit it.

"You're the weakest Cooper I've yet encountered," he drawled, his voice echoing through the boiling air. He saw Sly Cooper's face flicker, darkening with concentration. Trying to ignore the taunt. Trying to ignore the implication, his inferiority, the crushing weight of his ancestor's achievements.

Fool. In his isolation, his brief lifetime, he had only myths to go on. Only knew his family's deeds through the histories they themselves had written.

Only Clockwerk knew. Only Clockwerk understood how pathetic they truly were.

Still, Sly Cooper, burdened with false glory, opposed him. Channelled every ounce of his idiot courage and faced him down, dodging Clockwerk's blasts and moving to counter-attack.

He despised him.

The battle had only begun. If Clockwerk felt truly endangered – as impossible a scenario as that seemed – he would respond with the appropriate force. But he doubted that would be necessary. This Cooper was weak. Insignificant. Perhaps a vague improvement on his forebears, but ultimately just another mortal.

And so he would be made to suffer. Clockwerk would defeat him thoroughly, humiliate him, drag him through a nightmare that would follow him forever.

He would leave here. Not without scars. Not without fear. He would never dare challenge Clockwerk's perfection again.

But he wouldn't die. Not here. Not until 2013 at the earliest, having produced approximately three heirs to the Cooper line. From more than one partner, judging from his psychological profile.

The Coopers were disgusting, they were wretched little creatures worthy only of death. But in an ironic twist, they had become... significant. Necessary. They were the kindling upon which the beautiful fire of Clockwerk's mind burned.

Clockwerk was intelligent. Clockwerk was the most intelligent entity to ever exist. And in his Socratic wisdom, his infinite and incomparable capacity to be humble, he was aware of... well. 'Weaknesses' and 'flaws' were not applicable terms. Not applicable because he was perfect and perfection was flawless was strength. More accurate to say that he understood himself. How he operated. What drove him.

And so Clockwerk understood that the Coopers had become his fuel. Destroying them was his literal raison d'etre. This was not a major issue. No problem could withstand Clockwerk's limitless mental capacity. It was merely a matter of finding a new project, something that could instil in him the same necessary passion to sustain the workings of his Hate Chip.

He had yet to find such a project. He would. He was perfect. But few things ignited his insides than his sheer disgust for the Cooper Clan. They were, for the moment, necessary.

So Sly Cooper would not die. Not here. Not yet. All part of Clockwerk's plan. His perfect plan.

His attacks were intricately planned and flawlessly executed. He was firing bursts of plasma, flashy and deadly, but slow. Convincing, but manageable. More than manageable. For a Cooper.

He would scare him. He would attack until Sly Cooper lost his moronic resolve and turned tail. Did the rational thing. The emotive thing. The obvious choice for even his primitive brain. Clockwerk knew exactly what he was doing. Clockwerk was in complete control.

And then, suddenly, he wasn't.

He was falling. Air, too hot, rushing past him. His wings and external engines, both of them were - no, not failing, perfect things by definition did not fail. Sly Cooper was not beating him. No Cooper had ever beaten him. No Cooper could.

And yet the lava loomed.

Clockwerk slammed in the volcano and instantly the heat crushed him, his wounds open and vulnerable to the molten rock. It was agonizing. He had not felt physical pain for well over a century, and now he was plunged straight into hell.

But that wasn't the problem. Despite the sheer pain coursing through what passed for his nerves, his attention was elsewhere. A greater threat. A greater issue. Looming.

He was losing.

He did not panic. Clockwerk was far too perfect to ever succumb to such primitive – everything – ludicrous, really. But there was definite – definite – definite – concern. Awareness.

It was time to re-evaluate the situation. He knew that. He knew that from the hatred.

It felt different now. It was no longer cold, as cold and unbending as Clockwerk's perfect metal form. It was hotter. Volatile. Boiling and liquid like the lava surrounding him. It did not stay in one – it was – Clockwerk could not – hated him so much. There was feeling inside him, lurching sensation where his organs used to be. His Hate Chip whirred and burned and screeched and and andand

Clockwerk arose from the lava. The fight was not over. The fight was – Clockwerk prevailed. Always. Eternal. Always.

