Greetings, miss Fox
Carmelita was born in a tiny village on the Spanish coast of the Mediterranean Sea. In her little corner of the world, the sand was hot; the grass coarse against her soles and a gentle wind carried the scent of the ocean. The midday sun made air ripple with heat and the tiled streets too hot to walk barefoot. Almond trees bloomed in the spring and lemon trees bore fruit in summer.
Her family was vast and sprawling, which was great when you needed a helping hand and horrible when you needed to keep a secret. She had inherited her mother's beauty and her father's blue hair, and while she had no siblings, there were aunts and uncles and cousins, more than she would care to count, all of them friendly and well-meaning and, frankly, exhausting. Her uncles would ask after her non-existent boyfriends while her aunts tried to feed her paella or give her embarrassing nicknames and her little cousins demanded that she play with them, tugging at her clothes with sticky fingers.
They were not especially wealthy and everyone lived comfortably because of effort. Carmelita grew up working hard and even harder; looking after her younger cousins, washing clothes, helping with cooking. There were chickens to feed, fruit to pick and cleaning to do. Always cleaning.
In its own way, hers was a sheltered life. Carmelita's sense of right and wrong grew, as it was bound to do, without many shades of grey. There were honest people and crooked people and very little room in between the concepts. She saw no excuse for crime. If you were poor, you just had to ask for help.
And though her sense of justice was rigid and uncompromising, it burned with passion. Unfortunately, the rest of the world didn't quite tend to agree with her.
There was a day she came home, biting back furious tears and lashing words. She had gone to the local police department to ask about training to be a police officer, and had been laughed out, told to not worry her pretty little head about men's business.
One of Carmelita's plump aunts gave her a well-used napkin to wipe her tears, and told her that a woman would always run afoul with men who would look down on her.
"Listen well, Carmen," she had said and took a drag from her foul cigarette with obvious relish. An old radio crooned in the corner, most of the passion of flamenco leeched out by the lack of volume.
"Men have four categories for women. We are mothers, virgins, sluts or bitches. None of these are suitable images for an aspiring police officer. What you must do is pick the pieces that work for you. The wisdom of the mother. The integrity of the virgin. The sexual attractiveness of the slut. The independence of the bitch. They will be confused and unable to shove you in a box. Instead, they will have to take you seriously."
"That's... pretty good. Where did you get that, auntie?" Carmelita asked. "Is it something grandmother told you?"
Her aunt waved her finely manicured her hand, and turned back to her pan of paella. "No, I saw it on TV once. But it's still something to keep in mind."
"I... see."
Carmelita loved her family dearly, but she was, at her heart of hearts, an adventurous soul and looked towards wide world out there. In due time, Carmelita strode through the police academy in Madrid wearing furious red lipstick and the confidence of a queen. She graduated with near perfect grades and several marksmanship trophies. Incidentally, she also trod on several hearts over the years, but that was a different thing altogether. In her opinion, they went wrong when they called her such things as 'vixen' and 'foxy lady'.
Work in one of the many peripheral precincts of Madrid was ungrateful at best. Her colleagues, most of them middle aged and cynical, did not think much of her idealism and refusal to tolerate hazing. Casualties included bruised egos and shirts lost to coffee stains.
Her time there gave her a new perspective on crime, as well. Or, at least, a harsher one.
The Spanish mafia was in charge in her district. Crime was organised, dressed up in slang and tattoos. Obvious criminals left the court with a slap on the wrist, due to mysteriously disappearing proof or suddenly amnesiac witnesses. The police seemed more interested in their lunch than their work, and seemed curiously blind to the pattern that was so clear to Carmelita's eyes.
Surrounded by corruption, she wondered if her dedication made the slightest difference. Her already rigid sense of justice was forged into hard and brittle iron.
But Carmelita was the kind of person who measured the worth of work with sweat and pain, and eventually the bitter toil paid off. At the age of nineteen, she was drafted into Interpol.
.
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Three years of steady effort saw her at the Opera House of Paris, Palais Garnier, on a certain lovely summer eve, working on to improving the security for the sake of the upcoming grand performance.
Carmelita smiled. There were a lot of teeth involved, but then, she could hardly help that, being a fox. Surprisingly enough, Interpol on the whole had turned out to appreciate results more than what happened to hang off of her chest. The glass ceiling was there, but made of regular glass rather than the reinforced steel-hard thing she'd run afoul before.
Just that night, her supervisor, inspector Barkley, had nudged her in a manner that was miles away from discreet and whispered (very loudly, so that everyone was sure to hear) that he was considering retirement and leaving his position to her. If she could prove herself tonight, as one last test, she would be the youngest inspector in decades.
She leaned against the railing of the grand marble staircase, lips pulled in a smirk she couldn't quite seem to wipe off, tracing her fingers along the dark veins of the stone. In this soft light, the stone almost seemed alive.
