Hoo boy, this story has been a long time in the making! It shouldn't have taken nearly as long as it did, but life (and my executive dysfunction) kept getting in the way. I initially started writing this as a one-shot, but about halfway through writing it, I realized how long it had gotten and decided to break it up into chapters. So this will be the first chaptered story I post here!
My idea for this story came from something that has bothered me for a long time from Sly 3. Why did the ACES start with the semi-finals? I attempt to fill in some blanks with my vision of what the qualifiers may have looked like.
Disclaimer: Sly Cooper and all other characters in this story belonging to the Sly Cooper franchise are owned by Sony and Sucker Punch. The OCs in this story that belong to me are Cobus, Klaus, unnamed woodpecker and unnamed crane.
Chapter 1
A small flock of red-breasted geese drifted through the clear skies of Netherland, the soft turbulence of the wind slightly pushing them out of formation every now and then. The beat of their wings would interrupt the otherwise tranquil day, until they approached a large open field seemingly in the middle of nowhere. More birds, much larger and noisier ones, soared through the air above the open field, the loud whirring emanating from their metal bellies never ending with the sheer amount of them aloft in the sky. The geese scattered as they got closer to the giant metal birds, realizing just in time that they would stop for nothing and just exactly what the skyborne figures are.
Biplanes and triplanes of all shapes and colors being manned by one pilot and one tail gunner each presented themselves in this remote location. Blue, black, green, red, yellow, and combinations of them and more were maneuvering around and in between single and double pylons, some succeeding better than others and some failing altogether. The discharge of automatic gunfire also resounded through the area, the wind carrying the ricochet of sound bouncing off the arena's surrounding mountains.
The trademark bomber jackets and scarves of the pilots and tail gunners whipped around violently from the air resistance as they navigated their way through the challenge set before them. One by one, the pilots focusing on operating the plane to make optimal time by expertly utilizing them through the course set out before them. All the while, the tail gunners shot at airborne balloon targets tethered by ropes to display their marksmanship skills.
On the edges of the lush, tulip-filled field below, several other biplanes and their pilots were on standby on an impromptu taxiway. Mechanics dressed in overalls or cargo pants and long-sleeved shirts checked the undercarriage and engines of their respective planes while the pilots and tail gunners sat in their cockpits to test the motorized vehicle at the whim of the mechanic. Various sounds one would equate to that of an auto shop were abundant in the surrounding area: Wrenches clanking on engine parts and tightening bolts, tail gunners operating the hydraulics and maneuverability of their weapons, and the high-pitched squeaking as pilots would test wing flaps.
They filled the medium length, casual set ears of the mouflon ram sitting at a large booth with neat piles of papers laid out across the navy-blue cloth-covered table in front of him. The white canopy above the booth protected the ram from the blinding sunlight, as there were no clouds on this day perfect for biplane flying. The forest green long-sleeve shirt and the light brown puffy vest complimented his dark brown and white body hair. He stood with both hands on his hips, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, exaggerated breath to drink in the smells of oil, rust, and gunpowder.
"Ah, it's smellin' like another good turnout this year." He said out loud to himself with his strident, mobster sounding voice with a moderate Dutch accent as he breathed out. His massive horns wrapping back, down, and curving to the sides of his head bobbed with his head as he nodded approvingly at the scene being enacted before him. More and more biplanes were beginning to be pushed back to each respective team's standby areas on a tarmac a short distance from the taxiway as they concluded their qualification runs to begin tidying up and await the results.
A sudden, strong blast of wind attacked the booth and the ram manning it, making the cloth on the booth's table and the canopy flap violently as well as scattering the papers out of their neat piles. "Raugh, all my work!" The ram shouted above the loud whirring of the culprit. Through his squinting green eyes, he peeked up and around the booth's still flapping canopy to catch a glimpse of the tail end of a dangerously closely passing black and red biplane topped with a plain siren light. The plane turned to the right and landed on the nearby runway.
The ram walked out from under the canopy and shielded his eyes from the sun with his left hand, making out the distant, but distinctive figure of a man dismounting the plane's cockpit. The figure in question is dressed in navy blue and black flight clothes, a blood red scarf and matching gloves, a light brown pilot's cap, oversized flight goggles and donned an impressively sized black handlebar mustache.
