The lean years of our youth
Paris in daylight was overwhelming, especially to former residents of a tiny rural village. The city seemed to stretch endlessly beyond what eyes can see, tall buildings reaching for the treetops and an ocean of people on the streets.
Summer made the air hot and humid, and the leather seats of their van were getting uncomfortably tacky. Sly rolled down the window for some fresh air (even city fumes were better by this point) and winked at a group of pretty weasel girls walking down the street. They giggled and waved back. Sly grinned, projecting a very believable image of an arrogant and carefree playboy. He loved Paris already.
Bentley wasn't in any state of mind to admire the sights, he was clutching at his map, nervously tracing their progress and checking again and again that they had not gotten lost. Murray did peer around every time they stopped at traffic lights, eager to take in the surroundings while he didn't have to concentrate.
Daytime Paris was certainly worth the attention, picturesque and bohemian and very much like an image from a post card. There was something to see everywhere; charming little cafés, majestic historical monuments, fashionable boutiques, carefully groomed parks. The women were glamorous with stylish clothes and impeccable make-up, the men seemed jovial and fond of wine. Snippets of conversation and music carried over the noise of traffic. Behind the distasteful smell of exhaust fumes was the scent of coffee and delicious food.
Murray's stomach was starting to protest, and around three in the afternoon they stopped to eat at a dowdy little bistro. The food was good and the waiter surly, his plastic slippers flapping against ceramic floor tiles as he made his way around the room, avoiding customers and varnishing spotless tables.
Sly leaned against the wall next to their booth, playing idly with his cane and sipping at his coffee. Murray was still stuffing his face, having raided the dessert buffet. It was an impressive collection of delicacies: crème brûlée, ice cream, fresh berries, whipped cream, custard tarts, chocolate mousse and various other pastries. Bentley was again pouring over the city map he'd been consulting ever since they'd seen a pompous little sign that had announced their entrance to Paris proper.
(It had seemed a little arbitrary; Paris had definitely not begun from one spot. It had emerged, slowly, like a gleaming urban pearl, from quiet elegant suburbs and dreary bleak industrial areas.)
Eventually it was time to pay up and leave to continue the unique adventure that was finding a specific address in a new city. But Paris was vast, and evening arrived long before they reached their destination. Sly watched, fascinated, as the city changed with the sunset.
Paris of the night was a city of sin and vice, a coral reef of neon lights and colours of the rainbow where people went where they would, some passing the time searching for the business that was pleasure, some for the forgetfulness found at the bottom of a wine glass. The air was thick and heady with expectation, the music low and thumping.
Sly felt right at home. It was only the need to find their new temporary home that made him stay in the van and not leap out to explore. He wanted to visit the clubs and listen for useful gossip, scale the tempting rooftops to gaze at the hustle of the city from above.
But there would be time for that later, always.
.
.
Their new neighbourhood, Château Rouge, was not quite as glamorous as the name suggested. It was the dirty underbelly beneath the elegance, where the unwanted and forgotten gathered, those abandoned by the world of light. Happiness was hard fought in these parts, long lost in the shards of broken dreams.
While the street surface was made of charming cobblestone, the buildings on both sides loomed tall and derelict, covered in graffiti and windows either broken or boarded up. The streetlights flickered, manholes steamed faintly and garbage was piled up on the sides of the street.
Their apartment was more of the same, having one dusty room besides the toilet and the kitchen. What wasn't falling apart was stained and the furniture consisted of a single bed and a sofa. The fridge seemed to work well enough, but also made a strange rattling noise and was clearly a senior citizen that should have been allowed to retire long ago.
But the place was also high up, high enough that the rest of the Paris was visible through the wide window, spread in distance like a glittering canvas where cars sped along roads in neat lines of light. A yellow moon loomed into the room, impossibly large and lonely. It all offered some distance from the streets right below.
Living in this neighbourhood was less about money and more about avoiding attention during their early years. It was not yet time to gain the attention of police and, as long as they kept their heads down, they would seamlessly disappear amongst the poor and the downtrodden.