Palais Garnier had a lot of history, which, in typical European fashion, translated into tall white pillars with elaborate carved arches, statues of various Greek gods standing watch, and elegant chandeliers decorated with crystals and large enough to crush a very small orchestra. The stone of the floor was so polished it was an adequate replacement for a mirror.
However, the downside of the grand, ancient architecture was that such things tended to attract people who founded committees and made a fuss about preservation of tradition. As such, it was very difficult to get a permission to install new security systems. Natural progression of things lead to historical conservation folk constantly arguing with the opera enthusiasts and the people who tried to keep the building running and make sure that opera actually happened.
Personally, Carmelita had very little patience for the petty squabbling and dearly wished to strangle whoever had managed to get Interpol mixed up in the mess. If this thing had not been the cornerstone of her future career, she would have said something impolite a long time ago.
And yet, in the darkness behind her eyes, a seed of doubt nagged at her like something stringy and green stuck in between your teeth.
Carmelita sighed, taking in the crowded room with a professional glance. Though meaningful, she couldn't deny that there was a definite lack of excitement about her life. She spent most of her days yelling at people and fighting an endless battle with paperwork. The rest of the time she had to make nice with people who had such an overly inflated opinion of their own importance she was tempted to try and poke them with a nail to see if they would deflate like a balloon.
She thought of the old cop dramas her aunts used to watch, with a police chasing a criminal over rooftops, pistol in hand and the shrill scream of sirens in the background. Sometimes they caught the bad guy, sometimes they did not. And that was the point of it, the thrill of the chase…
Carmelita drooped a little. It would be nice to have a challenge.
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Sly hummed under his breath, balancing on his toes on the edge of a rooftop. The Paris Opera House shone blue and silver under the moonlight, just across the street, glamorous and inviting, a pearl against the night sky. He flicked out his binocucom, a shiny new toy both literally and figuratively, and zoomed in. Somewhere on the roof was a green glint, on and off.
"How does it look, Bentley?" he asked, his mouth brushing against the wireless mic that lay on his wrist. Bentley had been busy, lately.
"The security is under my total control. I and Murray will be moving to the rendez-vous. And Sly, remember that this is an infiltration mission. You can't pickpocket the guests!"
"Sheesh, take a little extra time to empty some pockets once, and you never hear the end of it."
"I think you will find that it was fourteen times. And those are only the instances that I know of."
"One, fourteen, twenty, what does it matter?" Sly waved his hand, sweeping aside all possible concerns with the air of someone who is sure that this time nothing could go wrong, at all. "I'm good at this, Bentley. I won't mess up."
"Don't jinx it! We've made some name for ourselves already, and this time the police are already there! If we screw this up, then...!"
"Relax, mom. It'll be fine. I'm going in."
In a fluid, practised arc, Sly leaped off the roof and landed on a tree branch. He had muscle and weight, but the wood barely shook. He ran, light on his feet, along the gnarly, twisted maze made of branches, and jumped, grasping the neck of a streetlight. There was a faint clink, and Sly cringed inside the privacy of his mind.
But he'd taught himself. He was doing pretty good, considering. The snide little voices in his head couldn't come up with anything and grudgingly went silent.
Taking leverage, he pushed against the metal and landed on the wall of the Opera House. Finding some sort of purchase on what seemed to be smooth stone, he reached up and hooked his cane on a ledge. There were windows and carvings after that, and then a statue. He'd climbed harder things. He finally hauled himself up to the rooftop by the elaborate patterns engraved in the ledge. Corinthian order, he absently noted, last of the three principal orders of classic Greece. Known for incorporating acanthus leaves and scrolls in its aesthetic.
Sly grouched behind another bit of carving, taking in his surroundings. There was no need to rush, if there was time to be had.
Most of the roof was a large dome, covered by a glaze of green patina. There was little room to walk. The statues on the edge were gilded and polished. It didn't look like anyone came to the roof often; there were fallen leaves and other debris on the floor. And there, hidden in a corner, was a decidedly shabby service door that stuck out like a crooked nail on wood. A glint of green light went on and off.
"Bentley, do you read me? I'm in position on the rooftop. Take care of the door, would you?"
"Sure thing, pal."
The light flickered and went off, before Bentley had finished talking.
Sly knelt down and frowned at the lock. It was small and rusty. He could break it, but, well. Sly had always had a fine sense of drama. There were procedures for this kind of thing.
He picked out two pieces of metal from his side pouch and carefully inserted them into the keyhole. With a twist of his wrist, the lock gave in and the door opened with a tired groan. Sly swept inside, shadows swallowing him once more. Behind him, the door swung close with a barely audible click.
The rooftop was left empty, as if Sly had never been there at all. Moonlight shone pale and cold on white stone and the dull green of old copper.