"Guess he finally decided to come down from his perch." The ram grumbled angrily through his teeth. The flurry of papers finally settled on the grass around the surprisingly still standing booth, so the ram got to work stooping over to scoop them up one at a time, creating neat piles for them on the table to separate them into categories. Sign-in sheets, biplane inspection documents, waivers. His ear twitched as he heard the sound of ruffling grass in the pattern of short footsteps approaching behind him.
"Cobus, my boy!" A pompous, British accented voice exclaimed from behind the ram. "It seems the qualifiers are proceeding splendidly." The ram, Cobus, stood up and turned around with papers in hand to see The Black Baron standing before him. Err, below him. The Baron has his balled fists on his hips, pride for his event beaming from him despite his facial features being shielded by his mustache and goggles that he never seemed to take off. "I've been observing from the sky. Hard to see the full extent of one's piloting skills from the ground." Cobus simply blinked, trying to keep his notorious temper in check after the Baron practically uprooted his workspace with his showboating.
"Any of 'em caught your eye?" Cobus inquired, making small talk as he tried to sort through the papers he was holding.
"Why yes, we have some fine contenders this year. Teams from last year have improved and a few newcomers are proving the other contestants wrong about being chickadees. There is nothing easy about this competition, and that includes the contestants. The veterans should know that by now, it will end up getting them shot out of the sky if they underestimate anyone."
"But that's the best part." Cobus chortled. The Baron agreed with a short chuckle.
"Be that as it may, I must be in tip-top condition this year if I am to maintain my reigning champion status." The Baron sighed loudly. "So, I imagine the qualifiers are near conclusion?"
"Yessir, but I think there are a few more teams that haven't shown up yet." Cobus began turning his head left and right, looking at the ground and sifting through the papers in his hands, trying to find the one with the list of teams that have performed their qualifiers, teams still on stand-by, and no-show teams. They crinkled under his feet as he walked over to the booth's table to skim through the halfway reorganized papers, Cobus becoming increasingly annoyed that the Baron just stood there and watched, not offering to look through the mess he created.
"Here we go!" Cobus triumphantly snatched the coveted list from a messy pile on the table, making a loud FWIP sound. "Let's see…" He ran is finger down the list, quickly reading the team names. "The teams that haven't shown up yet are Georgia, Chile, Cooper, Laos, and Somalia."
"I do hope they show up; the qualifiers have been preceding for 3 days. Given the number of teams competing this year, that should be plenty of time."
"We can't stay for long; it'll be dark in a few hours." Cobus pointed out.
"Yes, quite." The Baron crossed his arms around his chest in thought. "Not to mention how long it will take to pack all this up and move on to the next location."
"There's still time. If they don't show up, that's on them."
"I'm aware, but there was a challenge issued with one team and it wouldn't be much of a challenge if said team didn't show up."
"Oh?" Cobus asked, not entirely surprised by a challenge from another team. Every year for the past few years since the ACES was established, the only real goal of the competition amongst the dogfighting teams is to make it to the finals and defeat the Black Baron. No one has been successful; everyone is practically competing for second place. "Which team?"
"Is this it?" A guttural, but calm voice asked from the driver's seat of an old, blue van decorated with flames and the symbol of a prominent gang of thieves. The engine rumbled idly as it was stopped in front of a large entrance into a tunnel that traveled through a mountain.
"That's what the encrypted message Penelope sent me says." A nasally voice from the back of the van responded. The owner of the voice, a paraplegic turtle, adjusted his glasses on his beak before continuing, "Pass through the hidden path in the mountain range and we'll come across a tunnel entrance. The field where the qualifiers are being held should be on the other side."
"They better be!" Murray exclaimed. "That path was so narrow and windy, we won't be able to get turned around if we're in the wrong place with our biplane connected to the hitch like it is."
"That's one way to keep a passage hidden." A smooth and deep voice belonging to the raccoon in the passenger seat chimed in. "In plain sight. It's so dangerous that any normal person wouldn't be interested in finding out if they can drive the trail without getting stuck or worse."
"Good thing 'The Murray's' driving skills are impeccable and undeterred with nerves of steel! Right, Sly?"
"Didn't doubt you for a second, pal."
"If you two are done," Bentley interjected impatiently, "this is the final day of the qualifiers and it's getting late."
"Right!" Murray refocused himself in the drivers' seat, gripping the wheel with his drivers' gloved hands and willing away his fatigue from getting this far. "Watch out ACES chumps, the Cooper Gang has arrived!" Murray shifted the van into gear and pressed the gas pedal, the engine roaring from its idle state and continuing through the tunnel. He clicked the van's headlights on as they were met with pitch blackness.