They had barely started to unpack and clean up the dust of the travel when there was a knock on the door. Sly opened it with healthy caution, only to relax when the pallid light of the hallway revealed a small woman. She looked to be a marten, with a vary, hopeful expression and dark circles under her eyes. She held a plate of beignets, still steaming hot.
"I, um, I wanted to welcome you to the building. I am your next door neighbour, Eugenié."
Sly grinned, shoulders relaxing. "Thank you, madame. I am Sly, and my friends are Bentley and Murray. Our schedule is likely to be somewhat erratic, so I apologise in advance if we ever disturb you at night."
With new acquaintances the norm was to offer your last name first, but if the lady wanted to hide it, she must have her own reasons. Sly didn't ask questions.
"I have a son, somewhat older than you. I would like to introduce you one of these days," Eugenié said and smiled in relief, a silent understanding passing between them. I will not pry if you won't.
"Certainly," Sly replied, bowing slightly. A creak in the hallway made Eugenié stiffen and glance to the side. When no one came forward, she relaxed again. There was a faint hint of something in her eyes, but Sly could only read tension, no treachery. Whatever her troubles were, they did not involve his gang.
Not yet.
He took the beignets to the living room, where they were well received by both of his friends.
Living here was already shaping up to be interesting.
.
.
Murray wanted to be useful.
Bentley was the uncontested genius and Sly could have made Olympic athletes weep in shame. Murray was neither of those things, but his body was reliable in its own way. Not very agile, but durable and strong.
Back in the days of their childhood, he had asked for a job from the old mechanic because he liked cars. That he had turned out to be good at maintenance and mechanics had been a pleasant surprise, as had been the fact that his reflexes sharpened to knives behind a steering wheel.
Having something he could offer for his friends made him happy.
It was admittedly a bit backwards that they should fund their future career partly through his entirely honest income, but money was money. Bentley's scholarship did not account for everything, they also needed to live.
Therefore, when Murray saw the sign announcing the need for a part-time delivery boy on the window of that nice (if dingy) little pizzeria down the street, he went home and asked Bentley if he could forge him a driver's licence.
.
.
École centrale Paris was, as higher institutions tend to be, comprised of several buildings. The one Bentley saw most often was modern and open with white walls and glass, bright and cool and sterile.
For the first weeks, Bentley had marvelled at the maturity of his new peers. Certainly there were some that sneered at his age, but the vast majority treated him perfectly politely. It was an open, interesting world, very different from their dark and dangerous one, and he wished he could bring Sly and Murray for a visit.
The same pleasantness went with the professors, for the most part, although they seemed to embody the statement that accomplished people tend to accumulate eccentricities.
His aging mathematics professor, an orangutan with silver fur, was a brilliant teacher but refused to give up his blackboard in favour of digital overhead projectors and occasionally wiped it clean of complex equations with a dry rag. As such, he spent most of the class time coughing on chalk powder and sounding like he was about to expire any moment.
The young rabbit lady in charge of teaching digital image processing was so excited over the recent innovations in her field that Bentley sometimes feared she would accidentally swallow her tongue in her haste to enlighten her students. Still, her lessons were some of his favourites.
(Even if she didn't quite seem to grasp the fact that they had lessons other than her own and would keep talking long after the allotted lecture time.)
Then there was monsieur Charletan, an aging crow with silver streaks in his plumage and rather unfortunate and fairly erratic anger issues. Bentley found his lectures lacklustre and methods questionable, but physics was easy to learn from books and he generally spent the lessons reading further along under the table. There was always one bad apple, he had assumed, and left it at that.
That changed one afternoon when he sneaked in the administrational office after hours to laminate Murray's brand new fake driving licence.
He was exceedingly nervous - his talent lay in knowledge, not action, and he had no way to contact his friends should the need arise. Murray was waiting in the van, as always, having driven Bentley to school and back every day, but Sly was not present to offer confidence. He really should get on with building those wireless communication devices.
