Author's Note: First Chapter of my first Sly Cooper fanfic. Great game; very underappreciated era referenced within it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sly Cooper, nor any of the plot devices, locations, or characters therein (save o.c. P. Huxley), nor do I own lines referenced from any movie...


Prologue- Long Awaited Arrival


A pale mist softly shrouded the glow emanating from the sole second story window of Lotor Street. The night dew clung, almost longingly, to the warped, smoky glass, throwing the lights of the interior oil lamps onto the street below in a diffused fashion. The harsh London wind stirred a subtle fog in alongside this pervasive mist, in effect, drawing a shade over the capital of Britain, shielding her from the prying eyes of the European continent.

If ever there was a time to arrive in the city, then certainly it was this night, so dank and humid, carrying with it the unmistakable putrid odor of the overcrowded Thames. It was upon this such night, on that very river, that the R.M.S. Montoya came to a gentle, aquatic halt. Her crimson, oaken broadside caressed the dock, as a motley array of deckhands nimbly jumped from the deck and began to secure the vessel. The commotion of making port aroused several prying eyes from the few state rooms aboard; portholes were unlatched and the ship's passengers, eager to disembark, clamored for belongings and party members.

One such passenger, of particular interest to the tale in question, stood ready and waiting at his door. Large, leather-bound briefcase in hand, he was garbed in a suit which appeared to have received little attention for some time. Pulling a rather out-of-place pocket-watch from his the confines of his breast pocket, he breathed a relieved sigh. Arrival just as scheduled…satisfaction indeed.

He returned the distinguished watch back to the depths of his wrinkled vest and made ready to leave the dreary state-room for the last time. The gentleman took one last look around, eye-ing the peeling paint, threadbare armchair, and a rug of a rather… distinct odor. Though however much he may not miss the smell…he had to admit that that rug really….tied the room together, one might say.

Withdrawing himself back to the matter at hand, our traveler straightened his coat, made a final adjustment to his hat, and grasped the doorknob, in his firm, coarse grip. Jimmying the bulb, as he had become accustomed to doing on the several weeks journey, he coerced the aperture open, and stepped, readily, onto the Montoya's main deck. The flurry of port activity, though disorienting at first, had become commonplace to this seasoned traveler. He gave a polite, knowing nod, to several of the deckhands with which he had become acquainted on the journey. It was indeed a shame that this would be their final meeting… he had grown fond of several of the crew members.

One such man, whom he counted among his true friends (only three at this time), came toward him, strolling at his normal, rhythmic gate along the deck.

"Percival," shouted the leathery figure from the ship's port side, "I trust that I may 'ave one final chance of convincing you to stay before you make the uncouth decision to leave us 'zis evening?"

An odor always greeted our gentleman's nostrils as first-mate Dimitri spoke in this thick, European mutt of an accent, a smell usually consisting of bottom-shelf vodka, tobacco, and sweat.

Percival responded in his rugged, Scottish baritone, "Aye, Dimitri… Um afraid that business of a different order calls meh 'ere. It's muh callin', yeh see."

Dimitri let out a deflated sigh, and leaned against the outer wall of the stateroom. Pomp and circumstance gone, the first-mate's stomach slipped from its vain restriction, into a more comfortable bulge against his shirt. Fishing a small, ornate snuff box (a familiar sight to all aboard) from his coat pocket, Dimitri spoke with a rare note of finality and sincerity, "Well, then, my friend, I wish you much luck. Like it or not 'Zis is 1840; London 'as changed since you 'ave been abroad, be careful…You're going to meet with 'zis Cooper fellow correct? Can you trust 'im?" He lent his taller friend an inquisitive eye as a large plug of tobacco met his lips.

Percival had to chuckle at this remark, 'Could he trust the Cooper fellow'?

He chose to disregard the inquiry.

"Yeh really ought ta' slow it down with that stuff, mate. It'll ruin your teeth 'un all."

Dimitri merely shrugged and visibly moved the lump over to his other gum. "C'est la vie, friend. It's a delicious pleasure…sometimes it's so good there are barely words… it's almost like a…a- "greasy sweet"…? No matter. You did not answer my question."

At that, a piercing whistle came from the bridge of the Montoya, as all but one remaining passenger descended the gangplank.

Dimitri leapt from his position against the wall in surprise. "Ah, dammit Arpeggio!" He spat at his own mention of the Captain's name. "I told 'im to wait another few minutes, for me!" Dejected, Dimitri sighed again and turned back toward his friend.

With a stern, factual look in his eyes, Percival spoke. "Tuh answer yehr question, I'd trust that "Cooper fella'" with muh life. He's 'ad me back so mehny times…U've been teh the ends e' the earth with 'em, an I've a feelin' 'Um about tuh do it again." After he had spoken, Percival wrapped first-mate Dimitri in a hug with room enough for three men. Dimitri said nothing; he didn't have to. The lizard had learned when his friend's resolve would not be overcome.

Gently pulling away, the large gentleman picked up his battered briefcase once more, and began to descend the gangplank. Reaching the bottom, he turned around one last time. His friend's sallow, purple countenance stared him down right back.

"Farewell, Percival Huxley! Until we meet again!" Dimitri yelled, as he waved his cap enthusiastically to and fro.

The Montoya gave a solid lurch, as steam billowed from within its bowels. Dimitri slowly began to move down the length of the Thames.

Percival shouted back, "Until we meet again!" He allowed a small, bittersweet grin to encroach upon his face for a moment as he stood, for what seemed to be the longest time, watching his comrade slowly disappear down the river. Percival stood, until Dimitri was but a purple blot in the distance.

With goodbyes given, and trip handily made, Percival withdrew his watch once more. "Right on schedule," he whispered, as he grabbed the leather case yet again, and began the methodical trudge through the harbor activity, toward the heart of London.