And now Sly Cooper, in his endless arrogance, was actually asking Clockwerk a question, questioning him, posing a question. He wanted to know Clockwerk's logic, wanted to know why he was alive. Clockwerk could have killed him. Clockwerk could have killed him. Clockwerk, in his infinite – intellect refined – so in control of the situation he would even deign to answer him.

"Because I wanted to show the world that without your precious book, the Cooper line was nothing."

And now Sly Cooper was making some petty proclamation of the strength of his pitiful family line, inaccurate causality – incorrect causation – foolishness. Foolishness. Wrong.

"Enough, Sly Cooper! It ends here. I'll finish you like I finished your father. Then the Cooper line will be erased and the only master thief will be Clockwerk."

The fight resumed. Sly Cooper needed to be stopped. He needed to leave. Enough.

Clockwerk activated more weaponry, things he had built mostly out of boredom. Not for self-defence. A perfect being did not require defending. But an imperfect being, a Cooper, a Sly Cooper, sometimes required harsher measures. Required fear. Required destruction.

Erase him.

These electrified rings, larger in diameter than Sly Cooper himself, were designed to destroy aircraft. They would suffice. Be sufficient. Enough.

Clockwerk fired them one at a time, watching as Sly Cooper weaved gracefully through the air. Straight through each harmless centre. Each one. It was clear he had never flown a jet-pack before, and yet he moved with such ease. Everything was always so easy for them. So easy. Everything. Centuries of practice and refinement and practice and practice and everything was so easy for them, his lessers, he was going to die. He was going to die, wasn't he?

"You can't dodge me forever," he spat.

Clockwerk was going to die here. It was over. Sly Cooper, the hostage, the little friends. They were smart. He had underestimated them. Rounding error. They were smart. Resourceful. They had – belay – they had backed him into a corner, and for once, once, Clockwerk was in danger. Clockwerk was in danger. Clockwerk was scared–

The owl roared, a metallic shriek piercing through the air, and fired three rings at once.

His sight, his perfect sight, saw every detail. Saw how Sly Cooper's eyes widened in surprise. Saw how he froze, hands shaking on the controls, for a moment, only a moment. Saw him hesitate and choose the wrong direction.

Saw him fry.

It was too much electricity. Far too much. Designed for aircraft. Clockwerk felt a strange, uncomfortable sensation as he witnessed the raccoon spasm. It only lasted a moment, but for Sly Cooper, it must have been an eternity.

He crumpled.

His hands – his arms his legs – went slack but the jet-pack still flew, now directionless. It spiralled into a tailspin, falling toward the rock. Toward the hostage.

Clockwerk saw how she tensed. His auditory sensors, perfect and precise, picked up her gasp.

He watched as she sprinted for him, moved to intercept him, but she was too slow too slow and it didn't matter anyway, didn't she realize he was already–?

He hit the rock. Head first.

The jet-pack was facing downwards, dragging against the rock, and the hostage ran up and tore it off and dropped her weapon and held Sly Cooper in her arms. She stared.

"Sly...?"

Clockwerk deactivated his weapons. All his weapons. The fight was over. Threat eliminated. Victorious. Again.

"Sly? Sly!"

The hostage was efficient, she – reroute energy – she began to administer corrective procedures. Checking the pulse. Compressing the chest. Mouth to mouth.

Didn't she realize he was already...?

Clockwerk was drifting down. Clockwerk was landing behind the hostage, the, the vixen. She did not turn. She worked. She fought and worked and fought, for Sly Cooper.

"Get up, get up... please... Come on, Ringtail, this isn't funny...!"

Clockwerk stood. It was over. He stood behind her, molten rock still oozing through his circuits. He saw it all. He saw more than she ever could. He saw it with the various sensors built into his... body.

Extensive damage to skull.

Body temperature already lowering.

No heartbeat.

No heartbeat.

It was over. He had won. Victorious, again. It was over. It was over.

The finality hit him at once. The implications, the meaning. In one terrible instant, he understood everything.

"Fix him."

The vixen started at the sound of his voice. She whirled around, glaring through her tears. "What?!"