Still, he had the best chance to bail out of trouble if anything happened. Bentley had expected higher education to offer more of a challenge, but at least the first year had proven to be as much of a walk in the park as ever and his status as the resident prodigy provided him with a certain amount of leeway from his teachers.
Thankfully the laminating machine was silent and fast and spit out the piece of plastic without complaint. Bentley took the slightly warm licence and slipped it under his shell.
Of course, that was when his luck ran out. The sound of the doorknob turning sent Bentley's heart to his throat and he barely managed to scramble under the desk before the door opened.
He should be well able to stay out of sight, he reminded himself, concentrating on breathing. He and Murray had none of Sly's natural aptitude when it came to stealth, but learning from the best counted for something. Not that it helped with his nerves, which seemed insistent on choking him with tension.
"...You do wish to graduate, do you not?" carried the soft sound of Charletan's voice. There was something smug and cold about it and Bentley felt instantly alarmed.
"B-but my rent... I really need to pay for it, the landlord won't excuse me again!" said a desperate voice Bentley didn't recognise.
Charletan scoffed. "That is none of my concern. Which is more important? You scratch my back, I scratch yours, non? You would not wish to anger me."
There was a muffled, miserable sound of agreement and the sound of scuffling Bentley thought meant that the bribe had been exchanged. Thankfully, neither lingered in the office and he was left alone again.
Bentley picked himself up from the floor, seething.
He knew there were crooked people in the world, certainly. He was arguably one himself, no matter if he could honestly say he slept with a clean conscience.
But science and academics were supposed to be based on honest merit. Not to mention the fact that the grandes écoles already received a lion's share of the budget for higher education, so the staff must be paid very well.
Charletan was either exceedingly greedy or had an expensive hobby. Bentley didn't know which of the two, but fully intended to find out.
.
.
Under the waning moon, a shadow darted along the rooftops of Paris. It scaled the wall of a tall clubhouse, skidded along the roof tiles and leaped off to hook on a cable to slide down. With a swish of a tail, the figure disappeared into bushes.
Sly loved Paris. In the tiny village he had lived before, it simply wasn't possible to jump from one roof to another in an endless race. There were no ledges to inch along, no real view from rooftops.
Here, only the sky was his limit.
He lifted the necklace he had stolen earlier, admiring the gleam of dark blue gems under the pale moonlight. He could tell they weren't sapphires, but also knew almost instinctively that the bauble was valuable anyway.
His father had taught him such things, at least, when he had been too small for physical feats. He could appraise value, recognise true antiques from forgeries and tell fool's gold apart from the real thing. It had been dull and laborious, but paid off now.
He still needed the Thievius Raccoonus, of course. He could climb pipes, ropes, even almost smooth walls. He could swing from hanging hooks and slide down cables. He had yet to fail at picking pockets, hands holding the cane both subtle and sure.
And while his clan had always put more weight into stealth, Sly had no choice but to learn how to fight, not if he wanted his revenge.
It wasn't nearly enough, none of it approaching what he knew he could do, if only...
Still, the most pressing issue was to find a place to sell his loot. He didn't want some shady joint where they would try to steal a man's gold teeth while they turned their back. Courtesy of his late father, he had a name, but monsieur Discreté had turned out to be difficult to locate.
Then again, that was good. An underworld broker had to be good at keeping out of sight.
Sly crept out of the bushes and glanced around.
He had gotten the address to this place by greasing the palms of the bartender at a shady little bar where the customers never looked each other in the eyes and paid with carefully counted, rumpled notes. Despite the looks, the dive was said to be reasonably reputable, and Sly was slowly starting to get a good feel about this.
The neighbourhood was respectable enough, but not too elegant or exciting. The tiny, unassuming pawn shop he had been directed to was nudged between an dusty used books store and a place that seemed to sell paint and tapestry.
Perfect for such a business, really. (Well, as long as the customers managed to look legitimate. Or were sneaky enough. Sly was reasonably sure he fell in the latter category at this point, because his outfit certainly looked like he was about to rob someone.)
