A/N & Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05), Nihilistic Software (2011), and/or Sanzaru Games (2012-Present). I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

Greetings everyone, Deags here with my second Sly Cooper fan fiction. As stated, this one will be very film noir, meaning that this series will be more downbeat, gritty crime, and action-based orientation; like the Hollywood movies of the 1940s (If you're interested, please feel free to read my first Sly Cooper fan fiction, Sly as a Fox, as it's more in canon with the original Sucker Punch Productions' Sly Cooper with humor, clever heists, action, and adventure). Instead there will be death, lamentation, realistic consequences of actions, and much more!

I have decided not to depict the physical sexual content, or use "mature language," (which sucks, because an expletive used at appropriate times can be used to in a dialogue and/or scene to better capture the moment than any long winded paragraph, and in just one word. "Appropriate F-bombs") as I would have to put this story in the M+ section meaning that no one will ever read this. However, there will be some coarse language so if you're offended with it, or if you dislike the idea of your favorite lovable anthropomorphic raccoon cussing, this might not be right for you.

Hopefully I will receive some readers and reviewers, but if I don't, that's fine too. I write because I simply love writing. With that said and done, please enjoy chapter one.

Chapter One: In Medias Res – In the Middle of Things -

"He's driving off in the van! Can you line up a shot?" I questioned into the mic.

"I don't have a clear line of sight with the target, but I can disable the vehicle." A voice on the other end responded back.

I thought it over for a second, "Do it."

There was a soft crack in the air, accompanied by the sound of tires being blown out a fraction of a second later, followed by a screech I likened to a banshee's wail. Try as he might, the driver soon lost control of his vehicle swerving off the dirt road, and plowing through a chain-linked fence. He collided into a shipping truck which had containers loaded onto it. They rained down upon him.

There was a moment of silence, "Visuals?"

"Lost the shot," I heard him say. "Can't see past those containers."

"Cover me," I said. I doubted that anyone caught up in the firefight would notice me stealing across the road forty meters south of their position, but I wanted backup just in case. I eased to my feet and scrambled down the embankment, my cane out. I crossed the street in a crouch, and ducked through the hole that the van had punched through in the fence.

Once inside, I slowed down and moved more cautiously. I held my cane in my right hand, the shaft angled down slightly, and my wrist pressed tight against my chest. My left hand was at chin level and further out from my body, where it could deflect an attack, and keep scar at bay if needed.

The street was well lit, and the container area was dark by comparison. My eyes weren't fully adjusted. The van was obscured by the containers that had fallen around it. I couldn't see the driver-side door.

I moved up slowly, inching forward, my eyes scanning left, right, and center, my cane at the ready tracking my searching vision. Scan and breathe. Front foot down, slide forward. Pause. Check position, and repeat.

Scar's eyes wouldn't be any better than mine were, but I knew the street lights were backlighting me, exposing my position. I needed to move into the dark. I started to circle to my left.

Just as I cleared a container, something hit me in the left ribs like a battering ram, finding its mark between my chin-level free hand and the stomach leveled cane. There was an explosion of pain and I went flying backward. As I hit the ground I could hear Bentley's voice: With his kicks alone, he can break individual ribs.

Maybe three or four at a time, I thought to myself as the pain shot up my sides.

I managed to tumble breaking my fall; the breakfall distributed the impact and saved me from further damage. Lying on my back now, I tried to bring the cane up to where I thought he would be, but he had already moved in. His foot blurred off his chambered hip in some sort of spiral kick, and he blasted the cane out of my hand. I felt the shock up to my shoulders, and I cursed under my breath.

He reached inside his jacket. What he pulled out flashed in the lights, reflecting the lights from the street. I realized it was a razor, just as Bentley had warned me.

I brought my legs up to try and kick him away, and was surprised to see him take a step back. I thought, he knows your background, he knows how you operate, he's being careful about closing in, even with the razor, but I saw him wiping blood from his eyes and realized the pause was driven more by necessity than by tactics. He must have gotten smacked around when the van hit the containers.

He swayed for a second, and in that second I rolled backward and sprang to my feet. I felt a hot stab in the ribs where he had landed home and thought, if I get out of this alive, I will carry more than just my cane… I don't give a shit about all the good reasons not to.