"Revive him," he said. "He cannot die. Not now. Fix him."

"I... you..." For a moment, she just stared. Nose twitching. She did not understand. Nor would she. They were alien to each other.

Then her emotions, her mind, solidified. There was nothing but fury. Hatred. That, Clockwerk understood.

"You... you did this!" Her hands left Sly Cooper and found her weapon. She stood, rage overtaking all else. "You monster! I'll–!"

Words left her, replaced by a wordless scream of pure anger. Agony. Furious tears. She fired and fired and fired, burning through Clockwerk's armour, his face.

But that wasn't important. Irrelevant. Irrelevant. He felt no pain.

His focus, his brain, all his circuits were fixed on one number. The tally of remaining Coopers. One number. Zero.

Zero.

Zero.

Post Incident Report, ▊▊/▊▊/200▊

Filed by Inspector J. Sterling

Following loss of contact with Inspector C. Fox (see previous report), Interpol Russia received a distress call from her, requesting immediate medical response unit to the Krakarov Volcano. Medical team was dispatched via helicopter, escorted by squad of ▊ Interpol officers under Inspector Sterling.

Fox's location was traced to a strange facility built into the structure of the volcano itself. Investigation of this facility is ongoing, but preliminary searches have revealed several highly dangerous weapons and devices, along with computer drives containing sensitive information. The origins of these are as yet unknown.

Interpol team proceeded through the facility and found Fox next to the body of S. Cooper (see individual case file). Fox reports that Cooper's associates, "Bentley" and "Murray", had also been present. Thus far Interpol has been unable to locate either. Cooper was pronounced dead at the scene.

Fox showed signs of immense psychological distress, worsening when on-site medics confirmed Cooper to be deceased. Following extraction, she submitted herself to psychiatric evaluation. It is the recommendation of Interpol Head of Psychiatry Cts. Dr. E. C ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ [note: may appear in other reports under informal moniker "the Contessa"] that Inspector Fox be placed on medical leave for no less than three weeks.

At time of writing, a wide team of Interpol forensic scientists, software engineers, chemists, mechanics, geologists and bomb disposal specialists are continuing efforts to ensure no active threats remain in the facility. Much of the dangerous technology has been safely deactivated and disassembled. The most striking object, however, continues to defy explanation.

Next to Fox and Cooper was a large metallic structure in the form of an owl. The exact composition of the metal is as yet unidentified, though by all accounts it is incredibly durable, possibly moreso than any other alloy on record.

Fox claims that the object is known as 'Clockwerk', and is in fact the elusive leader of notorious criminal group 'The Fiendish Five' (see collective case file; note lack of detail on fifth member of group). Fox also claims that 'Clockwerk' is directly responsible for Cooper's death, and must stand trial for both this and a multitude of other crimes.

Fox is adamant in her testimony, and some evidence has emerged linking the structure to what little data Interpol has collected on the Five's mysterious leader. For instance, the object has sharpened talons which closely adhere to the wounds suffered by C. Cooper and B. Cooper née Fletcher on the night of their murder (see incident case file for ▊▊/▊▊/199▊).

However, there are two problems with Fox's account. The first is simply the fact that, due to the state of high emotion she is currently undergoing, her testimony is unreliable. This is not helped by the fact that many of her claims – such as 'Clockwerk''s nature as an immortal being who has existed for multiple centuries – are, put kindly, absurd. A full list of these claims is available in Fox's own report, but it is the opinion of the Contessa (and myself) that her ability as an officer has been compromised by the stress of losing Cooper, her long-time target, under violent circumstances.

The second issue is that the object clearly does not possess personhood. It is entirely inert.

Many specialists have approached 'Clockwerk' during the on-site investigation, with several conducting in-depth analyses. At no point has the object responded to stimulus of any kind. Some officers have even attempted speaking to it, following Fox's claim it was sentient. The owl does nothing but lie still. While there is a general consensus among the technical staff that it is some kind of automaton, scans indicate a lack of electrical activity beyond a baseline level.

If it was alive, it's not any more.

ha ha my all-time favourite hero is dead now
do not anticipate a sequel to this