He stepped in, hearing a bell chime to alert the owner. The place was both tidy and absolutely full, everything organised impeccably so that no space was wasted. He could see several boxes labelled as 'Baccarat Crystal, Fragile' as well as several ancient looking books, exquisite oil paintings and fine china. There were also pieces of jewelry of all kinds, made of gold gemstones or silver and pearls.
Movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention and he turned to face the person rushing to the counter from the back room. He was an otter and looked so unremarkable that Sly had to congratulate him mentally.
"Bonsoir, how can I... Cooper!"
Surprised recognition shattered the polite mask. Sly blinked and smiled, as crooked and smug as always. "Bonsoir, Discreté. I see we can drop the pretence and get to business right away."
The otter smiled back, tentative and hopeful. "It would seem that way, yes. Do come to the back room. Goodness, I have to admit I didn't expect to see you, after what happened... I imagine we both have quite a bit to talk about."
He leaned past Sly to turn the sign on the door, stating that the shop was now fermé.
"Please call me Nicolas," he said as he led Sly to a small kitchen at the back of his shop. "My father spoke highly of your father, and your clan. I would ldearly like to work with someone honorable. I do so dislike working with the organised crime around here, their manners usually leave something to be desired."
"I'm sure we will get along just fine," Sly replied, accepting the offered cup of coffee with a smile. "My name is Sly. And while I would love to catch up with you, this evening I have something to sell and I am a bit strapped for time. We should have a proper get-together at a later date."
"Ah, I understand. Bon, let me take a look," Nicolas replied.
Sly dug in his back bag for his collection from the last month: moderately valuable jewellery, small antiques and assorted knick-knacks of dubious origin.
"Huh, this is good stuff," Nicolas said as he inspected the items, dangling a golden pocket watch from his fingers. "Not too hot or overly expensive, I probably won't have any trouble selling these on. I think I'm going to like working with you, Sly."
Sly grinned and handed Nicolas a small list. "Glad to know you approve. Still, I really must be leaving. If we are talking about the price, I need this equipment."
He dug in his pocket and handed over the small note that contained Bentley's instructions. Nicolas folded the paper open and glanced through the list.
"Oh, oui, I can make this happen. And I do mean it, please stop by at any time," Nicolas said and smiled warmly.
Sly inclined his head in acknowledgement and slipped out of the door. This time, there was no accompanying ring of the bell.
.
.
Sly's step was even lighter than usual on the way back home. Things were looking up. There was simply no way to be a thief without an underworld connection, even for one that stole from other criminals.
The community was vast and sprawling like an Ivy vine and had dozens of dead ends and false leads. In Paris alone, many gangs and syndicates lived in relative harmony, controlling their own areas and occasionally squabbling over something or other. There was drug trafficking, prostitution, confidence tricks, money laundering, illegal gambling... All branches of crime flourished in the great metropolis of Paris.
Sly and his little gang would have to dig their own little niche in the system. It wouldn't do to make enemies out of everyone.
Divide and conquer, his father had said.
At this hour, even their dreary little street was starting to get sleepy. Besides the usual passed out drunks, few were out and about. Sly passed a small group of slightly wilting prostitutes with smudged make-up and nodded respectfully. "Être sûrs, Charlotte, Marie, Bonnie."
Sly was rather popular with the local flowers of the night, having no tolerance for small-time criminals trying to beat women into what they perceived as their place, nor for men trying to take control of 'the business'. As far as Sly was concerned, the ladies had it hard enough.
"Naturellement, Sly," they replied, painted smiles both beguiling and shrewd. Sly bowed slightly in their direction and both parties went in their own way.
This was the way his little gang interacted with almost everyone, he had found. Friendly, yes, but fleeting; much like ships that pass each other in the night.
Bentley and Murray were the only ones he had been able to let close, and vice versa. He sometimes wondered what kind of people his friends would have become had they not met Sly that fateful day, in the murky waters of their childhood.
