It has been brought to my attention by anthonyleutmer1 that there is a glitch with FanFiction's website and new chapters are not appearing for readers to view despite the chapter counter clearly showing the chapters are up. I have contacted FanFiction's support and am hoping to get the problem solved as quickly as possible as this is a site-wide issue. New chapters can still be accessed through FanFiction's mobile app, so I will continue to upload new chapters as scheduled.
Edit: It seems the issue has been fixed. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
Disclaimer: Sly Cooper and all other characters in this story belonging to the Sly Cooper franchise belong to Sony and Sucker Punch. The OCs in this story that belong to me are Cobus, Klaus, unnamed woodpecker and unnamed crane.
Chapter 3
"And that concludes the ACES qualifiers!" The shrill feedback of a microphone filled the air. "Team leaders, please make your way over to the main canopy to see the results!"
Bentley jostled in his seat as he pumped his arms to wheel over the bumpy terrain of the field, the WHIP of tulips being indiscriminately mowed down by his wheelchair snapping in his ears. Murray's heavy footfalls and heaving were also present beside him as they hurried to the runway where Sly landed the biplane. Murray gasped over his heaving, Bentley having the same silent reaction as they drew closer and spotted Sly sitting limply in the cockpit.
"SLY!" Murray bellowed towards his friend. The raccoon's pointed ears perked at the sound of his friend calling his name. Bentley and Murray saw his face twist in agony and exhaustion as he tried to sit up. Murray's giant palms slapped the sides of the biplane's metal frame to halt himself. "Sly, are you ok? What happened?" The anxious hippo began bombarding him with questions. Bentley caught up, adjusting his too loose pilot's cap back upright on his head, the unkept patches of grass having made it slip down his face. He sat further back from the biplane so his short figure could still see Sly from an angle.
"I'm fine, pal." Sly rasped, now sitting up and rubbing his head, threading his fingers through his messy hair. "Just a little winded." Bentley shook his head at the pun, but Murray sniggered as he gripped the side of the cockpit. His way of quelling our worry. Bentley mused, having known Sly long enough to recognize his social habits.
"C'mon, let's get you outta there." Murray reached to pull Sly out of the cockpit, but Sly waved his hand at him, insisting he could do it himself. The biplane's key jingled as he removed it from the ignition and placed it in the breast pocket of his bomber jacket. Murray stayed close as Sly painstakingly pulled himself up to jump out, but his arms gave out. His eyes widened as he knew he was about to fall face first in the hard dirt until he felt a firm grip under his armpits. He gave Murray a weak smile as the attentive hippo pulled Sly the rest of the way out of the cockpit and gently placed his feet on the ground. Sly sank even further into a sitting position with his back against the biplane's tail, his knees curled towards him with his elbows resting on them.
"I'll be fine." The raccoon raised his hand in assurance, but his friends weren't convinced as worried expressions crossed their faces. "What happened to the communicator?" Bentley wheeled his chair closer before answering so he wouldn't have to strain Sly's ears with a raised voice.
"I began monitoring the nearby frequencies when it malfunctioned." He took a handheld frequency monitor out of a compartment in his wheelchair, the device similar to that of an old pager. Two different squiggling lines danced on the screen, one of them cutting off the other. "I noticed some interference from another frequency, but nothing concrete yet." He replaced the monitor in its compartment. "I'll study it in further detail later."
"Ok…" Sly sighed coarsely as he rubbed his head, completely dissatisfied with Bentley's answer. The turtle drew in a breath to give his friend his apologies but stopped short at the sound of rustling grass. The gang all turned in curiosity to see who was approaching them. Two cranes toting what looked like an on-site stretcher halted right in front of Bentley and Murray, their gazes set on Sly. They wore plain white button-up shirts that almost blended with their cream-colored feathers. Red armbands with a white cross emblazoned on them are donned around their right biceps. These must be the event's medics. Bentley guessed.
"That was quite the nasty fall you had." One of the cranes said by way of greeting.
"I've seen worse." The other crane spoke deadpan. The first one glared back at him as a warning to keep his mouth shut. He just shrugged and remained silent.
"In any case," the first crane continued, "As I'm sure you can tell, we're the medic staff for the qualifiers. We'd like to take your pilot to the infirmary tent and look him over to make sure he didn't sustain any serious injuries." He stretched out his arm towards Sly as a welcoming gesture and awaited his response. Sly slowly blinked and took in a labored breath before saying,
"Alright. But I don't need the stretcher."