.
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Whatever happened later, Carmelita took a certain pride in the fact that the first time she laid eyes on Sly Cooper, her instincts rang warning bells. Of course, it might have been a combination of the instincts of a cop and those of a woman, because she had seen smug smirks like his before.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," he said, offering his hand. Carmelita frowned, but allowed him to kiss the back of her own.
It was really kind of irritating. For all his smug smile and confidence, the raccoon was attractive. He had a sly, handsome face and eyes that seemed to promise the world.
And the impression wasn't even ruined by him trying to take a peek at her cleavage. Grudgingly, Carmelita relented, like a miser that agrees to part with a penny.
"...Bonsoir. I haven't seen you around before," she said.
"Oh, I'm afraid I arrived late," he replied, his voice smooth and pleasant like finely aged wine. "I was lucky not to miss your lovely company. May I ask for your name?"
"Carmelita," she said firmly. "Carmelita Fox. And if you are trying to get in my good graces with sweet nothings, you picked the wrong girl. I am here on Interpol business."
To her surprise, the raccoon's eyes flashed with interest. Flashing her badge was usually enough to send them packing.
"Really? That's... admirable. You must be very good at what you do. How did you end up in such a demanding field?"
Carmelita had to take a moment to readjust, blinking in surprise, as delight and wariness fought for her attention.
While mentioning her profession had always been a handy way to send suitors packing, there had been a small amount of furious pain involved, too. She had watched, bitterly, as prospective suitors hastily backed off with promises to call her later, and tried to convince herself that it was for the better. If they were threatened by her badge, they were most certainly not Mr. Right in the first place.
And it always worked. Eventually.
A smile crept on Carmelita's face, against her will and her notice.
"I… wish for justice," she said. "It is difficult to describe how I came to that decision. You know of icebergs, how most of their mass is under the surface and cannot be seen? I always thought it was like that. Not an easy decision to make, I assure you."
And he was still suspicious to her, every inch of this raccoon and his silver tongue, but, well.
She hadn't had much luck in the field of love. Surely, there was no harm in conversation.
Keeping her suspicions in the back of her mind, Carmelita smiled.
.
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Sly noticed her the moment he stepped in the room with the grand old staircase. It was a sort of magnetism, and had less to do with her beauty than her presence. She held herself with strength and purpose, confidence drawn in the lines of her posture. Sly was reminded of the steel cable Bentley sometimes used, immensely strong and flexible, and perfectly capable of hurting you if you were foolish enough to try and break it.
But she was beautiful, too, with blazing brown eyes and wild curls of blue hair gathered up like a crown of waves. He would have to have been blind to miss that.
…The heist could wait for a few minutes, surely. When would he ever meet her again?
To his delight, she seemed instantly suspicious of him. Not many people had instincts fine enough to distrust him on the spot. A fine policewoman, he thought, a mind as sharp and fierce as her presence. He listened to her talk of herself, because he could not afford to do the same, and found that time slipped away as though swept by a river. It was beneath notice.
"What I despise the most is corruption," she said, and struck her hand in a sharp, angry slash, as though hoping to personally administer proper capital punishment for such offences. "It is bad enough that criminals make innocent people suffer, but there is no scum worse than someone taking advantage of their position of trust within police."
Sly nodded, because ultimately his sense of honour was very nearly a mirror to the proper side of the law. There were things you did, and things you did not, and there was no honour in corruption.
It really was too bad it couldn't be, he concluded sadly. There was a glint in Carmelita's eye as she spoke, a hint of suspicion and reserve. He couldn't fool her, not completely. And she –
"Sly, what are you doing?" Bentley interrupted with a frustrated whisper. "We have a schedule to keep up!"
Sly almost startled, but it was enough. Carmelita frowned, impeccably painted lips twisting down. Kind of a pity, Sly thought, because her smile was enchanting. But then, it was anger that set her ablaze with passion.
Sly took her hand, and held it regretfully.
"I apologise, mademoiselle. I have a friend to meet, so I must leave your charming company."
Carmelita raised an eyebrow that said she didn't believe one word. Sly almost grinned, before he thought better for it.
"A pity, I'm sure," she said. "Before you go, may I have your name?"
Sly grinned, and he knew that she knew that he knew. It was a game of words, and the colour behind the words, and he had always known how to play. "Sly. My name is Sly."
And then, Sly was long gone amongst the crowd. Carmelita never did get the chance to ask for his family name.
.
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Carmelita firmly wrote the raccoon and his honeyed words under the list of people she would not trust as far as she could throw them. He was up to something, a plot of a sort, and she could see the shape of it, but not the details. The law did not allow for much room for instincts, no matter how fine.
But she kept him in mind, and, when madame Pachyderma Tuskaninny wailed loud enough to rattle the chandeliers, immediately knew who she'd have to track down.
