Disclaimer: Sucker Punch owns Sly Cooper. I own the story.
Chapter 2: Work
Sullivan Hopper always arrived at the Wilson's New York Bank at exactly 9:25 AM every morning from Monday to Saturday for his job as an accountant there. He would enter the doors at 9:20 AM, cross the expansive, expensive, polished white and golden yellow marble floor in exactly one minute, nod to Todd, one of the squirrel counter men, and make brief three-or-four-line small talk. From there, it took exactly four minutes to get to his desk in the back, draw out the papers and calculator from his suit case, thus showing up at work five minute early. He would sit there all day, crunching numbers, until he took a break at noon for lunch. After the fifteen-minute break, he would return to work until five o' clock in the afternoon, later, if he were working on the account of some one important.
Then he would go home, pick up his hockey equipment, and join his team at the local, run down YMCA and practice with them until eight or nine, perhaps ten at night if there was a game, and eleven if it was a good game. Then he would go home, have some re-heated dinner, shower, and go to sleep, all with in half an hour of coming home.
Today was no different.
Sullivan strode across the large floor on which customers scuttled across quickly, oblivious of the enormous arched marble ceiling over head. A brown squirrel man nodded to Sullivan as he passed by.
"Morning, Todd, how goes the wife and baby?" Sullivan asked.
"She'll be do any day now," was the squirrel's reply.
"Great, good luck!"
"Thank you, Mr. Hooper. Desk!"
Sullivan ran into the corner of a desk, biting his tongue to hold back a squeak of pain. He always ran into that stupid desk…
"You okay?" Todd asked.
A thumbs up sign was the lie from Sullivan.
In the back there were six rows of five desks, all filled with accountants and other number crunchers, helping to clear up credit debt, consulting customers about where they could invest their money, telling them about changes in money, and the like. Sullivan sat down at his own simple desk, adorned with a lonely phone and a cup of pens and pencils, and set his grey suit case down on the desk. He opened it, retrieved several papers, a calculator (which he dropped on the floor and had to pick up), and began his work.
It was a regular day of Sullivan. The world faded into its boring fog around him and his brain obediently numbed itself, focusing solely on the numbers. How much money would this man have if he set it at such an amount with such an interest for so many years? Stuff like that; nothing was out of normal for the sunny, winter day. Why had he to suspect otherwise?
But something different happened that day.
"Hooper!" Todd called, appearing in the door way to the back room. "There's a guy up front requesting you specifically!"
Sullivan pulled himself from his number-filled fog and got up wordlessly to follow the squirrel man to the front. It wasn't unheard of for a specific number cruncher to be called to the front of the back once in a while.
It better not be that cat lady expecting inheritance from her lost aunt again, he thought miserably. It's always a tail yank when ever she comes around. Lady can barely speak English…
But it was not some deranged old cat lady at the counter this time, but an iguana. Emerald green, tall, and lanky, he had a bad slouch and was dressed in a bright turquoise suit, complete with a wide-brimmed hat. In the pink-and-white-blotched hat brim was a tall, bubble-gum pink feather that matched the pink diamond wrist cuffs and shirt. The explosion of color of an iguana glowed against the black and grey suits of the people already there and was unusually informal against the yellow and white marble. Many people glanced over at him, but no one was rude enough to inquire what the dunce the lizard was here for.
The iguana peered over his round sun glasses at Sullivan, looking him up and down as he snapped on some bubble gum. He was leaning up against the counter like it was his favorite bar counter, in spite of the bronze bars between him and Sullivan.
"Hey," the iguana said in a smooth voice, "'coon man, name's DD,DD 'Ladies' God' Dorm, I'm looking to stash my cash somewhere safe and cozy like my momma's belly and I heard you got the smarts to insure this better than a hot car. What can we do, man?"
Everybody with in ear shot turned and stared at the iguana. Todd, standing behind Sullivan, reared his head back as his tail puffed in confusion and his ears laid back in confusion. It was just… unusual.
Sullivan was hit with two different feelings, both as unusual as the lizard's style of speech. The first feeling was that Sullivan was expecting; mild disapproval and annoyance that this pimp boy was acting so atrociously in this bank—they had politicians and celebrities putting their money in here, not DJ daddies!
And yet…
And yet, the second feeling cleared the fog around Sullivan somewhat for the first time in his recalled memory, not banishing it, but making it at least less thick. He felt… comforted.
"Well," Sullivan began, flashing a friendly smile to the lizard, "I'm Sullivan Hooper, the accountant you requested for. What kind of account would you like?"
They stood there for half an hour before the lizard, DD "Ladies' God" Dorm (what kind of a name…?), had his priorities in order. Things were interesting when they came to filling out the career DD had.