"They always say that…" The second crane mumbled under his breath. The first crane raised his hand towards him in warning without facing him as he responded, "Ok. Just take it easy. Flying a plane through a course like this normally is a toll on the body, so I'm sure you're exhausted." Murray bent over and grasped Sly gently by his right arm, coaxing him to his feet. The weary raccoon wobbled on his feet, but Murray steadied him, wrapping his arm around Sly's torso and under his armpit and letting the raccoon lean against him.
"I should head over to the main canopy to see if we placed." Bentley informed them. Murray grunted in acknowledgement and Sly gave a weak nod. "I'll meet you at the infirmary tent." The turtle watched Sly and Murray trudge off towards the tent, being led by the two cranes. Satisfied, he left the biplane on the runway in confidence and wheeled over to the main canopy where a large crowd had gathered.
The cacophony of voices melding together grew louder as Bentley closed in on the canopy, glancing left and right hoping to spot an opening to get closer. "Excuse me, pardon me, little guy coming through." Bentley announced as he wormed his way through the crowd. So many teams… He thought to himself as he passed numerous individuals all clad in different colored uniforms representing their respective team. His plain, dark pink bomber's jacket surprisingly stood out against the other team captains' vibrant uniforms. For the first time since accepting Penelope's challenge and arriving at the qualifiers, Bentley felt truly intimidated. These are all veterans at the top of their league and the Cooper Gang simply joined on a whim.
Moment of truth. Bentley steeled himself as he made his way to the front of the crowd. The mouflon ram from the sign-in booth stood in a chair at the front, holding a microphone in his right hand with a quickly written graph cells of teams, lap times and placements on a tall dry erase board to his left.
"Alright, that should've been enough time for all you hoodlums to gather 'round." The old ram spoke in his gruff, streetwise voice. The discussion between the other team leaders gradually quieted until they were all turned to face him. "Seein' as how we gotta pack up in a hurry, we didn't have time to drag out any fancy computers or projectors, so this is what we got." He gestured towards the dry erase board with his left arm. "Yes, my handwriting is sloppy." The crowd chuckled. "So before the placements are announced, I'm gonna fill you in on a couple of technicalities for a few o' the newbies we have this year." His gaze dropped and rested on Bentley for only a few seconds, but to Bentley, it felt like longer. It felt like the ram was shaming him for even daring to enter the competition. Bring it on. The turtle silently challenged.
"Numbah one, the placements will start with third place. The winner and runner-up from last year's competition are exempt from qualifying. Numbah two, if anyone 'strongly disagrees' with the placements, our security staff will be less than pleasant in showing you out." A few of the leaders murmured amongst each other while others looked on sternly at the threat. "Now let me hand this over to the coordinator and owner of the ACES, The Black Baron." Bentley's heart jumped. The Black Baron is here? The crowd clapped and cheered as the Black Baron revealed himself from the shadows of the canopy, walking into the glaring sunset and raising his hands in the air, willing the cheering to grow louder. To the mustachioed midget's satisfaction, it did, and he took the ram's place standing on the chair, the ram simultaneously handing him the microphone.
"Good show!" The Baron's British accent boomed into the microphone. He waited for the crowd to quiet before continuing. "A magnificent turn out we have this year! Returning gluttons for punishment and fresh prey alike!" The cheering quickly rose once more, brute howling and sharp whistling joining in. I feel like I'm at a high school pep rally. Bentley thought dejectedly.
"I endeavor that you lot quite enjoyed gliding amongst my old roosting winds!" A few shouted compliments and complaints alike about the unusual venue accumulated in Bentley's ears until the crowd died down again. "All of you noble pilots are the first to share this deeply held secret with me. The local airfield where the qualifiers are usually held is currently closed for runway maintenance. But I say the show must go on!" Whooping and clapping of agreement surged and the Baron let it continue for a few, long seconds before he motioned his hands downwards as a signal to settle.
"Now, without further ado, let's distinguish the falcons from the swallows!" The crowd remained silent as they waited on bated breath. "In third place, with a lap time of 28.457 seconds and no penalties, Team Denmark!" A 'woot' sounded from somewhere in the crowd as the respected team's captain celebrated by themselves. "In fourth place with a lap time of 28.780 seconds and no penalties, Team Iceland!" A single, slow clap could be heard from within the crowd.