I took two more steps back to buy a little time, and to give myself some distance, and then glanced down at the ground. I didn't see the cane. There were too many shadows, and too much junk lying around: cracked wooden panels, container doors, sections of chain-link fence, and shards of glass. To my right was a pile of what looked like oversized meal hubcaps. I swept one up and liked the heft of it in my hand. If there had been some sort of handle on it, I could have probably fashioned it as a shield. Instead, I slung it like a Frisbee. It hissed through the air straight for Scar's midsection. He jumped left and it sailed past him. Damn, he was more a dancer than a savate user. He started to move toward me and I snatched up another metal disk, seeing as I did so that after two more, I would be out of ammo. I sent it flying. He dodged again, I grabbed the third and fourth, and threw them in rapid secession. The first flew towards his head, but he managed to duck under it. But the second one, or technically the "fourth," found its mark. He had tried to bring up his razor wielding arm to protect himself and the disk slammed into it, knocking it back into his head. I saw the razor tumble out of his grip onto the ground along with him, and felt a rush of satisfaction.

He stood up and glanced down, and I immediately took two long steps towards him. He looked up at me, knowing that he wasn't going to have time to grope around for his weapon, and we stood facing each other for a moment, each of us breathing hard. He hitched his pants up slightly, creating a little more freedom of movement for his legs. That's it, I thought. Give me one of those goddamn legs you're so proud of. I promise to give it back when I'm done with it.

I had to be careful, though. His physical skills and tenacity were obvious, but more than that I expected his tactics to be sound, too.

I circled left, my hands up in a boxer's stance. He did the same; he shook out his wrists, probably to shake out the pain from his tumble just now. After doing a one-eighty, we were now in each other's respective starting position. We both stared at each other, waiting for the other to move. He's going to lull you in. He's a savate user, but he's still skilled with his fists. But no matter how it goes down, he will eventually try and finish you off with one of his kicks. I knew that I needed him to make the first move.

I taunted him, "Come on stripes, what kind of tiger waits for his prey?"

He took the bait. With a loud roar, he charged me. When he approached me, there was a sudden subtle shift in his weight. It was all in his front leg, and his shoulder started to rotate. I was expecting and ready to counter his punch, when he suddenly surprised me by being in midair.

"Oh f…!" I managed to cry out, shifting my head back in the nick of time. I felt the wind of his kick as it blurred past me. There was a loud resonating sound of impact, as his kick made contact with the container behind me. There was a large dent in the metal container.

He had shifted all of his weight onto his leg, kicked off of it, and rotated in midair for another one of his spiral kicks. The rotation of his shoulders was a feint. A feint that nearly paid off. If my instincts had been a little bit off, I doubted my head would still be fastened atop my shoulders right now. I swallowed, and grimaced at that aspect.

The worst part of that exchange was how quickly he had recovered, and looked ready to launch another one of those kicks. What's his leg made of?

He growled and charged at me again, he swiped at me, right, left, and then right again. Although not as powerful as his kicks, his punches were almost just as fast. Every swiped he clawed at me; he tore away at my clothes, a testament to his years of training.

He made a swipe at my head, and I crouched low. I grabbed a handful of dirt in my left hand, and tried to throw it at his face. He managed to block my hand just as I was bringing it up; the dirt caught him underneath his jaw and dissipated in the air between us. He roared while taking a step back, swiping at the air, the dirt following the vacuum of his movements. I stepped into him and launched a kick of my own into his midsection. He grunted from the impact and was launched backwards. He rolled, landing on his four paws. He glared upwards at me, and from him, came a low growl.

His growl came to an immediate halt, when he caught the split second glance I took at the patch of dirt in front of me. Confused, he started scanning the general vicinity of where my gaze was directed, and that's when he saw it. A sliver of light crept in and with it, danced upon a golden metallic surface. It's the raccoon's cane. That moment of recognition dulled his senses just long enough for me to make a break for it. He started out of the gates later than I did his goal the same as mine: Must get to the cane first.

I was two steps away before I caught sight of him in my peripheral vision. He was in midair again. I quickly scooped up my primary weapon of choice, and brought it up in front of me. He crashed into me. We both rolled atop of one another until he managed to pin me down, claws and teeth bearing down on me. He was a good fifty or more pound heavier than I was, and its additional weight now pressed down upon me.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he said His eyes red from bloodlust and frenzy, his mouth and teeth dripped of saliva as it inched closer. "You're going to die here."

