~~~Where God Went to Die~~~

Fuck you. I'll text you when I'm in Paris.

That's the last thing she bothered texting him. He knew she was upset, but her vulgarity still hurt. He loved her, but he didn't know if she felt the same way anymore.

You idiot. You stupid dumb bastard. Sly Montoya criticized himself, still tasting the whisky under his tongue. His eyes hurt, and his thumb wouldn't stop tracing his jawline in nervous frustration. He just had to drink too much. He just had to yell at her.

He just had to keep the book.

Sly looked up from his seat in the back of a cramped shuttle and out the window at the Scandinavian countryside. Ayleen was smart, and independent enough to stay safe, but that was no excuse. He couldn't have been more vague when he told her about Mugshot- You fucking moron -but still, if she did happen to find him…

Sly was sitting next to a green canvas bag, shielding his cane from the other, oblivious passengers aboard the bus. He kept his left arm rested atop the bag, every few seconds shooting it a glance. If someone were to try and nab it, he'd feel it before he saw it, but the assurance helped him feel less… less…

Stupid… Stupid-ass motherfucker… shes your goddamn daughter… what would Carmelita think? What would she say to you if she found out you sent her daughter into the jaws of Mugshot… stupid stupid… stupid…

Sly may have been rusty in regards to a thousand skills from his old life, but staying silent was never a lost art. He would occasionally feel a tear roll down his cheek, but any sighs or whimpers he desperately wanted to exude into his hands, he swallowed. He had to be strong, he needed to be strong.

Deep down, he wondered if telling her the truth would actually hurt her. He had found a new life, why would his daughter- born after all the doubt and raised by a man ashamed of his past -try to pursue a career as a thief? Sly Cooper was nothing without his family legacy to guide him through the hard times. Ayleen had something better than an old book, she had a father. A real-live father, who would always be there for her… well, mostly, at least.

Sly looked at the bag, resting his eyes for more than half a second this time. He could see through the canvas, he could see the old red wood and chipped bronze, he could smell the metallic memory of blood, he could taste the air of hundreds of years, all of which he and the cane knew too well. He knew he would show her the cane, but contemplated showing her the time machine Bentley still had. If he hasn't destroyed the damn thing yet… Sly sighed and looked away, the weight of the stick seeming to press on his heart.

Maybe… maybe she and I could bury the thing… forever…

The bus slowed down, outside the window, cars and pedestrians made their usual route, a wall between Sly and his child. She was somewhere in this city, and if not her… Mugshot at least. Sly knew he had been confined to the city as a type of "open-imprisonment." he was too old to be a threat anymore, the state figured he might as well get some fresh air while they kept tabs on him.

The raccoon swung his bag over his shoulders and waited for his turn to get off the bus. A passing fox outside his window caught his eye, as they often did. He missed her with all of his heart, like a nebulous vacuum eating all his other thoughts. He did this to himself, he knew. But deep down, deep in that vacuum there was a small spark, a small cold spark waiting to unleash a maelstrom of fire and hatred. A spark he had felt since his travels with Clockwerk.

A spark he was afraid of. A spark he knew he had to tell Ayleen about.

He had to tell her what he did.

Chapter Ten

Rotterdam, Netherlands - 2035

As Sly had thought, Mugshot wasn't too hard to find. He worried Ayleen had the same luck, despite her having no clues to go on, nor previous knowledge of the brute. Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he set his bag down underneath the stools at the bar, and sat down next to the bulldog.

The large, old, gruff and ugly dog growled at him. "Lotta seats in the pub pal."

Sly looked sideways at him, unconsciously cocking a smile. "Only one next to you." Mugshot's heart almost exploded, as it loudly picked up its pace. Sly could see the thump thump thumping through thethin shirt he wore. "How have you been old man?" he asked, studying the bar they found themselves in. Aside from the barkeep, the dog and the raccoon were the only two there.