This went on for dragging minutes, the apprehension of the placements and Sly's well-being weighing on Bentley's mind as other teams were announced. Gibraltar, Bangladesh, the Czech Republic, the US, Belgium. His brain tuned out the Baron's announcing and the following cheers as the Baron kept continuing further down the list, the turtle's hopes for making it in the competition and Penelope joining the gang beginning to dwindle. What if we have to find someone else? Penelope was the perfect candidate! For more than one-
"-Team Cooper!" Bentley jolted in his chair. Did he hear that right? Questioning murmurs grew in the crowd. Team Cooper? Who are they? And Was that the lone pilot who almost crashed? There, on the dry erase board, it read '17th | Team Cooper | 53.683 + 7'.
"We made it!" Bentley's nasally voice cried as he pumped his fists towards the sky in triumph. His sudden outburst was met with stares from the rest of the crowd, no doubt harboring questions about who he was and where their team came from and why. "Ahem…" He cleared his throat awkwardly. The Baron continued announcing the qualifying teams, all the way down to twenty.
"And lastly, placing in twenty-first-"
"Hold up, twenty-first?" A voice in the crowd interrupted the Baron. "Aren't there only supposed to be twenty?" The Baron narrowed his obscured eyes under his goggles and glared at the individual in question.
"You will hold your tongue until the announcements are finished. I do not tolerate interruptions." His voice changed from jolly to menacing in a blink, the team captain shrinking in the crowd thinking it would hide him from the Baron. "Now, where was I." He cleared his throat and boomed the twenty-first team. "Congratulations to all who made the cut! I look forward to meeting you in aerial combat!" Cheering started up again with groans being heard underneath, most likely from teams that didn't make it in the competition. But the Baron stayed in his position on the chair, waiting for the cheering to die down before he spoke again.
"Now, as mentioned by a fellow competitor a few moments prior," There was a bite to his tone, "there are twenty-one teams this year instead of the traditional twenty. I came to this decision with the qualification of Team Cooper, a one pilot team. To even the odds, Team Cooper will be placed as a third team in between a traditional two team dogfight. This year is shaping up to be rather interesting." Bentley heard more utterings from the crowd such as That's not fair. And What makes Team Cooper so special?
The Baron just unintentionally put a target on our backs. Bentley thought. The competition's traditional set-up has been broken and changed merely because the gang's participation in it and a few of the veterans were upset. "The time has come for all of us to scurry like canaries. The location of the first bout will be revealed on the morrow via electronic mail to the qualifying teams. And do be punctual. This year's ACES is upon us!" The sizable crowd cheered and clapped for the last time as the Baron rose his hands in the air, basking in the whistles and hoots. Keeping his hands gripping the wheels of his chair, Bentley glared at the Baron beneath his thick-framed glasses.
He turned his wheelchair, taking his leave as he had acquired the information he was after, the crowd's cajoling dying down as he got further away. I wonder if Penelope told her boss about our little bet. We better be on our toes during this competition.
Bentley approached a large, red tent located closer to the entrance of the arena, immediately spotting Murray's rotund frame seemingly standing guard to the left of the tent's entrance flaps. The flaps themselves were left to hang closed to give the medical staff and patients their warranted privacy. Murray stood with his head hanging and arms crossed in front of his chest, not being able to do anything but wait.
"Murray!" The pink hippo snapped his head up at the sound of the familiar voice and a wide grin spread over his face.
"Bentley!" He cried. He bounded from his post to greet his friend, where he wasted no time in asking the question of the day. "So? Did we make it in? Did we?" Bentley squirmed to keep his personal space as Murray moved closer with each question.
"Yes, Murray, we made it in!"
"STUPENDOUS!" He moved away and pumped his arms at the news. Bentley sighed in relief and smiled at his friend's enthusiasm. "We need to tell Sly!"
"How is he?"
"I…don't know." Murry's arms lowered to his sides glumly. "He wanted me to wait out here for you and said not to worry."
"That sounds like Sly, alright." Bentley rubbed his chin. A soft fwop of a cloth tarp caught their attention and they both looked to see one of the crane medics from before standing in the entryway of the tent, holding open one of the flaps just enough to poke his torso out.