Sly, reclined in the passenger seat with his arms behind his head in a relaxed manner, perked up when a wall of light began gradually piercing his vision and merging with the van's headlights. He sat up and moved his arms in his lap at attention as Murray turned the headlights off via a knob to the left of the steering wheel. Both of them squinted their eyes at the light after adjusting to the darkness while Bentley, still in the back of the van, simply adjusted his glasses.
No one said a word as the van traveled through the wall of light, signaling the end of the tunnel, to reveal an enormous open field littered with tulips with planes flying overhead. Along with an abundant number of booths set up along the field's outer perimeter against the mountainsides.
"So, this is the 'secret airfield'." Sly observed. "Pretty impressive feat keeping a secret this big."
"That's why the message Penelope sent me was encrypted; the Baron doesn't want anyone outside of the competitors knowing about it." Bentley provided.
"What's wrong with the local airfield?" Murray asked without stopping his eyes from feasting at the sights. But his awe of the field and Bentley's answer were both disrupted by a rushing figure in Murray's peripheral vision. A black woodpecker dressed in business casual attire and carrying a clipboard hurriedly approached the van while waving his wing to get Murray's attention.
"Hello, sir!" The woodpecker greeted Murray with an upbeat attitude and adjusted his glasses when he got to the driver's side window. Not waiting for Murray to respond, he continued, "You're cutting it awfully close! The qualifiers are due to conclude within the next few hours."
"Never fear, Team Cooper is just fashionably late!" Murray bellowed confidently.
"Team Cooper…" The woodpecker muttered to himself while moving a feather down his clipboard, unphased by Murray's shenanigans. Someone in his position is probably used to that sort of thing by now. "Here you are!" He announced while still looking at the clipboard, picked up a pen from it and marked off their name. "If you'll make your way over to the taxiway," he began, pointing his wing toward the closest dirt road in the field, "you can park your vehicle and your plane there." Sly and Bentley also perked their ears (or lack thereof) to listen to the instructions. "After that, head over to the sign-in booth where you will, well, sign-in among some other brief paperwork. A small team of the Baron's personal mechanics will follow you back to your plane to make sure it is in top condition after unloading it. Once they clear it, you may drive your plane over to the runway as instructed by the marshallers. And I trust you know what to do from there."
"Absolutely." Sly piped up with a smirk.
"And good luck!" The woodpecker chirped. "You are one of the last teams to participate in the qualifiers, so you'll have to perform spectacularly to get in the top twenty."
"I'll keep that in mind." Thanked Sly. With a huge grin on his face that made his crooked left canine protrude even more prominently, Murray pressed the gas pedal to steer the van with biplane in tow through the bumpy terrain of grass and dirt patches. He followed a straight path for the quarter mile stretch to the taxiway, tulips on either side of the path as if they had been deliberately removed from the path itself for this purpose. The terrain evened out as he rolled onto the smooth dirt surface of the taxiway. And to the left, they could see a smaller road leading over to the runway. All the planes traveling it are landing, however, because of the near conclusion of the qualifiers.
"Let's get this thing unloaded." Murray commanded as he parked the van then switched it off by taking the key out of the ignition. Sly proceeded to practically leap out of the passenger seat after swinging open the creaky door and reached for the sky in an exaggerated stretch. Murray made his way to the back doors of the van to help Bentley with his wheelchair.
"Argh, I needed that." Sly expressed, coming back down to earth with a satisfied grunt. "It feels like my muscles atrophied from sitting for so long." He placed his left hand on his hip and used his other to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun as he scanned his surroundings, taking off his hat to get an unobstructed view. The moderate strength of the winds made his tail and ears flow through the air as anticipation coursed through him.
"Hey Sly, come help me with the tarp." Murray called to him.
"Coming." He answered, dropped his gaze, and spun around to make his way towards the back of the van while putting his hat back on. Bentley set up in his self-built wheelchair, already sifting through his tools by using the tray of his wheelchair as a table. Without even looking up, he started,
"Remember you have to pull back on the lever of the ratchet strap to loosen it and keep track of the cotter pins when you take them off the transport braces."