Mugshot looked past his spectacles at his drink, his giant fist too weak to squeeze hard enough to break the glass. "You… you… fucking…" he tried to find the right words, his energy seeming to hopscotch from powering his heart to his fist to his mouth. The dog was old, significantly too old to pose a threat to anybody. Ayleen was agile, and smart. If she had run into Mugshot, the worst he could do to her was probably no worse than Sly's already done.

"I know. Its me." Sly sighed after reminding himself of his mistakes. "I'm just trying-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Mugshot's heavy purple hand pushed his glass into Sly's face. Hard. The stein shattered, its shard digging into Sly's cheeks as the agitating taste of beer paraded its way over his lips. The raccoon fell backwards, rolling on impact to land on his feet. The bar stool didn't even have time to hit the floor before Mugshot caught it, and chucked it at Sly. He dodged the throw, hearing it crunch as it hit the wall behind him. The bartender was yelling in his native language and pointing at the dog, who, despite his age, was standing firm and alert. "YOU ROTTING PIECE OF HORSESHIT!" he screamed, cracking his knuckles, and squaring his stance.

Sly popped his jaw, licking his lips free of the blood and beer. The dog stood between him and his cane like a mountain. Memories of all their previous altercations flooded back into the raccoon's mind. In all he could find, the dog seemed smaller than he was now. "Cheap shot, big guy…" he said, still wincing from the cuts around his mouth.

"Limp-dick faggot!" Mugshot bellowed, grabbing another stool and holding it like a bat. "I'm gonna skin you alive and make a hat!" he took a leap forward, trying to smash his stool down on Sly like a comet, but the raccoon was too fast. Sly ducked behind him and hit the back of the bruiser's knee with his foot. The dog lost his balance and crashed on the floor with a heavy thud. Before Sly could get to his bag, the dog pulled himself closer to his foe and caught him by the tail. With a grunt and a hefty yank over his body, he managed to send Sly flying through a small glass window overlooking the street the bar was situated on.

Sly hit the sidewalk outside chest first. Having the wind knocked out of you wasn't a new feeling to Sly, just an out of practice one. The broken glass around him, covered in drops of his own blood showed him the reflection of Mugshot trying to stand himself up. Sly did the same. By the time they were both on their feet, they caught each other's eyes. Mugshot looked scared, somewhere below his angry surface.

But inside and out, Sly looked furious. He crammed all his weight on his toes and shot himself back through the window, masterfully avoiding the jagged glass teeth of the frame. He landed, then leaped forward and rolled on the hardwood floor, eyeing his target. About two feet behind, as well as below Mugshot, awaited his history. The dog yelled and held up his own cane like a javelin. He stuck out his other arm for balance and hurled the stick at Sly, narrowly missing his back and piercing into the floor with a violent BMM and a reluctant wobble. For his age, Mugshot was putting up quite a fight.

Sly jumped on the cane, and using his weight to throw himself further, flung himself at Mugshot and pulled the rod with him. He smashed it into the dog's jaw, knocking loose a strip of fake teeth and a few real ones. He fell to the ground, spitting blood up at the raccoon. Sly kicked the brute's tiny legs out of the way and had his bag in hand. With a quick motion, he ripped out the cane and pointed it down at Mugshot. A bright golden light seemed to emanate, as he felt the near-forgotten rivets in the wood handle. "Where is she?" he asked coldly.

Mugshot looked puzzled for a second. Then he laughed. Looking up at sly through bloodied, weak little eyes, he smiled. "You know kiddo? …I'm glad that cunt of a fox is six feet under."

In broken English, the bartender tried to stop the raccoon, but before he could form any actual sentence, Sly had meteor-struck Mugshot on the top of his head, four times. The second and third had drawn enough blood to paint the both of them, but with the fourth, came a loud crack. The cane was stuck, twitching with Sly's attempts to retrieve it. Four times too many. He was probably unconscious by the first strike.