"Oh. You're both here." The rude crane observed disappointedly. "You can come in if you want." He simply said before vanishing behind the tent flap. Bentley and Murray looked at one another, then began striding towards the tent, Murray lifting one of the flaps for Bentley before passing through himself. The tent looked a lot bigger on the inside, about the same size as a standard military medic tent. Cots were set up vertically against both sides of the tent's walls, some patients sitting up with uniformed medics tending to their bandages and basic needs, others laying down sound asleep to rest their fatigue and wounds. Murray, with his right hand to his brow seemingly in a salute, scanned the tent for Sly with squinted eyes.
Murray gasped gleefully and shouted, "There he is!", pointing to the back-left corner of the tent where Sly sat slouched on the edge of a cot, waving down the two with a petite smile. The two made their way down the main aisle, careful not to bump into any medics that were carrying critical supplies. The other crane medic from before had a blood pressure gauge wrapped around Sly's left bicep, the noisy puffing of the crane pumping the device reaching their ears as they stopped just few feet away.
"Is the plane ok?" Sly said by way of greeting with a smirk, propping up his slouched torso with his elbows on his knees.
"It doesn't seem to be!"
"It was a rhetorical question, Bentley."
"Oh." His facial features softened.
"Bwahaha!" Murray laughed, making the goggles on his pilot's cap slip down slightly from his body's heavy laughter spasms. Without saying anything, the crane tore apart the velcro of the blood pressure gauge with a sharp RIP to remove it from Sly's arm. With a satisfied nod, he wrapped up the gauge, placed it in a red medical bag sitting on the floor at his spindly feet, and turned to face the gang.
"He didn't sustain any physical injuries," He started, directing it towards Bentley and Murray, "but he is shaken and extremely fatigued, so make sure he gets plenty of rest."
"Thanks, doc." Sly raised his hand in appreciation.
"You're actually the best case I've had through the entire qualifiers. There was one pilot here earlier today who thought he could hit the balloon after the second double pylon-" The crane stopped himself, all of the gang's eyes on him with piqued interest. The crane cleared his throat before carefully choosing the words, "Well, uh, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that." The gang laughed and groaned as the crane stooped over to grab his bag, then positioned himself to face all of them. "He's free to leave, just make sure he takes it easy for the next couple of days and that he gets plenty of rest and fluids."
"I'll be fiiiiine." Sly waved off the seriousness of his condition.
"Thank you, mister…?" Bentley inquired.
"Klaus. Hopefully, I won't have to see you again throughout the tournament." He said with a wink before striding off into the array of the medical tent.
"So…" Sly started to catch his friends' attention, "Did I win?"
"Close." Bentley straightened in his chair, Sly unconsciously copying him. "Seventeenth place." Murray gasped and looked down at the turtle.
"Really?! It was that low?!"
"Hmhmhm…" They both looked at Sly, his shoulders jumping up and down as he shook his head and chuckled, unphased. "Those veterans will have to watch out for us, huh?"
"Not if you have another spill like that." Bentley pointed out. "What in Newton's name happened up there?" Sly's expression turned from playful to serious at the question.
"Well…" He scratched the back of his head, pondering how to explain it. "The plane stalled, as you know." Both of them nodded. "But it wasn't a normal stall. It should have idled, but the engine died a few seconds later. Deadsticking almost worked, but then the wind died, and our communicator lost signal. I'm sure you saw the rest."
"I thought you were gonna crash." Murray admitted.
"By all counts, he should have crashed." Bentley calculated. "It's impossible to right a plane falling at that velocity, especially with the way it was rolling." Murray narrowed his eyes in thought at Bentley's analysis before asking,
"How did you restart the plane?" A sinister grin grew on Sly's face as he motioned his friends closer with his hand, not wanting any wandering ears to hear.
As quietly as he could, he breathed, "I used the slow-motion technique." The two pulled back in astonishment and admiration. "If not for that, I would've crashed."
"Awesomeness!" Murray pumped his fists in front of his chest. "But, wait." He straightened himself. "There's no way the biplane should've stalled in the first place. We tested everything. Three times! Even the mechanic guys said we were in the clear."
"The mechanics!" Sly's ears stretched upward at a realization. "They left in a hurry after inspecting the engine a second time. While none of us were looking." He gave his friends a suspicious look. "Do you remember the engine misfiring?" He directed towards Murray.