"And what is your career, Mr. Dorm?" Hooper inquired, pen poised over the paper.
"Frogman," the lizard stated.
Hooper looked at him.
"Um, Mr. Dorm, you're an iguana."
"Yeap."
"So, what's your occupation?"
"I already told you man; I'm a frogman!"
"Mr. Dorm, you can only either be a lizard man or a frog man, now which are you?"
"I'm a lizard frogman!"
Hooper sighed, slumping over the counter, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
"Clarify for me, Mr. Dorm," he pleaded. "What do you do to make money?"
Dorm stared at Hooper for a long time, as if trying to figure out how to answer that. Finally, the very tip of his long tail twitched and he swallowed.
"I… dive… for… sunken treasure?" he suggested.
"You don't sound very sure of yourself, Mr. Dorm," Hooper warned. He didn't want to be wasting a form on some one living off of his daddy's money or stealing it from honest, hard-working citizens.
"Oh, sorry, dude," DD sad, "Trying to hold back a—"
His sentence was cut off by an enormous, obnoxious, loud burp. Everyone turned to stare at him briefly.
"Sorry," DD chuckled. "Must've been from some of those spicy, spicy nacho bro-bros I had last night, man."
"Your occupation?" Hooper asked for what he hoped was the final time.
"I dive for stuff," DD replied. "Find lost stuff, take pictures for nature magazines, stuff like that."
"Thank you," Hooper sighed, scrawling diver into the space marked Occupation.
After some signing on the dotted lining, the form was complete as was Hooper's job with DD "Ladies' God" Dorm.
"It'll be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Dorm," Sullivan with genuine friendliness as he shook Dorm's long-fingered, scaled hand. The touch felt familiar.
"Sure, sure, it'll be cool working with a ring tail man with diggin' shades like that!" Dorm said with a wink.
He turned away and threw a hand up in good bye as he left.
"Dig you later, Cooper!"
"Hooper," Sullivan corrected.
But the iguana was already gone.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"…And then he just strutted on out of there," Sullivan told Kyle. "Didn't even look back.
"You think he's with the Mafia?" the sea lion asked, his large black eyes fixed on tonight's opposing team.
Sullivan was at hockey practice and was telling Kyle the runty sea lion, one of his hockey team mates, about DD Dorm. They were in full red and white hockey gear and for once, Sullivan wasn't being the strong-silent type. Across the underground YMCA ice rink from them was a team of brawny red and green-colored opponents. Kyle and several other of Sullivan's team mates seemed nervous about the larger foes, but Sullivan seemed oblivious of the tail-beating-to-come.
"No, no, this guy seemed to friendly to be with the mob, not as cocky," Sullivan disagreed. "Besides, the mob never wears flashy turquoise suits or pimp hats."
Any team mates who ever heard him turned to stare at him.
"How do you know that?" Kyle asked.
Yeah, how do you know that, Sully? Sullivan questioned himself, just as surprised as his teammates about what had popped out of his mouth.
"Um, how do you know if I'm right?" he asked quickly.
The brawny hare referee's whistle tweeted, signaling the start of the game. Half an hour later, Sullivan was sliding along on the ice around his team's goalie, protecting it and watching the puck get kicked around the ice, but his mind was miles away.
Why does that lizard feel so familiar to me? He thought, remembering DD 'Ladies' God' Dorm. I'm sure that I would remember some one so colorful if we'd met before. Hey! Maybe he's from my past--!
"Sullivan, look out!" Kyle bellowed.
A black shape raced for Sullivan across the ice and Sullivan moved his hockey stick in time to keep the puck from sliding between his feet and into the goal net. He looked up and saw the other team charging towards him. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was run or hide under something. But since neither option was available, he took the next best thing.
He ducked, his feet moving themselves apart, as the other team came upon him. He swung his stick up, catching a Dalmatian in the stomach and flipping him over. Sullivan's tail tucked up in time to avoid being run over and sliced off by the enemy players' ice skates. He knocked a cougar in the face with his stick before he whacked at the puck, sending it flying across the ice.
"Kyle! Score it!" he yelled.
The sea lion swung at the puck, tossing it to a pygmy elephant.
"Shoot, Jorge, shoot!" Kyle yelled.
The elephant did and the bear acting as the other teams' goalie failed to stop the puck from sliding into the net just as the buzzer rang. Sullivan's team had won. The cougar Sullivan had hit snarled as he yanked off his helmet and stood, towering over the already tall Sullivan.
"Oh don't get snappy just because your mothers decided that Christmas colors were a good color scheme for you," Sullivan sighed to the cougar with uncharacteristic boldness. "Do you still wear her Christmas sweaters, too?"