"My necklace! Diva Diamond has been stolen!"
Carmelita suppressed several thoughts that wanted to be curses, and fought her way through the crowd to the hysterical opera singer.
"Madame. What happened?"
"Oh, sargent Fox! You must help me!" madame Tuskaninny cried. "The safe is wide open! My necklace, nowhere in sight!"
It took Carmelita precious minutes to calm the hysterical woman. This was her job, she had to think of more than her need for action.
'I have a friend to meet,' Sly had said. Even if he was lying, it was highly likely that he had an accomplice. Dishonesty was difficult to pull off. The very best liars inevitably mixed truth and deceit.
He had worn a very nice suit, and claimed that he had been invited. That, and his slick charm, both seemed to paint him as a conman rather than a burglar. Likely he would use his guise of a legitimate guest to his advantage and slip away from one of the three doors at the ground level, as they were currently not linked to the alarm system. West seemed the most likely bet, with a large crowd to disappear in.
Which meant that she had to head to the maintenance route if she was going to intercept him.
Carmelita kicked off her high heels and took off in a run.
.
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Carmelita was wrong on more than one account, which is the risk of operating on lacking information. Sly had not, in fact, broken in to steal the Diva Diamond. Madame Tuskaninny was an opera diva, not a criminal.
One of the directors of the Opera house, now, he was another story altogether. Sly had an eye for all things fine and moniseur Massimo Perrin owned a truly magnificent collection of antiques. He, too, appreciated lavish things, and was not very discerning about how he got them.
His personal room was filled with gilded and painted masks, jewel-studded Faberge eggs, silver-framed mirrors decorated with pearls, historical manuscripts (which looked the kind of fragile that breaks down if you sneeze on it) and a whole chest of jewelled necklaces and brooches that glittered in the faint light.
Sly's fingers twitched, absently.
When he left, there was considerably less clutter in the room. On the desk was a tiny blue calling card.
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Sly was well on his way out via the western maintenance corridor when he spotted another person skulking in the shadows.
It wasn't any of Sly's business, per se, but he really was terribly nosy and this person did not know what proper sneaking was all about. Truly, he might as well have announced he was up to no good. Sly was almost a little offended on behalf of all thieves ever. That kind of shoddy work would only get him caught.
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Carmelita almost couldn't believe her luck when she ran around a corner and spotted the stage managed, Pierre, trying to sneak his through the western corridor with the kind of exaggerated manner that would have not only caught the attention of everyone around, but also made them follow him around just to see what he was up to.
Really, it was kind of embarrassing. She supposed 'Sly' was the brains of the operation with Pierre as the man inside, but she'd have thought –
Well, she would have thought better of that raccoon. Carmelita had fine instincts, sharp and fast like the edge of a knife. She had seen something similar in Sly, a confidence that leaned on true ability instead of a braggart's fables.
Carmelita forced herself to move silently, just in case Pierre's boss was still about.
It was something of a wasted effort. Pierre didn't notice her until she had already pressed her shock pistol against his face.
"Police. You're under arrest for suspected theft," she announced firmly. The stage master squeaked and folded like a wet napkin, shaking in his shoes. Carmelita slapped handcuffs around his wrists.
"Better keep right there, criminal. I still need to find your boss. Unlike you, that Sly isn't an idiot."
"Miss Carmelita, I really must object to that," said a familiar voice. Carmelita whipped around, shock pistol ready, and saw the form of a raccoon clinging to the ceiling beams, leaning away in a manner that seemed to mock the very existence of gravity.
Carmelita almost dropped her weapon in surprise.
She'd thought... No, no use thinking that. Sly was evidently capable of more than sweet-talking and looking good in a suit.
(And she did not, in any way, think he was that much more attractive while hanging off at an impossible angle, as shadows hid him in their embrace. At all.)
"I have nothing to do with him," Sly continued, as if there wasn't a weapon capable of causing first-degree burns and temporary paralysis pointing at him. "And I find the idea of being associated with someone of his ability mildly insulting."
Sly let go of whatever had been holding him up and fell down with a light tap, every bit of him graceful, as though he had been born to acrobatics. He still wore his suit, but had at some point acquired a curious, crooked cane. It glittered gently in the green light of the emergency exit sign.
"Let me introduce myself properly this time. My name is Sly, Sly Cooper."
Carmelita's eyes widened. She'd heard of him, in passing. The supposed newest representative of that ancient lineage, once thought extinct after an incident of some sort, almost ten years ago. She'd read the files out of vague interest, because the idea had seemed romantic and exciting, and then put it all out of her mind.
Carmelita narrowed her eyes, resolve firm. "Enchanté. You are also under arrest."