A crowd had formed, filled with scared foreign voices, gasps of shock at the red raccoon, standing unharmed above a fresh corpse. He turned to look at them, catching his breath, almost hoping to see Ayleen among the crowd. If she could just see, he wouldn't have to explain. He wouldn't have to admit. But no, he does. She wasn't there.

Deciding in a millisecond to abandon his bag, Sly jumped through the broken window for the third time, rolling when he landed. A few in the crowd seemed to make an effort to grab him while the others ran, but they were too slow. With his cane, the raccoon found a banner hook and used it to propel himself upside the building. It had maybe three stories, but he had scaled it by the time he recognized that. It was the first time in years he had to use his agility for an escape, but it all felt natural, like it took no dust in it's time off.

Atop the building, Sly took a second to breathe.

Is he dead? He's dead.

You killed him, Sly, you did.

Paris.

The word hit his brain like he had Mugshot's, Paris. Bentley, she must be off to find Bentley. No proof to go on but gut instinct, he remembered he told her not of just Mugshot, but of the Paris hideout. He hadn't given an address, but in his bones, that was his only hope. If nothing else, he could still rely on Bentley to help find her… right?

He and the turtle weren't on the best of terms since Carmelita's death. Not for lack of trying on the latter's part, Sly had just figured his brothers in crime would be only just that. Having them a permanent part of his new life would only hurt more. Remind him of the good 'ol days. Sly never refused their calls, but kept them short, and encouraged months in-between. They were true to their word, and allowed him the distance. The call he had made to Bentley before he left was the first time in years he had heard his nasally little voice.

Police sirens, people speaking frantically, and even the sound of a helicopter broke above the cold rush of the wind. He didn't notice until he decided to keep moving that he was crying, his tears hot and his breath hollow. He had just killed someone, for the first time since running, for the first time since Ayleen. Ever since his eons (but, relative to him, hours) with Clockwerk and that strange philosophical light they found within each other, the reminder of all the killing he did in his youth… it made him sick. Not that Mugshot didn't deserve the clobbering bestowed upon him, but Sly regretted that he had to be the one to do it. He regretted he couldn't stop after just one. It felt dirty, wrong… something Clockwerk would have hated. He had convinced the bird that killing could be justified, but never quite believed it himself after that. Circumstances and variables may justify thievery, even murder, but all Sly had to offer was his legacy.

Her an I… we can start over. Burn it all down.

As he glided over the rooftops, nostalgic in the rush of watching the alleys and streets flash under him, his mind found an old image of the green aura that would swallow his body as he moved through time. Maybe I could reset it all… tell her not to come, tell her what would happen to her. That would at least give Ayleen a chance… a real chance to know her mother.

His mind continued playing with the idea until night fell, and he could return to the ground. It was off to Paris, time to bite the bullet and confess his sins.

")\*/("

Paris, France - 2035

Ayleen thought back to the fight with her father, no more than ten hours ago now. He looked broken, the sentient shell of the man who raised her, who held her in his arms, the man who she knew would die for her. The train she found herself on, delayed and parked in the middle of an alley of factories and warehouses, was empty sans the two sleeping on each other's shoulders rows ahead of her. She took a rhetorical glance behind her, knowing she wouldn't see anyone, then curled her legs up to her chest and wept. Her father had been through enough pain, did running from home hurt him the way her mother must have? To leave him depressed and drunk, or worse, suicidal? No, he would never do that, she knew. But the thought was still scary. To be the final straw that pushed this hollow man over the edge, after so many mysterious tragedies in his life? She couldn't live with herself if it came to that.

In her tears, she felt a cold contempt as well. Much fainter than it had been, possibly the last there was, but still noticeable. How long till he does to you what he did to her? Whatever the hell that was.

Paris was a big city, but in the picture of Sly and his droogs, the Eiffel Tower rose from behind the house so large and unobscured it was the best landmark she could hope for. That big, that close to the house, it would only take a day at most of searching to find the two-story the turtle and hippo hopefully still resided in. Most of her money was gone, but she was determined to survive until at least then.