The cougar roared and lunged for Sullivan, claws and teeth drawn. The cougar's team mates, though, moved to stop him while the Dalmatian that Sullivan had knocked over actually pushed him away from the cougar before turning to stop the feline from killing Sullivan. Sullivan slammed against the wall of the ice ring, falling on his tail end as his helmet jolted on his head and became crooked on him, covering his eyes.
Someone slid up beside him and helped him to his feet.
"S-Sullivan, are you okay?" a gravely masculine voice asked.
"Yeah," Sullivan chuckled. "I was asking for it."
"Sure were," someone growled.
Sullivan adjusted his helmet so he could see and saw only the Dalmatian standing in front of him, fists on his hips. Sullivan looked around, but saw no trace of the other speaker.
"Yeah, sorry about that," Sullivan said, holding a hand out to the spotted dog. "I guess my mouth gets away from me sometimes."
"Just like the puck when it heads towards the winning goal!" Kyle shouted triumphantly from the other end of the ice ring where the rest of Sullivan's team was celebrating.
The Dalmatian smirked and rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but took the offered hand and shook it.
"No problem. Oh, and sorry about Ben over there, the cougar; he's got a temper. Um, what's your name?"
"Sullivan."
"You can't have him!" Kyle called over.
"Shut up and get back to gloating!" Sullivan yelled over to him.
"Hi, I'm Kent, Kent Rashfuner. Right, Sullivan, um, where'd you learn moves like that? With the whole flip-me-over thing," the Dalmatian went on. "I'm into martial arts and… stuff like that, but I never learned anything like that. How'd you do it?"
"Oh, that? Well, I just…" Sullivan tired spinning his hockey stick in his hand and flinched when he failed. "Did it."
Then he lost his footing and fell on his tail end again. He laughed nervously at the surprised Kent.
"Clumsy," Sullivan squealed.
Kent smiled and helped Sullivan to his feet, chuckling, "Eh, it happens. Hey, who was that guy you were talking to? The guy who helped you up the first time?"
"I don't know, couldn't see him."
"Oh, that's—" Kent stopped short of saying something and spun around quickly to rejoin his team. "Check ya around. Sully!" he called over his shoulder.
Sullivan was left behind, wondering what the heck was up with the dog.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"…then he just turned around and slid away," Sullivan said, finishing telling Carmelita about his day over a meal of Chinese noodles while they sat on the couch and watched TV. "I mean, my day's been full of weird people today."
"Hmm, I can't speak for the lizard or who ever talked to you at the rink, but I know that Kent guy, "Carmelita said, sucking some noodles off of her chop sticks.
"You do?" Sly asked.
"Yeah," Carmelita replied, chewing through some noodles. "He's a fed, an FBI agent, working on some murder case here in the city."
"What's he doing on an amateur hockey team?"
"I guess there's a whole gang of feds running around. Must be part of their cover."
"Oh…" Sullivan said.
They sat on the couch for several minutes, watching some B-rate comedy show. Sullivan picked up the remote and turned the TV off. Carmelita began to object, but Sullivan spoke.
"Carmel," he said excitedly. "I think I know Dorm!"
"DD 'Ladies' God' Dorm?" Carmelita asked with a confused grimace. "What kind of life would you have to live to know a whack job like him?"
"I don't know, but I want to see!" Sullivan said eagerly, getting up. "I'm going to bed early. Tomorrow, I'm going to contact him while at work and see—"
"S-Sully!" Carmelita exclaimed.
Sullivan turned back to her, confusion crossing his face. "What is it, Carmelita? I thought we wanted to uncover my past."
Carmelita choked, realizing that she had acted unusual, then waved her hand.
"Please, let me check his background first; he just might be apart of the Mob."
Sullivan shrugged and replied easily, "Okay, you do that. Good night."
Once Carmelita was sure that Sullivan was asleep, she went to her own room, locking the door behind her, and dialed number into her cell phone as she went to sit on a window seat over looking the back alley of her and Sullivan's apartment building. A more rouge-like view than Sullivan's room, but Carmelita didn't want the raccoon to get any ideas.
The person being called picked up on the second ring.
"Agent Kent Rashfuner, what's up?"
"He noticed you acting weird at the rink today, Kent," Carmelita growled.
"Sorry. I just got so surprised when he flipped me over while game play that I lost my cool for a moment. At least not as bad a Agent Ben, but Carmelita! The way he moved with that stick—wow! The way he's so clumsy, you couldn't even tell that he was capable—"
"He said that someone talked to him, but he didn't see their face. Who was it, Kent?"
"Some hippo. Got in and out too fast to—"
"Keep that hippo away from him. If he shows up again, evidence or no, arrest him, got it?"
"Yeah, yeah! Jeez, getting over protective of our pet, now, aren't we?"
Carmelita didn't answer because she had flung her cell phone against the wall.