"What for?" Sly asked in a tone so overly innocent it wouldn't have fooled a statue. "I already told you, I had nothing to do with Diva Diamond. I don't steal from people who don't deserve it."
"There is an outstanding warrant for your arrest at Interpol," Carmelita said briskly. "And don't think you can talk your way out of breaking the law. I don't care where you think you sit in the food chain, the criminals you steal from still took their loot from honest people."
Sly gave a laugh, and for fleeting seconds there was no show or glamour to him. He looked a little rueful, and self-deprecating. "I suppose we must agree to disagree, then. I'm afraid my will is as strong as yours."
With those words, the moment was over and the thin line between a standstill and action was cut. Carmelita fired a shot, Sly dodged by half an inch and jumped up, hooking his cane in broken staging and climbing along their length. Carmelita shot again and missed, if only because the fragile framework gave away under Sly's weight.
But it was enough to buy him a second, and Sly was gone, shadows wrapping around him, hiding him from view.
Carmelita cursed.
"Don't think this is over, Cooper!"
Naturally, that was when the reinforcements arrived.
.
.
There had been no reason for Sly and Carmelita to meet.
Crooks were dime to a dozen, and Sly's little gang might have picked another target, or tried their luck on another night. Or, they might not have arrived at all. Carmelita, also, might have been assigned another job to prove herself worthy of a promotion.
Still, Il n'y a pas de hasard, il n'y a que des rendez-vous. And the rest, as they say, was history.
.
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Anxiety and anger tore at Carmelita, as she sat in Mr. Barkeley's office, and tapped her foot because she did not like waiting and doing nothing. Especially when her career was at stake.
She'd arrested Pierre, sure, but the bigger fish had gotten away.
Interpol was more progressive about hiring women than any other law enforcement agency. It did not mean they were perfect. Carmelita's one hope and rising dread was the fact that her superior had been making phone calls that seemed to involve yelling at people and calling them all sorts of unflattering things.
Harrumphing one last time, he put down the receiver and fixed Carmelita with a sharp look. "It's a difficult situation. I have to reprimand you, it's the protocol. But you're also too talented to throw away, and no one else has ever seen through a Cooper's act. You closer to him than most people can ever hope for. So, here's what we'll do. You get your promotion, but you'll also get his case. It's… a bit of a dead-end job, because that family is what it is. But it's the best I can do for you."
Carmelita jerked upright, back ramrod straight. A slow grin crept on her face. Really, had they already decided that catching Cooper was wasted effort, simply because of the family name?
Hah, she'd show them.
"I'll do it. I'll capture Cooper," she said, and stood up. There was a glint of steel in her eyes.
(And when was the last time she had felt so alive?)
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The new apartment Marcel had 'found' was almost perfect.
That is to say, it was in slight disrepair, the wallpaper was peeling off in places, the plumbing had taken two weeks to repair and there was still a draft that made second blanket a necessity for Bentley, whose reptilian blood sometimes gave him issues with the maintenance of thermal homeostasis (as he put it).
However, the apartment was also located in a quiet neighbourhood that wavered just between reputable and moderately shady and, most importantly, happened to have fallen through the loops and twists that were the French bureaucracy. In other words, no one cared that it was there. The place was invisible to all authorities.
Sly lounged in the balcony, watching as the city woke up with the sun. This was one of the perks of living in the attic, being able to follow everything that went on in the streets. He had always felt more at home high up.
"Okay, Sly, I think we've got a target," came a muffled shout from the living room. Sly craned his neck. The rising sun illuminated the room in pale gold. Their lovely purple wallpaper looked warm and inviting, the golden fleurs-de-lis pattern almost gleamed, torn as it was and covered in cobwebs.
Bentley was typing furiously in the living room, taking the occasional break to draw something on scrap paper. He had commandeered the large, round table for his plans, and there were papers and blueprints scattered across all available surface area. In the middle of the chaos was also a cup of fresh coffee, slowly burning a brown circle on a paper full of calculations. Sly picked it up and put it down on its plate. Bentley didn't notice.
"What are you planning?"
"I have found an interesting lead in Mumbai, India. A local gang, Laxmi Paduka. It turns out they are a big name in stolen treasures. Big historical value, priceless artefacts, relics so important that they will make Nicolas hate us forever. What do you say?"
"India," Sly breathed, tasting the word. "Curry and spices and bustling markets…"
"I'd like some curry," said Murray hopefully.
Sly grinned. "Sounds like a plan."
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Mumbai was an odd mix of old and new – skyscrapers could reach for the sky right next to an old temple. Polished metropolitan areas concealed ramshackle slums and lively markets. There was a constant heat in the air. Even the evenings were barely tolerable, the air still having the promise and lingering touch of the merciless sun of the day.
Their hotel was a dingy one, with squeaky beds and barely functional showers. The lizard clerk at the front had a slick, untrustworthy smile and a poor grasp of English.
