Fishing For Feathers

Job 1: Picturing The Past

1620 AD

A Small Island in the Caribbean

The safe-house appears to be a small hut with a straw roof. Sly, Bentley, Murray, and Carmelita sit at a small circular table as they finish their last set-up. Bentley taps away at his laptop, checking that the relaying devices in the time machine allow him to get internet; The Murray lifts weights with one hand while he waits. Carmelita inspects her mask inside and out before using it to clean her shock pistol. Sly plays with his hat, spinning it on one finger, throwing it in the air and letting it land on his head.

At a nod from Bentley, Sly gets to his feet. He leaves through the hut's front door into a period of twilight. The safe-house is on one edge of a small village filled with identical huts, stretching away towards the beach; drying racks, baskets of fresh fish, and fishing poles are in abundance. The huts peter out close to the shore, where a dock juts out into the water, a dozen simple fishing boats waiting there.

Behind the safe-house, further into the island, starts a forest. The trees travel uphill and block all sign of anything else.

For all this village's peaceful look, there are signs of trouble here. Tapirs prowl the streets, flashlights in hand and guns at the ready; one carries an elderly tortoise by the shell and throws them inside a hut, yelling about curfew. A hastily constructed prison stands not far from the safe-house, cracks and sagging ceilings reinforced by lasers and guards.

Sly uses a basket of fish to bounce to a nearby rooftop and walks on a clothesline to stand on top of the safe-house. He pulls out his binoc-u-com. "All right, Bentley, what's the plan?"

"You sure you're up for this, Sly?" asks Bentley. "It's been a while since you've been in action."

"Of course!" Sly twirls his cane in one hand. "There's nothing I'd rather be doing than re-redistributing the wealth."

"Really?" asks Bentley, adjusting his glasses. "Not even spending time with the other side of the law?"

"I said nothing, not no one," says Sly.

"Uh-huh." Bentley doesn't sound convinced. "Anyway, your objective is some recon photos. I'd like to get a better idea of this place. Get me a picture of a fishing boat, the prison, and one of those guards; then make your way into the woods. I need a clearer idea of what's going on here."

"Coming right up," says Sly, and puts his binoc-u-com away. Since the prison's so close, he decides to start with that, making his way around to the front of it and balancing on some clotheslines while he takes a picture.

"Interesting," says Bentley. "That design is new. If it weren't for the lasers, it probably wouldn't hold anyone."

Sly snorts and moves to a different angle for another picture, showing guards standing on the alert at every corner, even on the side closest to the cliff by the ocean. "Or maybe it's not just the lasers keeping people in there," says Bentley. "If those guards have laser weapons, no one here will know how to respond."

"Don't I know it," says Sly, putting his binoc-u-com away. It takes a bit of effort, but he manages to get to the beach without once touching the ground: jumping from roof to roof or walking on clotheslines, aiming so he bounces on baskets of fish rather than touching the ground... it's a fun little challenge he makes for himself as he somersaults over the drying racks and lands in the sand by the docks for a picture of one of the boats.

"Those fishing boats have seen better days," says Bentley. It seems that's all that needs commenting on.

But as Sly turns to leave, he spots something further down the beach, where it meets the woods and the ground starts rising: a cave. He takes a picture of that.

"Not an unexpected find, given the geological make-up of this island," comments Bentley. "Interesting. There appears to be a faint radio signal emanating from that cave."

Radio signals in this time period mean that Bentley will probably be going down there later, but Sly's in no rush. He gets back on the rooftops and finds a guard patrolling alone, then waits until he can get a good shot at the guy's face... and his gun. "Yep. That doesn't belong here," says Bentley. "Okay buddy, that's enough from around town. Get into the woods: that slope doesn't qualify as a mountain, but it's high enough. Let's go for a full view."

"Anything you know of for pictures?" asks Sly.

"Just keep an eye out," says Bentley.

Sly tucks his binoc-u-com away and heads into the woods, skirting around a macaw patrolling a nearby rooftop. The trees are all sorts of tropical, palm trees with coconuts near the beach and others Sly can't name with actual branches further in. He climbs one and uses the treetops to make his way along, then ducks back to the ground to avoid a monkey on patrol. The tapirs are easier to avoid, with their bright flashlights and the noise they make crashing along; Sly steers clear.

He's near the top of the hill, about halfway across the island, when he finds something that does not belong here: a fence, strands of barbed wire protecting the sheer cement wall that rises well above his head. "Now that looks like it belongs around a prison," says Sly, taking a picture of it.

"Yet another sign that something, or someone, shouldn't be here," says Bentley. "See if you can find any weaknesses or a way around."

Sly starts walking along the edge of the fence, keeping an eye out. Near the center of the island is a door, or at least an opening someone could get through. Not him, though. Between the four flashlight guards, spotlights, and laser security, it's obvious no one is getting through that opening unwatched. "Well, that's no help," Bentley confirms when he's sent the picture.

Something else further along is a bit more promising: a spot where the wall isn't so perfect. "It looks like a tree fell on it," Bentley confirms. "If we took care of the barbed wire, we could probably break through it here."