He shook his head. It was useless to dwell on it. The past was already set in stone. Future was still ahead, both enticing and treacherous.
Sly didn't bother with the door to their temporary home, instead climbing the gutter and slipping through the large window. He shut it carefully. Air was getting rather chilly and they hadn't gotten around to repairing the central heating yet. Patching the walls had taken care of the draft, but it was still little better than it would be to live on the roof.
To his surprise, Bentley and Murray were nursing cups of hot chocolate in the kitchen. Sly raised an eyebrow.
"Still awake? Something got under your shell, Bentley?"
"Very funny," Bentley replied tartly. "No. I.. I have found a... target. I'd like your input with the plan since I'm probably going to have to come along on this one."
"All right, let me have it," Sly said, hiding his surprise. They had done projects of small scale before, but more often than not Sly had been out on his own.
But then, this was a brief flash of what the future would bring.
.
.
The plan to take down Charletan wasn't complicated, but the man wasn't really part of the underworld. With no underlings or connections, he was on his own.
Bentley disabled the security as easily as he would open a door and spent only a little bit longer coding the security cameras to play in a loop. Unfortunately, that was the safe part.
Murray sat in the darkness of the van and tried not to flinch at every sound or shadow moving outside. He didn't want to be alone, not when he didn't know what was going on. Normally, Bentley would keep him company, but apparently the files he needed were on the hard drive of the computer and Sly could not hack his way out of a paper bag.
That didn't make Murray feel any better. He still wished he could do something more. But fear gripped him, and the day he would win over himself had not yet arrived.
.
.
Charletan's office was surprisingly small and very cluttered. Bentley headed straight for his personal computer, ignoring Sly who, true to his character, was slipping this and that into his pockets. (Bentley sometimes wondered if it was a personal compulsion or an inherited trait.)
He had only just managed to find a promising root folder when Sly tapped at his shell.
"Look," he said and offered Bentley a stack of papers, frowning.
Bentley leafed through them, growing more indignant by the moment. Charletan's offences had certainly not been limited to blackmail. He had committed fraud, bribery and embezzled various funds. From the looks of the dates printed on the paper, this had been going on for years.
Thankfully their target had been careless (or maybe just had the habit of a scientist) and had let the evidence accumulate. It was more than enough to get him sacked, if not arrested outright. Bentley still wasn't sure, however, what the money was spent on. There was some money laundering thrown in, here and there, but no details on what cost Charletan five thousand francs per month.
The safe was a bit of a problem, too. Charletan hadn't been foolish enough to leave the combination in plain sight.
Bentley went to the papers to look for clues, muttering to himself. Meanwhile, Sly took to turning the combination lock in idle boredom but stopped all of a sudden, eyes widening in surprise. Then, very carefully, he changed the direction, his face a mask of intense concentration. Bentley almost asked what was going on, but held his tongue.
The safe clicked and opened, the door swinging out without a sound.
Sly turned to Bentley, looking only a little less astonished than his friend.
"I could feel it," he said. "Very subtle, like a little tremor on my fingertips."
"...I assume this is another thing that has to do with your Cooper heritage, then," Bentley said slowly, eyes wide behind his glasses. "But until we find the Thievius Raccoonus, it seems we will keep finding out your skills by trial and error."
"Yeah, probably. But, you know, while I can't wait to reclaim my birth-right, finding out what I can do like this isn't half bad," Sly said and grinned, the joy of discovery in his eyes.
Frankly, Bentley couldn't wait to get to read the book either. Sly and his family were clearly not just about hiding and hoarding techniques anyone could learn by reading instructions - at the very least there had to a genetic disposition.
They emptied the contents of the safe into Sly's back bag, but money wasn't the only thing left inside. Behind the thick wads of cash were several small unassuming packages. Sly opened one, carefully, and sniffed. The smell was as overwhelming as incense and vaguely unpleasant. There was a bitter undertone to the scent of sandalwood and what resembled fennel and black cardamom.