They had all been tired after the long ride, feeling like all of the dust of the little roads they had travelled had lodged under their eyelids. After twelve hours of sleep, they were feeling mostly alive again.
Sly yawned, sitting cross-legged on his bunk and nursing his cup of espresso. His fur was rumpled from sleep.
"So, Bentley, what's the plan?"
Bentley blinked sleepily, scratching at his jaw. "You'll be meeting our informant in the afternoon, a ten minute drive without counting traffic. Until then, uh, I think we could use some breakfast."
"I'm on it, Bentley!" Murray said, sounding rather cheerful at the prospect of food. His stomach gurgled in agreement.
"I need to go through this data, but there's really not much to do at the moment. I could use some information on the surroundings, if you don't mind scouting the area. I think there is a bazaar nearby."
"Sounds good. I'll be back before you know it."
Sly jumped on his feet and yanked the window open. A gust of hot, moist air poured through.
"No, wait, Sly – "
He was too late. Sly was already gone.
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An overwhelming heat permeated the air, like a suffocating, wet blanket. The season was summer, and everyone waited for the arrival of monsoon. Sly was sweltering under his fur.
The market was a little noisy in the same way an ocean is slightly moist. The sound seemed almost a living thing, invading the air and nearly solid. Merchants competed for customers with commendable enthusiasm, as shoppers examined the available eyes with a critical eye.
Everything was on sale, and everything was colourful. Sly stopped for a moment to examine a stall of spices. There were piles and piles of powder in reds and greens and yellows, small black kernels alongside large grey seeds, heaps of other grains of all shapes and shades. Vanilla and cinnamon were stacked next to little dry star shaped things that he didn't recognise.
Sly thought that he could have wandered for days and not see even a fraction of it all. There were booths that sold robes of all sorts and colours or old books (that smelled of leather) and almost authentic antiques, as well as questionable little stalls that offered things that had presumably fallen off the back of one truck or another.
It was a pure luck that he saw her before she noticed him. But then, hearing one's own name is like a charm, something you can pick out from conversation even when your mind is entirely elsewhere.
"I want you to be on the lookout. I have every reason to believe that a wanted criminal, Sly Cooper, is in town."
Without really thinking of it, Sly slipped through the robes, blending in even with his grey fur and blue fabric. He peeked out, careful not to move, and his heart jolted.
Carmelita Fox was walking through the bazaar as though it was her personal turf. People moved out of her way, not the other way around. Behind her trailed officers of the Indian police, who seemed to be rather out of their depth.
Absently, Sly thought she looked even lovelier like this, in casual jeans and the sun of India gleaming on her bright fur. Her gait was a saunter, that of a predator on the prowl. And he, the prey. Presumably.
Sly grinned.
Minutes later, he slipped through the tiny window of the hotel, his shopping hanging from the hook of his cane. Breakfast had arrived while he was out, and seemed to consist mostly of flat bread and dishes that had chickpeas and lentils mixed with vegetables.
"Guys, there's a complication. Cops are in town. Interpol has tracked us down."
"What? This is going to complicate everything! I need to revise my plans for... Sly, why are you smiling?"
.
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As it turned out, the meeting place was in an opium den.
Sly took careful note of his surroundings and tried not to breathe in the fumes. The place was underground, and the only light came from small lanterns that hung from the ceiling. Most of the patrons were lounging on silk pillows, expressions vacant. They didn't pay attention to him, but then, they also looked like nothing short of an elephant on a rampage would be able to garner more than a glance. Smoke drifted in the air.
This was just the place for exchanging sensitive information that could not see the light of the day. All that mattered were the dreams and the smoke.
"I take it that you are Mr Cooper, then," asked a slightly accented voice. A person wearing a purple robe sat next to Sly. A hood covered his entire face. It was impossible to see anything but the glint of his eyes.
"I might be," Sly said, taking a careful sip of his tea. "If you are from the Purple Sherwani. Very oppressing, the weather we seem to be having."
His informant nodded. The phrase was as agreed.
"Ah, yes. I am glad that you have been punctual. It is, how do you say it, unpleasant outside. The monsoon is arriving, I do not wish to dawdle. It is best that we are quick about this."
"Yeah," Sly said, trailing a finger on the edge of his glass. He glanced at his drinking partner from the corner of his eye, expression unreadable. "But why are you helping me out? Getting rid of competition?"
"Yes and no," the man in the robe said. "They are, how do you say, distasteful. We do not wish to do business in their vicinity. Because of the highly patriarchal culture we have, many men in India are left wishing for a wife and without adequate morals how to go about courting. And when there is a demand, there will also be someone to provide a... service."
Sly's eyes widened. "You don't mean -"
"You understand now, yes? We have standards. However, we are still not a charity. It is unthinkable to involve the police. But if you were to bankrupt them, we would not feel sorry."