"Yeah?"
"That didn't happen before they inspected the plane." Bentley held his chin with his hand in thought, hunching over with his gaze set on his lap as if attempting to block out the world around him. "And how convenient that our communicator stopped working when the plane lost lift?"
"You make a good point." Bentley praised Sly's deductive reasoning, straightening from his trademark 'deep in thought' sitting position. "But we'll have to look into it further before making any outlandish accusations."
"I know it was them!" Sly exasperatedly whisper-shouted, wary of the other occupants in the crowded tent. He pushed down on the cot to rise as he said, "I'll bet they- Wuh…" Sly blinked rapidly, trying to rid himself of the sudden wave of dizziness that hit him.
"Sly!" Murray called to his friend as he began to collapse. Bentley futilely reached out to try to grab his friend as Murray pushed past him in a lunge, grabbing Sly by his upper arm before he hit the ground. The hippo hoisted the groggy raccoon back onto his feet, helping him shuffle back over to the cot to lower him on it. Sly held his head in his hands and groaned in frustration and weariness.
"Maybe I'm not so fine…" Sly grumbled after regaining some semblance of himself. "That fall really took it out of me…"
"Can you walk?" Bentley asked gently.
"I don't know." He admitted, looking up at them.
"You can ride the good ol' Murray Express!" Murray suggested excitedly. Sly chuffed but agreed. He reached around Murray's neck after the hippo knelt in front of him. "All aboard!" Murray announced as he looped his arms under Sly's legs and rose from the ground. Sly shamelessly let his head fall on the back of Murray's shoulder, using the pronounced muscles as a pillow.
"Thanks, Big Guy." He said drowsily.
"Let's head back to the plane." Bentley urged. "We need to get it off the runway and examine the engine to see if those mechanics did anything to it."
"Find anything, Murray?" Bentley called over without looking up from his laptop that sat on his wheelchair's tray attachment. The hippo stood on a step ladder to the side of the plane, a hydraulic rod holding open the curved engine hood so it wouldn't fall on his head. He groped and reached past parts of the engine with one hand while holding up a flashlight with the other, the moonlight in the dark sky not sufficient enough to reach within the cracks and crevices.
"Still looking…" Murray answered absently, snout buried in the engine mount, more focused on examining the complex machinery. The dull clanging of Murray's tools continued as Bentley looked up from his laptop screen and over to his left. He could see the long-range beams of flashlights flurrying every which way as the event staff still hurried to pack up. All but a few canopies had been loaded up and hauled off by small trucks, the use of such vehicles necessary due to the dangerous, windy entrance to the hidden arena. A few of the competing teams were still packing as well, the sound of roaring plane engines being guided onto trailers being more reminiscent of a hoard of helicopters in the quiet night. "What about you?"
"I'm making slow progress." Bentley answered, turning back to his bright laptop screen. His handheld frequency monitor laid on the right arm on his wheelchair, a cord connecting it to the laptop snaking where it pleased. The frequencies recorded by his monitor are pulled up on the screen in an audio scrubbing software where Bentley mused back and forth on the moment where his communicator failed. "If I could just pinpoint the frequency's origin by triangulating it with the nearby communication towers…"
"I don't know what that means, but have at it, buddy." Murray encouraged his friend without lifting his head from his own work. Then, changing the subject, he asked, "How's Sly?"
Bentley turned his chair halfway to look behind him where the van sat twenty feet away, rear end towards them. With the back doors wide open, the van's cabin light flooded the immediate area. Sly laid inside the flat interior, covered by a thin blanket and his bomber jacket with his head cushioned by a pillow. Bentley looked intently for a few seconds to register the raccoon's steady breathing and closed eyes.
"He's still asleep." Bentley stated as he turned his chair back around and refocused on his laptop screen. "And he probably will be until tomorrow night or longer."
"Aww. He always knows what to talk about to keep me awake while driving at night. Where are we going next, anyways?"
"I don't know yet. I'll have to check to competitor's message board after-" He paused midsentence, as he stumbled across a breakthrough.
"Aha!" The pair exclaimed simultaneously as they succeeded in their separate searches. "What did you find?" They laughed heartily at their unintentional in-sync conversation.