Bentley leaned over his forearm to take a look. "Best take that with us, too, I want to do a chemical analysis on it. I cannot imagine why he would keep such large amounts of spice in his safe."
.
.
Most of the days, Sly and Murray had a schedule completely different from Bentley. During the hours of the day, he had lectures and returned home to find his companions just waking up, making coffee or brushing their teeth. There were a few hours then, to eat together and talk, before Murray was expected at the pizzeria and Sly left to his own mysterious excursions.
Bentley would go to sleep then, unless he had coursework to do or wanted to work on one of his personal projects. Alone in the apartment the walls seemed to close in and every little noise served to emphasise his loneliness. It was far better even to wake up at three in the morning, groggy and disoriented, to Murray crashing into the coat rack (and why did they even have one of those, again?)
As always, no one really asked Sly what he did. Usually he would tell them, at times he would not. Often he brought cash with him and always Bentley felt the brief sting of shame, before his conscious mind could stifle it.
They all did what they could and none of them could do everything, he reminded himself.
There were also times when Sly returned with bruises and gashes and stated only that he could not rely on stealth alone to accomplish his goal. It wasn't an answer, and yet it was. Bentley would take out their medical kit then and patch him up, cleaning the wounds and stitching them if needed. Sly had fur, it would cover the scars.
(Sometimes Bentley wondered if there were times he simply didn't wake up to do the job. Unlike everyone else, Sly had somehow mastered the art of not stepping on that one particularly creaky floorboard that complained every time someone dared to enter the living room.)
.
.
There were a few times none of them had to be anywhere else and Christmas was one of those.
While they resorted to Chinese take-out for dinner, Eugenié had baked them a traditional Christmas log cake. There were also apples, oranges and pears, nougat and chocolate and little almonds, and the brand new game console Sly had somehow procured (legally or not).
All in all, the world seemed far away and worries and obligations were momentarily buried under snow.
(Not that there was any of that in Paris. Temperature was stuck at steady -5°C and the streets were as black as coal.)
Their content peace was broken when Eugenié screamed, shrill and frightened.
Barely sparing a glance at his friends, Sly leaped to his feet and raced to the hallway. He had never forgotten, though he might have appeared to, that she always seemed wary and frightened and jumped at the shadows. The habit had never left her, even as they slowly became casual acquaintances.
The door to her apartment had been forced open and hung from its hinges, creaking sadly. Sly darted in without hesitating.
The inside of her place was tidy and modest, if showing obvious signs of poverty: the furniture was mismatched and heavily repaired and the wallpaper peeling off.
Sly didn't pay much attention to that, however.
A rather portly muskrat with a tasteless uneven moustache and an expensive coat was threatening Eugenié with a knife. He swayed on his feet and Sly could smell the liqueur to the other side of the room, but he was also much larger than her and fully immersed in alcoholic anger. Eugenie held a heavy frying pan and looked ready to use it, but she was still at a disadvantage. Before Sly could move, she caught his eye and gasped.
"Sly! No, you'll get in trouble!" she cried. Sly ignored the implied request and stared at the trespasser. He was absolutely going to interfere in this.
"Youuu, you bitch! You' been chhheating on me?" the muskrat bellowed, turning to Sly and lurching forward uncertainly. "You shtay away from my woman!"
Sly twirled his cane. Almost at the age of fifteen, he was already nearing his adult proportions, lean strong muscles and wide shoulders. The muskrat may have been large, but he was drunk and addled.
It really wasn't much of a match - mostly because Eugenié used the moment of distraction to hit him over the head with the pan made of cold iron. The muskrat dropped like a sack of potatoes.
There was a pause, as tension drained away like water from a sieve.
Sly raised an eyebrow and straightened. "Well, so much for mister macho. Are you okay?"
Eugenié nodded and sighed, letting the pan drop on the carpet. "I am. But you really shouldn't have interfered. He'll now come up with some ridiculous story, I'm sure."
Sly shrugged. "Too late to regret. And who knows, he might not remember me."