I didn't reply. All I did was grunt with effort, using my entire energy reserve to push Scar upwards, like Sisyphus being compelled to roll an immense boulder up a hill, only to watch in vain as his efforts of labor were for naught as it rolls back down. His face was close now; I could feel his breath on my fur.

There was the blinding pain from my flesh being torn, and he roared in triumph. He had struck home and had drawn first blood. His ferocity increased with the scent of blood and continued to press on. I desperately felt along the ground for something, anything that could get me out of this situation.

He roared again, this time not one of triumph, but one of pain. I smacked him once in the nose with the crook, pivoted my body, and threw him off. I got to my feet and took a few steps back, breathing ragged, and my left shoulder bleeding profusely.

He tried to do the same, but his leg gave out on him. He looked down to see that he too, was bleeding. With an angry scowl, he willed himself to stand. Even with a four inch glass shard imbedded in his thigh. In one swift move, he pulled it out, barely wincing while doing so.

"Cute. Very cute, vermin. But you'll have to do better than that." He said, as he tossed the shard aside.

He slapped himself across the chest. "Come on then. Come on!" he roared.

This time, I played the aggressor; I rushed in and swung hard at his head. He parried with his forearm, and counter with a right. I attempted to jab him with the shaft, he quickly sidestepped. I had doubt, but I was almost certain that if I could take him to the ground, the advantage would be mine.

He chambered his right leg, feinted, and then returned the foot to the ground. He repeated the maneuver. And again. The upraised leg started to return to the ground and I saw my opening. I shot forward. But the third time had been no feint, or in fact it had been the real feint, and the leg reversed course and whipped in from my left. I covered up with my left elbow and I took the full brunt of the attack, my arm was now numb and unresponsive. It felt like I'd been hit with a hammer. He retracted the kick, and then shot it in again, this time toward my forward knee. I lifted the leg just as his heel landed, and, although it hurt, the impact was dissipated enough to prevent it from being shattered.

He replanted his right foot and I shot my own kick in, a basic front kick off the back leg aimed at his knee. He twisted clockwise off the line of attack and parried inward with his left hand. I reached out and managed to snag his left sleeve of his shirt with my right hand. I swept my right leg around clockwise along the ground and levered his arm backward, trying to break it. Even with his balance destroyed, though, his reflexes were quick. Rather than resisting the wristlock, he launched his body into it, getting ahead of the lock's momentum, and saving his arm.

He landed on his back and I immediately dropped onto his chest, my left knee leading the way. He grunted and I heard the wind being driven out of him. I kept his left arm and dragged it upward, simultaneously sliding my left foot under his ribs preparing to fall back into an arm lock and take out his elbow. But again he showed both quick reflexes and sound training. His reaction cost me some of my leverage that I had on him, but I still held on to enough of his arm to damage him. I straightening his arm and I popped backward and levered his arm against the natural movement of the elbow joint. I felt and instant of resistance from the surrounding ligaments, then felt the joint break with a resounding crack. He screamed and writhed under me.

He tried to sit up and I allowed him to. I snaked around him pinning his broken arm up and above his shoulder, he howled in pain. My arm was getting a bit of feeling back, from when he kicked me, and I managed to secure a strong enough lock with my cane underneath his neck, and wrenched it backwards. I was now choking him, and cutting off the air circulation from reaching his brain. In a matter of seconds he'll be out cold, faster if he continues to struggle.

Aware of his dire situation, his eyes, were now the size of dinner plates as he desperately grasped for air. Come on, just five more seconds. I thought to myself, that was, until I had a horrible revelation. Where the hell is his other arm? My stomach lurched at the knowledge. Then, as that lurch rolled sickeningly through me, his free arm flashed into view, light glinting off the surgical steel he was holding in it. A second razor, deployed after the attacker had been lulled by disarming him of the first.

I wrenched his head up harder and applied more pressure to his broken arm, he screamed again, but he was fighting for his life now and wasn't going to be stopped by pain alone. He slashed at my thigh with the razor. I decided to let go of his arm and make a grab for his wrist but missed, and the blade continued to cut deep into my leg. He pulled back, then immediately cut me again. There was no pain, really, adrenaline is an amazing thing. When he pulled back again to strike at my leg again, I made for another grab, but missed again, resulting in him cutting the palm of my hand. He was starting to slow in his actions, but it wasn't fast enough. I pivoted my body and use the momentum and getting my weight into the blow, slammed his head to the ground. His head smacked onto metal. Once. Twice. Thrice.