The drawings and cursive text of the old now-burned book felt carved into the back of her eyelids when her mind caught an inkling of one. The first one she had read, and subsequently re-read, was an entire dozen pages dedicated to pick-pocketing. "The Art" of it, as the pages claimed. Determined to abscond her mind from her mysteriously fragmented family, she lifted her eyes over the seats to study the sleeping couple. Two lemurs, middle aged, out cold. Self disappointment suffocated her as she stood, falling right back into her seat. No… dad wouldn't want that. She sighed and looked out the window, a white brick wall obscuring the french cityscape. Thieving was what drove her mother away, she was almost certain. It absolutely wouldn't help her feel closer to her dad, his face never leaving her mind as she constantly tried to shift attention.

Or… maybe it would? She reminded herself that she didn't know the full story. Not that whatever her father was keeping from her could redeem him, or offer an argument in favor of his deeds, but for all Ayleen knew, maybe he only gave up the life because Carmelita found out? Now that she was gone, maybe Sly wanted back in? Maybe seeing her… like him… or rather, how he was, would help bring him out of the hole he drank himself into?

Stop it. You cant justify thievery. She nodded, agreeing with herself.

The train regained its momentum, the heavy wheels groaning back to life. Soon, the walls opened to a beautiful vista of rolling hills, with buildings rising from the greenery like stars in the sky. Far in the distance, skyscrapers and towers kept careful watch over the horizon. Somewhere in the midst of them lay the Eiffel, the closest thing to a map she would be given. Trees and bushes swam like snakes through the emerging neighborhoods, houses and storefronts becoming dense, and common. The overhead speaker buzzed to life with a static way to old to still exist in the '30s. something in Danish, then German, then French. Ayleen didn't care enough to pay attention.

Thinking back to the old and dirty face of Mugshot, she couldn't help but feel a chasm of remorse building in her heart. If she pressed (both him and herself) she could have learned a lot more. The biggest piece of knowledge she walked away with, was a fear that all parties of her dad's old life were just as lurid. Hopefully, this Bentley and Murray duo would be the furthest from vulgarity. In a perfect world, they would be accommodating, welcoming, and eager if nothing else to help her learn. Sly had drunkenly suggested her to visit Mugshot, and in the same stupor, the turtle and hippo. Her hopes were high, but her expectations… well…

…were they thieves too? They had to have been, being that close to the old Sly. Were they really friends? Or just partners? The picture looked amiable enough, what she could remember of the trio's faces. She rubbed away the last of her tears, looking one last time at the lemurs. Still asleep.

Still easy prey. No. Don't.

Soon, the houses and ma-and-pa shops of Paris suburbia melted, now replaced by clean, but somehow dreary, oceans of asphalt. Some parts rose, and stretched with roads onto what looked like an airport, other parts blossomed into square stubby buildings. Buildings that may have looked obtrusive if the trees and green hadn't hugged those neighborhoods so tightly. Under a stone arch, through a tunnel, and finally into a bustling station the train crawled. Another static announcement, something about the final transit through the city.

Ayleen picked up her backpack and sat half exposed in the aisle, the locomotive inching its way through the track. Out the window, she could see all kinds of animals, most on their phones, awaiting its halt, just as her. There was a father/daughter looking duo laughing at a poster on the station wall. Of course, she had no way of knowing how the two knew each other, but it still tugged on her heart. They looked happy, content. The lemur couple in front of her had stirred, standing and stretching. She looked away from them in shame, but couldn't watch the family either, finally setting her wet eyes on her lap. Her legs were shaking, and her fingers twitching.

Off the train, and through crowds and crowds of more and more people she found herself digging, until she finally emerged to a warm bright sky. In her hand, she held a map of the city provided by the station. In the lower left corner, directly opposite where she believed she was, was the Eiffel. She felt around in her backpack for money of any nationality, but only had a few Krone. Reluctantly cursing herself for not having the guts to pilfer the lemur's pockets, she sighed, and set off West.