As Bentley and Murray came in, encouraged by the lack of screaming, Sly took a hold of the muskrat and dragged him all the way out of the apartment, down the stairs and outside building.
About to go back in, he frowned and stopped. He could still smell the bitter stench of alcohol and sweat, but underneath that was something else.
Something like sandalwood and black cardamom.
He dug into the man's pockets and pulled out a small package. He didn't need to open it to know what it contained. It might smell like spice and be used like spice, but it was a drug. Bentley's analysis on their previous sample had revealed several psychoactive compounds, known for inducing hallucinations and increased aggression.
Leaving the muskrat out on the street, Sly leaped up the stairs and went back to Eugenié's apartment to the sight of Bentley and Murray trying to comfort her with tea and leftover Christmas cake. She looked remarkably poised already, if a little depressed.
"Thank you, but this won't stop here. My Marcel has tried to get his father arrested time and again, but it never seems to hold water. That man has money enough to line the pockets of the right people. And now you've gotten in trouble, too."
Sly smiled gently and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I also know a guy."
.
.
"Nicolas, what can you tell me about this?" Sly asked and dropped the small bag of spice on the counter.
Nicolas looked up from polishing a small magnifying glass and whistled.
"Oh, that's the new trend drug. They call it 'spice' (apparently whoever named the thing had no imagination whatsoever). As far as I know, it's distributed by the Klaww Gang. The stuff is allegedly pretty popular with the middle and upper class population. You know - rich, bored kids."
Sly frowned. "I see. The police isn't doing anything?"
"I doubt it. Seems like money has exchanged hands again. You want incorruptible cops, you go to Interpol. Not that there aren't any crooks there, but, you know. Your chances are better. And besides, for all it does to you, it's also real spice. I don't think they've even trained dogs to recognise it."
"Well, I suppose there's nothing to it, then," Sly said and sighed, stretching his shoulders. "Still, I need to ask for a favour. My lovely neighbour has a bit of a problem with her ex-husband, who seems to be addicted to the stuff. Bentley said it increases aggression and he definitely seemed plenty hostile, so I can't leave this alone."
Nicolas nodded, rubbing at his chin. "Humm... Well, I do know just the guy. Just leave it to me, I'll get back to you."
"Merci, Nicolas. Joyeux Noël."
"Same to you, Sly," Nicolas said and glanced up.
The shop was empty. A brief breeze had blown in several snowflakes, products of an unexpected storm. Nicolas sighed, exasperated at the theatrics, and turned back to his new collection of freshwater pearls.
.
.
Time passed and summer returned to Paris. The city bloomed in flowers and tourists once again laid flawless siege on public toilets and restaurants.
Sly, Bentley and Murray had vacations, too, and nothing in particular to accomplish for once. The days passed, each of them lazy and hot, as the sun bored down on the city with vengeance. There was home-made lemonade, sunlight through the high window and a tiny electric fan that bravely tried to keep the heat at bay. It was too hot to think, too hot to steal, too hot to work.
When evening brought a relieving cool breeze, they would head out together and eat dinner at the pizzeria where Murray worked. The owner was a jovial warthog with an utterly incomprehensible Italian accent, filthy apron and clean hands. He always greeted them all with a friendly shout from the kitchen, but they had long since given up trying to figure out what he was actually saying.
They would head home after that, and play games or talk together until the moon rose to greet them. Sometimes they would stay up until the sun rose and birds welcomed a new morning.
It was during one of these idle days that they finally met the elusive Marcel.
The knock on the door was unexpected, if only for the timing. Their only visitor was Eugenié, who sometimes swept in to bring them peach tarts or petit fours and chatted cheerily about this and that. She had warmed up considerably since that Christmas incident and now always greeted them all with a kiss on both cheeks.
But she never showed up this late.
Sly groaned and heaved himself up from the deck chair, leaving his game controller on the floor. He had been winning the race, too.