He stood up and wiped invisible wrinkles off his pristine robe. Then, he dropped a folder on the table. Sly picked it up, frowning. This would be a more complicated mission than he had thought.
"Phir milenge, mr. Cooper. It has been a pleasure. I hope our paths cross again."
.
.
Moonlight shone through the high, open windows of the temple of Siddhivinayak, failing to do much beyond giving the darkness a shape.
Then, a shadow moved. The shape flitted from one dark corner to another, nearly invisible and footsteps silent as a feather.
Sly paused, letting his fingertips run on the surface of an ancient relief. It depicted the form of an elephant, with a broken tusk and several arms.
This was a temple dedicated to the god of success, Ganesha. Seemingly respectable, under the reputable halls of worship was a den of vice and depravity, where rich men could lose themselves in drink or opium dreams. Or other things.
However, this late at night, or this early in the morning, even that side of the temple slept.
Sly moved, and the shadows embraced him. This part of his life was not something he could share with Bentley and Murray.
The stillness of the night and the lack of light seemed to give life to old memories, as though imprints of life had been left in the stone. He could almost hear the voices of people who had once walked these same hallways, on their way to worship Ganesha and ask for his favour. There had been priests, old wives wearing faded saris, young men wishing for success…
He didn't move silently just because of his profession, didn't take care because he was good at what he did. It seemed rude to disturb the echoes of lost ages.
He wondered if Murray and Bentley would ever be able to sense what he did, those whispers that were barely there, and as fragile as thousand-year old paper.
It was times like this when he best remembered his own history. For thousands of years, his ancestors had been doing this same thing. If only they had left something behind, something tangible, beyond words on ancient pages and a faint feeling...
Were they watching him? Could he measure up to what was expected of him?
Sly shook his head, trying to dislodge the sudden melancholy.
The inner sanctum housed a giant red statue of Ganesha, now decorated with chains of flowers. His belly reminded Sly vividly of Murray.
The stone slab looked very solid, and gave the impression that anyone foolish enough to try to lift it would have to say goodbye to their fingers. Sly lodged his cane through a small chip on the edge and pulled. Slowly, the stone gave way and revealed an entrance.
"Bentley, I'm going in."
"Roger. I'm setting up for phase two."
The lower floors were dark. This was a darkness thick enough to cut through, and covered everything like a formless void. To bring light here seemed more than a poor idea. It would have broken rules.
In contrast to the dark hallways, the treasure chamber was brightly lit. Sly made a soundless whistle.
There were ancient gold coins from East India Company, antique silver, heavy gold necklaces, a carved throne studded with emeralds, piles and piles of diamonds, one of them a bright jewel the size of an ostrich egg – the legendary Kohinoor diamond. And other things.
He reached down and picked up a large red stone, admiring its skilful filigree setting. In the light of the lanterns, the rock seemed to have its own inner glow. He thought it rather matched the fire in Carmelita's eyes.
Then, an alarm blared.
.
.
Carmelita was halfway through the temple when the alarm shrieked, shrill and jarring. The false peace was disturbed, like an anthill poked with a stick, as angry shouts and screams bounced off the stone walls.
Carmelita cursed and ran. She was not about to give up, even if this exposure made Cooper run like a rat escaping a sinking ship, because there was the chance he would not.
As of yet she had not learned much of her opponent, because Sly was both new to the game and good at it. But one thing was clear enough.
Sly Cooper was arrogant.
The calling cards were an obvious sign, but Cooper also insisted on driving around in that one blue van with the ridiculously obvious licence plate 'Sly-1'. Everything he did, up to and including his choices of targets, seemed designed to show off.
The world had to know what he had done.
But it would cost him. Carmelita wasn't the youngest inspector in decades for her shooting skills alone.
And then, a soft, fearful voice spoke out to her.
"Police? Are you police? Wait! Please! Please, you must help us!"
The English was clunky, but despair was clear in her voice, much in the same manner a forest is clear after a fire.
Carmelita blinked, and stopped in her tracks. She flashed her light to the direction of the voice, and a group of young women hid their eyes from the sudden brightness, covering in a corner.
"What are you doing here?"
"We are prisoners," said the first woman. She was a dhole, and might have passed for a fox if she was not in the vicinity of Carmelita. Her robes were bright red and revealing, and golden bracelets jingled when she lifted her arms in a beseeching gesture.
Carmelita could tell that the person in front of her was of the sort that instinctively understands they are braver than others, which in her opinion tended to be an ungrateful position. But it had also made her take the chance, and reach out to the foreigner. The dhole stepped closer, encouraged now.
"If we stay, we get sold. You are woman. You must understand."
Carmelita froze.