"Roger that." Both him and Murray began unhooking the tether loops of the tarp from the trailer, Sly on the right side and Murray on the left. The safety chains connected from the trailer to the van's hitch jingled and clanged as the short movements jostled them ever so slightly. With all the loops removed, Sly and Murray strode back to the front of the trailer and they both bent over and grabbed their corners of the tarp.
"Pause for dramatic effect…" Murray voiced. Sly obliged and just glanced at Bentley, who let out a brief titter. "Big reveal!" On his cue, the pair pulled up and back on the tarp, the wind filling it out like a sail and assisting the uncovering as they walked with it to the back of the trailer. The gang all beamed as their vision had been realized: the biplane was painted royal blue with a yellow backrest, wing flaps, and tail flaps. Two small turrets positioned on either side of the top layer of wings are poised to unleash carnage at whatever foe they may be pointed at. And of course, the Cooper Gang symbol was stenciled on either side of the plane's body, bordered with white as not to clash with the body color of the biplane. The sun reflecting off the metal surface of it made the new paint glisten vibrantly.
"I can't wait to get this thing in the air!" Sly exclaimed.
"I still can't believe we were able to finish it in time." Bentley stated.
"It was touch and go for a while, but you and Murray pulled it off."
"Admit it, you were worried." Murray added, hands on his hips and still basking in the magnificence of the biplane he put together with his own two hands. "You kept asking what else needed to be done and if there was anything you could do to help speed it along."
"Alright, fine. I was a little worried." Sly admitted with a grin, scratching the back of his head.
"Right now, we should be worried about the competition." Bentley changed the subject. "You heard that woodpecker, we need to be able to get in the top twenty to qualify for the ACES and almost every team here are veteran elites. Winners and runners-up from the previous year's competition being exempt from qualifying, of course."
"Just leave that to me." Sly said in a cocky tone. Bentley just glared at him.
"Let's just get the plane off the trailer and suit up so we can go sign in." The stern turtle finally said.
Cobus watched from his seated position at the sign-in booth as three figures approached from the field. The sun had begun its gradual decent below the horizon which allowed a few stray rays to assault Cobus' eyes, so he shielded them with a hand to make out the details of the small group.
The one walking in the front of the pack, a limber raccoon with a relatively average stature, is wearing a typical bomber jacket, except the soft leather of the jacket was dyed a darker gradient of green that made it look brown, but not quite brown. It has light brown shearling cuffs, hem, and collar roll and two brown breast pockets. The tail of a royal blue shirt that he wore under the jacket showed below it, the shirt being longer. The silver framed, clear lenses of the goggles that rested atop his brown pilot's cap kept catching and reflecting the sun as he turned his head back every so often to glance at his teammates as they conversed on their way to the booth. A red scarf that he wore around his neck faintly fluttered in the breeze.
The other two behind him wore relatively similar outfits, but with noticeable differences. The most noticeable of the three, a rotund pink hippo a few inches taller than the raccoon, is wearing a dark teal dyed version of the bomber jacket. Even though bomber jackets meant for actual pilots were made to be non-constrictive and allow for free movement, the sleeves on the hippo's jacket would bulge every time he moved his arms. Wonder what would happen if him and that Muggshot fellow from last year got in a fight? Cobus thought, making note of the muscles the hippo hid beneath his jacket. Despite his pilot's cap already having an attached set of goggles, the hippo seemed to prefer wearing a different pair over a maroon wrestling-type mask and wore driving gloves with matching colors.
The runt in the wheelchair, a turtle with glasses so thick Cobus couldn't see the turtle's eyes through them, is wearing the same pilot's cap and bomber jacket; except the turtle's jacket is dyed a dark pink, almost violet, color. Even though the field was bumpy, his wheelchair stayed level and did not get stuck. Does… Does that wheelchair have custom shocks and treads? Cobus asked himself. The turtle's expression remained stoic as the other two grinned and carried on, as if he were the only one that was aware of the stakes. Or the opposite, the other two were not worried. Which could be dangerous no matter which way you swing it.
Who are these pack o' jokers? Cobus questioned to himself in both curiosity and ambiguity. The motley three sidled up to the booth and Cobus straightened himself in his metal fold-out chair, the movement making his back ache as the metal against his aged bones was taking its toll. "How can I help you boys?" He asked in his strident voice, his mobster-like accent escaping ever so slightly.
"We're Team Cooper, here to sign-in for the qualifiers." The raccoon answered. He's clearly the leader. Cobus concluded.