"Lemme see…" Murray pushed up on his tip toes and dove deeper into the engine block, twisting his arm with a tool until Bentley heard metal on metal jingling. Murray grabbed the culprit and jumped off the step ladder, a device slightly smaller than his palm cupped in his hands for Bentley to see. The turtle gratefully took it from him, gesturing Murray to shine the flashlight on it and activated a multiple level magnifying glass attachment from his helmet. The device is a small metal disc bordered with even smaller torx screws and wires.
"Where was it?" He asked, opening a small compartment in his chair's arm to grab the exact screwdriver he needed.
"In the front under the compressor and the-"
"Blades." Bentley finished for him. "If my theory is correct…" He trailed off, hastily twisting the screwdriver to remove the torx screws one after another until the device popped open. He used the multiple layers of magnifying glass to examine the wires and electronic chips inside the device, Murray standing by in anticipation. "It infiltrated the electronics of the engine to disrupt the engine's rotor and stator blades."
"So that's how it stalled!"
"Not only that," Bentley continued, deactivated the magnifying glasses and looking up, "it prevented the engine from recovering by stopping the blades' movements completely, which resulted in the engine dying and Sly's free fall."
"It looks like he was right about those mechanics." Murray spoke solemnly, glancing at Sly's sleeping form in the back of the van. The all too familiar feeling of guilt washed over him as he kicked himself for not checking the biplane after it malfunctioned on the ground.
"Those mechanics work directly under the Black Baron." Bentley pointed out grimly. Murray glowered at the revelation.
"Do you think he told them to mess up the plane?"
"That's exactly what I think."
"Humph… What did you find?"
"Well…" Bentley turned his laptop screen at an angle where both he and Murray could see it as he pondered how to make his momentary explanation as simple as possible so his vacuous friend would understand. "You see this green line?" Bentley pointed at said curvy line on the screen and Murray nodded. "That is Sly and my communication frequency. This red line overlapping with it," He continued as he pointed at the indicated line, "is the frequency that interfered with and jammed our signal. Now watch this."
Bentley quickly tapped out some keys on his laptop to set up a real time simulation of the two frequencies. "This is just before the plane stalled."
"The red line isn't there." Murray pointed out.
"Not yet. Watch this." Bentley tapped the 'Play' button and the software began playing the recorded audio waves in real time. His conversation with Sly could be heard at the point where the plane began to malfunction, both him and Murray cringing at the sounds of Sly's panicked voice. Hearing his friend in danger, even a past rendition of it, made Murray look over in the van where Sly still lay asleep to assure himself that the raccoon is safe.
"Right…there." The red line instantly appeared on the frequency chart, Bentley's communicator immediately beginning to cut out until the mystery frequency did its intended chore of jamming Bentley's communicator. The green line disappeared from the chart, but the red one remained until the time it took Sly to complete the qualifier lap and land.
"Umm…" Murray stood confused.
"Allow me to explain." Bentley offered. "Radio frequencies, like soundwaves, take time to travel through air. An outside frequency would not be able to appear and begin interfering like that within a few short milliseconds the way it did."
"Ooooh!" Murray blurted as he understood. "So it came from inside?"
"Precisely." Bentley confirmed. "To be more accurate," Bentley turned towards the impromptu tarmac the inactive competitors had been using to house their planes and pointed to a specific spot. "…I was able to triangulate the origin point," Murray's gaze followed his direction, and he spotted a black and red trailer with a double B symbol in Old English font shining from the moonlight bouncing off it. "…and it came from there."
"No way…" Murray voiced dumbfoundedly.
"I knew this tournament was cutthroat, but to think the Baron himself would go this far to win his own tournament…"
"He must be intimidated!" Bentley raised an eyebrow at the hippo's assumption. "He is right to fear the veracity of the Cooper Gang, for we are the ones that will bring him crashing down from his airborne throne built on deceit and treachery!" Murray pounded his fists together, psyched up by his own heroic speech. "No one sabotages the Cooper Gang and gets away with it!"
"It looks like we'll just have to beat the Baron at his own game." Bentley stated with resolve. They both turned towards the tunnel that led out of the arena to see the tail end of the Baron's fancy plane trailer disappear in the darkness. "The game is afoot."
Not much to say here except for rate, review, and stay tuned! Oh, you thought that was the end? So did I! All of us were wrong!
- Rogue's Rhetoric