Somewhere, Sly Cooper was no doubt getting away with his crimes. If she wanted to catch him, she had to keep moving. Staying here, helping these women, would mean that she'd have to deal with whoever it was that had been keeping these people in.
She sighed, and lowered her searchlight.
"Come along, then. I'll get you out of here."
.
.
Before an hour passed, the relatively low-key stake-out mission had blown up into a full-scale Situation. There were enough cars to blockade every road leading to the temple, and blue-red lights flickered in the dark of the night.
Carmelita was in a foul mood. She'd apparently busted a major operation for person trafficking, as well as smuggling of priceless lost treasures, and that sort of thing always seemed to end in up with a lot of people wandering around, trying to look busy, as clunky police protocols of crime scene ran their course. The Director General of the Indian police himself had arrived twenty minutes after the barricades had been set, looking harried and still wearing his nightcap. He'd made a pest of himself from the get-go, following Carmelita and apologising over and over for his perceived failure. Eventually Carmelita snapped and told him tartly that if he wanted to atone, he should do what he could for the rescued victims. (He had looked horrified, and rushed off to make sure there were blankets and drinking water for everyone.)
Amidst the chaos, she had not seen hair or tail of Sly Cooper.
She gritted her teeth together, and walked off, making a hasty excuse about getting more coffee.
Outside the circle of lights, she let the wind of Mumbai caress her face. It wasn't much of a relief when it came to heat, the impending monsoon kept the air humid and oppressive.
"As I thought, you really are the best kind of cop," Sly said.
Sly Cooper was lounging on top of an electric pole, a shadow against the full moon. His pack was the only bulky thing she could see, the rest being all about smooth lines and flickering tail.
Carmelita froze, for the briefest moment. Then, she went for her gun.
"How dare you? Using those girls to distract me, despicable!"
Sly lifted his hands in defence.
"Come now, inspector. We were after the treasure, I only found out about the ladies after we were already in the middle of the operation. And I couldn't possibly have saved them, I'm a criminal."
"All the same," Carmelita hissed. "Hand over whatever it is that you took. The artefacts belong to the country of India."
"No can do," said Sly. "It's my reward, for finding the lost treasure."
Carmelita shot, and the electric discharge singed Sly's ear. Then, with one last twist of his ringed tail, he was gone.
Carmelita ran after him, shooting at every moving shadow.
.
.
"Was that really necessary?"
Sly couldn't see his friends properly in the dark of the van, but Bentley's voice practically dripped with disapproval. Sly's grin was more a reflex than a conscious thought.
"Oh, come on pal. Just a bit of fun."
"You smell like singed fur."
"I know. What a woman."
Bentley buried his face in his hands.
"In any case," Sly said, ignoring his friend. "I've been thinking… it's time."
There was no need to ask what Sly meant. All of their effort, all of their plans, eventually culminated into one thing.
Sly leaned back against his seat, and flicked his cane. Every scratch was familiar, every stain and imperfection. From the hazy memories he had of Thievius Raccoonus, many Coopers had made a new cane for themselves, at some point in their lives. There was so much he didn't know.
Sly carried a weight that came from history, of countless generations of ancestors. There was no visible sign of the burden, but it was still there, in his mind's shoulders, heavy as lead and impossible to shake off. He could never outrun or escape it, because he did not want to, and though Bentley's mind understood, his heart did not. Not really. It was something you had to be born to.
And though Sly wanted vengeance, it was not the kind of burning passion that would consume him whole. Bentley thought that it was rather the flame of a forge, and would temper Sly into something great.
The little blue van drove on, a shadow and a light in the dark of night. The moon shone bright and white, blessing them with the pale light of night.
.
.
Author's notes:
This is the chapter you almost didn't get to read. My laptop recently went on an adventure, sailing around somewhere in Europe, and I had all but given up ever getting it back. Then, I got a random email that said it had been found after all. I don't even want to know, honestly.
(That was a gross lie. I want to know like burning.)
But anyway. It would have taken me ages to try and write this chapter again, from the half-finished draft I had in my (badly outdated) safe copies. And it would not have been the same, at all. So rejoice. Or something.
To be honest, I'm actually kind of glad this story isn't too popular. I can just write whatever without having to worry.
I hope I managed to write Carmelita well. I used to dislike her for years, but I don't believe in character bashing. I read the comic that depicted her and Sly's first meeting, and disapproved immensely. It did her a huge disservice, implying that she only got promoted because Sly fancied her and wanted to help. No. In my story, she gets about on her own effort.
'Il n'y a pas de hasard, il n'y a que des rendez-vous' means something like 'There is no such thing as chance, only encounters'.
The temple of Siddhivinayak is real. Of course, the real one isn't secretly a criminal hideout. I also hope I'm not coming across as implicating that India is somehow a world capital in human traffic or anything. It's a very international problem.