"I was beginning to think you wouldn't show." He picked up a clipboard with a packet of a few pages of blank and stapled registration forms that were ready to go and set it across the table with a pen for any of the three to begin filling out. The turtle didn't hesitate to seize the clipboard and get to work filling out the paperwork. The smart and organized one. Cobus noted.
"I also need to see the license of the pilot." Without a word, the raccoon began digging in his left breast pocket and produced a laminated card, which he handed over. Cobus carefully studied the license, taking in the details of official signettes, signatures, class of license, expiration date, etc. Though something seemed… off. The picture didn't look like it was a part of the license, more of a hastily added afterthought. And the name… "José Ortiz?" Cobus asked.
"Yessir." The raccoon answered. The hippo gave him a quick sideways glance.
"Humph." Cobus let slip a stingy smile of amusement. "Get yourself a proper forger next time, kid." He stated, handing the raccoon back his fake license. The raccoon took it slowly with a bewildered expression on his face. He took a breath, assumingly to ask why Cobus was letting them get away with fake credentials, but decided it was best not to question good fortune and remained silent. As an answer to the raccoon's unspoken question, Cobus said, "The Baron's expectin' ya, so I'll let this one slide." The turtle looked up from the paperwork, hiding his mutual surprise behind his thick glasses, but quickly went back to putting pen to paper after a few seconds. "And your bird is unloaded on the taxiway?"
"Yes!" The hippo exclaimed, brimming with pride. Cobus picked up a pair of binoculars sitting on an overturned plastic bucket, acting as a table, at his feet. Placing them to his rectangular pupiled eyes, he focused on a blue and yellow biplane sitting on the taxiway next to the flatbed trailer it had been transported on.
"Where are tha rest?" Cobus inquired as he lowered the binoculars and placed them back on the bucket.
"The rest…?" The hippo echoed with a confused expression.
"The team. Sure, the rules say only the team's representative pair can complete the qualifier, but c'mon. That didn't mean ya had to leave the rest of 'em behind."
"Uhh… We're it." It's a good thing Cobus is sitting down, because that answer would have knocked him off his hooves. He sucked down a short breath of air, barely being able to contain his shock and amusement.
"Wha- ho- hmm…" Cobus stumbled over his words, struggling to ask the right question. "That's your only plane?" Both the hippo and the raccoon nodded. Cobus pointed a finger at the raccoon. "You're the only pilot?"
"That's right." He answered with a confident grin. He put a hand on his companions' shoulders, who were standing (and sitting) on either side of him. The turtle looked up from the paperwork once more in response to the abrupt contact. "And these guys are the mechanics." Cobus stared wide-eyed for a few seconds. He had no words, though a small sound began to escape his lips. He tried to stifle it by turning away, but this was too much. He threw his head back in a loud guffaw, his long, curved horns making a CLANG sound as they collided with the back of his metal chair.
Cobus managed to get his laughter under control long enough to say, "This is the whole team? One pilot and two mechanics?" His guffaw continued. This is the team the Baron is looking forward to facin'? They're a batch of spring chickens! After almost a straight minute of laughing, Cobus managed to calm down and wiped a tear from his eye as he caught his breath. "Hoo, thanks for that laugh. It's been a stressful day." He expected the small team to be ill with him, but their expressions were dauntless. The raccoon with his hands on his hips and a smirk, the hippo with his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, and the turtle with one hand passively lying on top of the other on his wheelchair tray, chin up, and the eyes beneath his glasses leering straight ahead. They're the real deal.
"Here, guys." The turtle piped up for the first time since coming up to the desk. "We all have to sign this waiver." He passed on the pen to the raccoon who stooped down to sign the paper followed by the hippo. Then the turtle made sure the sign-in packet and waiver were in order before handing it back to Cobus, who carefully examined each page.
"Seems everything's in order." The older ram concluded. "I'll have a couple o' the Baron's mechanics meet you on the taxiway to inspect your plane. Good luck, you're gonna need it." He spoke the last part with a slight snigger that crept up on him.
"If you say so." The raccoon retorted before turning on his blue-booted heels and began walking back to the taxiway with his two companions. Cobus watched their figures shrink in the distance as he said to himself,
"They'll be eaten alive."
I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! The next one will be uploaded in a few days time. That's when things really start to heat up. And please, feel free to rate and review. Constructive criticism only, no flamers or haters.
-Rogue's Rhetoric