I felt his body go limp and the razor slipped from his grip. I transferred his wrist closer to me and used my eyes to search the ground. There it was the razor. I shifted my weight to get out from under him and picked it up. I flipped him on his back and sat atop his chest, I placed the blade underneath his neck.

"Laissez tomber le couteau!" - Drop the knife! – A voice cried out in French.

I froze, thinking, what the hell?

I looked back over my shoulder. Two serious-looking canines stared back at me, each with a shock pistol pointing at my head. And from the sound of its hums, they weren't set to stun.

"Laissez tomber le couteau!" one of them said again.

I did as he asked and started to stand. My leg wobbled, then completely went out from under me. I looked down and saw why. My thigh was gashed wide open and spurting blood. My palm was doing the same thing.

I sank down to my knees and looked at them. "You must be Scar's Interpol handlers." I asked them in French. But they ignored me. Beside me, Scar began to stir.

He must have positioned them up the road as backup, and when he didn't make it to the check point they must have become suspicious. He must have made contingency plans for a number of scenarios.

Scar sat up and cursed under his breath. He got up unsteadily to his feet with the aid of one of the men in black. I watched him, my face impassive, I was already kneeling, and now I placed my hands calmly across my bloody thighs.

Scar wobbled on his feet, cradling his broken arm as one of the men held him in support by his good shoulder. Blood was running down his face from the hubcaps I slammed his temple on. His nose was bent out of shape and crooked; I must have broken his nose in the scuffle. His body convulsed, as do most when they just recently receive head trauma, then he leaned forward and vomited. The two Interpol agents watched and said nothing.

He spat and again cursed under his breath a few times in his native tongue, and wiped his face with his good hand. For a few moments he stood hunched over with his good hand on his knee, sucking in air like his life depending on it, which, in a way is understandable upon what happened just before. Finally he straightened up, a little color returning to his face, and asked me in English, his voice hoarse from being strangled, "How did you find me? How is it that you've been tracking me?"

I ignored him. It seemed that my luck had finally run out. I expected no help from Murray, there was a duffel bag with two and a half million, in cash, being contested in front of his position. All he had to do was snipe the rest of the gunslingers on the road, and it would all be his. I couldn't reasonably expect him to abandon it; he was a mercenary for hire. I was alone now, nothing could save me now. In a way it's fitting, all alone in the world, after all the things I'd done and survived through, I was now going to die a dog's death, put down in my prime.

I looked back at Scar now, and I realized he was still talking. When one is close to death and is basically knocking as his door; the world grows deafeningly silent.

"Tell me! Tell me how you located me, and I promise to kill you quickly. If you don't, I will make sure you die in the most painful way; you will suffer until your last. Dying. Breath."

"I turned my head away, from his angle I could see out into the harbor. Death catches everyone eventually, and I had never harbored any illusions about its ability to catch me. It had hesitated so long to do so, seemed born more of a desire to mock me than any real inclination to wait. Death had grown tired of that game, and had finally moved in to collect what we all owe.

Scar grabbed my head and forced me to look at him, but I my eyes were no longer focused on the here and now. It was as if I had transcended from my body, and it was no longer a vessel, but now a hallowed husk of what I once was. He brought his razor to my eye.

"Last chance vermin… Tell me what I want to know!" he screamed.

When I didn't respond, whatever patience he had left disappeared. "Rot in hell."

The last thing I remembered was the image of Scar thrusting his knife towards me at what seemed like at a snail's pace to my current state. Then there was darkness.

For I had closed my eyes.

A/N: Well that's the end of the first chapter entitled: In Medias Res, or "in the middle of things." I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. I had a lot of fun writing the action scenes and tried to make them as vivid and clear as possible, while also retaining the fluidity and precision from move to move; trying to ultimately flow seamlessly like my writing. I'd love to hear how you all felt about the first chapter, positive or negative. So please do leave a review, and I'll be sure to get to each and every one of them in my next chapter in my opening author's notes. Thank you all in advance – Deags.