He opened the door to the sour face of a young marten, who frowned at Sly and narrowed his eyes, then seemed to finish some internal struggle and sighed. He thrust his hand at Sly like it was a weapon.
"I am Marcel. My mother told me what you did for her. I... am here to thank you."
The words were not quite spat out, but there was a definite wary tightness to them. Evidently, Marcel wasn't one for trusting people.
Sly decided that this was not a place for smartass comments and tried to clean all of the usual smugness from his smile. "Ah, enchanté. My name is Sly. Do come in, I'll introduce you to my friends."
Marcel nodded rigidly and stepped inside.
It took half an hour and several glasses of lemonade, but eventually Marcel seemed to come to the conclusion that they were not, in fact, planning something nefarious and his hostility melted into standoffish acceptance.
He worked in the shipping industry, he explained, but also had some less than scrupulous dealings here and there and dabbled in things like shady construction and smuggling.
"It's mostly for mother," he said, gazing at the bottom of his glass. "I admire her. Father is rich, as you would know, and for a long time she only stuck with him for my sake. Until he beat her black and blue in some drunken rage. She left him right away, found a place for us to live and a job, and raised me with baked goods and smiles, all the while hiding from him. I think she's strong. Even now, after all these years, she's never given up her dream of opening a bakery. With father gone, she can finally do it."
Marcel looked up, his face stern.
"I'm only telling you all this because you got rid of him. I can tell you're not exactly law abiding citizens, and I don't like it. Some sort of rat instinct, I suppose, like recognises like... But I think I can trust you, to some extent."
He stood up and handed over the lemonade glass. "I never managed to get father arrested, no matter what strings I pulled. For that, I'll owe you guys one. Keep that in mind."
Sly smiled and grasped his hand. "Certainly. It has been a pleasure, Marcel."
Marcel nodded and swept out. Behind, Sly thought he could almost hear Bentley and Murray exhale in relief.
.
.
Their second year in Paris passed much the same. Murray was finally fired from his job for eating too much pizza on the side, but no one had caught him hotwiring cars while on the job, so everyone counted it as a plus. Sly grew into himself, his shoulders widening and gaining wiry muscles like steel cables. Bentley never gained much height at all, but Sly and Murray could follow his learning curve by the state of his vocabulary.
All in all, life was good.
Then, Bentley's graduation crept up on them like a guest you only half remembered inviting during some party while tipsy on champagne.
An unprecedented genius, he left the institute with impeccable grades after just two years. The day he received his diploma was a gorgeous summer day. The sun was bright and cheery but not overwhelming. The sky was periwinkle blue and stretched out endlessly, white clouds sailing on to their mysterious destinations under other skies.
Just like Bentley would.
He looked through the crowd and spotted his friends. Sly had that smile that always came across as a smirk, but undeniable pride managed to tone it down. Murray was almost jumping in place, waving at Bentley.
Happiness was like a balloon, inflating and lifting him. He glanced at the people he had studied with, the professors who had such expectations of him. He liked all of them just fine, but he was not part of their world. For the last months, he had had to spend a lot of time carefully weaving around attempts to offer him PhD opportunities or introductions to this or that prestigious company.
To cut ties was at the same time painful and a relief, like ripping off a band-aid. He had enjoyed school, the moderate challenge, the endless knowledge, he had walked his shady road since childhood and wasn't about to change it.
He spared the place one last glance and left, with no regrets. Freedom was sweet and the world waited ahead.
.
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Author's notes: Doesn't seem this is too popular. It is a bit of a pity, when I put so much thought into this and Mafia King was written in two days on a whim… Ah well, I never expected much in the first place. And I'm still confident that the writing itself is good.
The OCs won't be stealing the show, they'll just show up every now and then. I thought a few would be needed, because in the games so much happened off screen. The cast is really small.
French translations:
Château Rouge: literally 'red castle', this is a more grungy area of Paris in real life.
Fermé: closed
Joyeux Noël: Merry Christmas
Être sûrs: Be safe
Enchanté: essentially, 'pleased to meet you'