And, better for Sly's purposes right now, at the very far side of the island the island just... stops. Rather than being a gentle circle, the way he half expected, this looks as though some giant took a hammer and hacked away at it. A ninja-spire jump here, a wall-hook there, and a bit of sidling along a cliff side gets him on the other side of the wall, but the cliff itself continues, higher and higher, as it goes further along the island's edge.

It takes a bit more time to get through the forest, but when Sly emerges into the moonlight at the top of a cliff, his jaw drops. "Hoo boy, Carmelita's gonna have a field day with this one," he says, eyeing the narrow path to the ground. He can get pictures well enough from where he is, so he stays there and brings out his binoc-u-com.

The first picture Sly takes is the big pile of gold and gems in the middle of the beach. Monkeys and macaws are guarding the cart it's resting on, which appears to have broken a wheel; they can't get it moving. "Just remember, Sly, we can't take anything," Bentley mutters in his ear. "Not only might it alter all of history, but Carmelita would kill us."

Sly's next picture is more... to the point. "One, two... that's five different pirate ships down there, Sly! Bloodthirsty cutthroats that may suffer from scurvy... and definitely don't have good hygiene. You're better off staying away."

Sly's next picture is even more concerning: a large tower, built with stone and materials they definitely shouldn't have in this time period, with four evenly-spaced spirals overlapping around its edges. From his position, he's nearly level with a landing about halfway up, and can see the glint of a computer screen a bit higher than that; banners, orange with white tips, flutter wherever the spirals meet. "I don't know who built that," Bentley says, "but that's their base. We'll have to explore more later."

Then Sly spots the worst thing of all. "Bentley," he says, "I think we know who's doing this."

"What?"

But when Sly takes the picture, that says it all. A tall rooster, heavy muscles visible even through his feathers, with a purple sash holding on a heavy golden breastplate. His massive shield is strapped to his back at the moment, leaving his jeweled gauntlets exposed, but he's wearing the same helmet, gold with a large red plume, he was when Sly fought him to a draw in China.

General Tsao. The worst man Sly has ever fought, by his own reckoning, because he wasn't driven by greed, revenge, or morals, but by his own sense of superiority and determination to lord it over everyone he deems inferior.

"That's all the pictures I need. Come on back to the safe-house, and we'll start working on a plan."

"Keep yuh hands where I can see 'em and tun around slowly," says a woman somewhere behind Sly. "I don't know where yuh came from, but I don't fancy any lubbuhs in my ocean."

Sly freezes, the binoc-u-com barely in his pocket. "Oh come on, it's an awfully big ocean," Sly says, turning as she asked; he lifts the butt of his cane just enough that it doesn't drag in the dirt. The only thing visible under the trees is her pistol, old fashioned and no good for long range, but more than enough when he's this close. "Surely it's big enough for two."

She chuckles. "You've got some iron in your cannon, don't you?" she asks, stepping forward into the light. Sly's breath catches in his throat.

Which, you know, it'd do for just about any woman, but this is different. This woman's wearing a full-body wet suit and boots that flare around her knee, but her step's as soft as his. This woman's got a mask over her eyes with only one eye hole, the other sealed shut in a sort of eye patch. This woman wears a bandanna to keep her short hair out of her face. This woman only has one hand, the other being a metal hook, gold and gleaming and curved almost into the shape of a question mark.

This woman is a raccoon.

One featured in the Thievious Raccoonus for stealing from pirates.

"Not from around here, are you, lubbuh?" she asks, not lowering her gun an inch. She begins to circle Sly, inspecting him; Sly leans sideways on his cane and lets her. "If those clothes ahe local, I'm the queen. You wouldn't happen ta know about those othuh lubbuhs who've been messin around here?"

"I've had the displeasure of making one's acquaintance before." Sly moves his head to keep watching her. "I've got some messages to deliver."

She cocks her head. "With yuh fist?"

"If that's what's closest," he agrees. "The overgrown feather duster and I have some... philosophical differences."

She finishes her circle and props her hands on her hips. "Mask, cane on a pole, red pouch on leg, belt with blue raccoon head on it, blue cap, blue shirt, blue boots, and talkin like a lubbuh with more iron than a smithy. So you'd be this Sly Cooper my uncle Riochi was tellin' me about, then, when I got the book from him?"

Sly may be shocked, but he isn't about to be outdone. "Eye patch, full-body sneak suit, hook hand, those all match, but according to that same book, Henriette, you use a dagger, not a gun. Nice to meet you; I don't have near as much sailing experience, but I did steal a pirate ship and have a fair adventure a few years back."

"I left li'l rustless in the vault when I lost this a year back," she says, holding up her hook hand. "Not that you look surprised to see it. Spose that detail's in the book, too?"

"Of course." Sly gives her a half-bow and offers her his hand. "Listen, I'm here with the rest of my gang, and an... honorable member, who isn't actually a thief. Would you mind coming back to the safe-house with me?"

She grins, snags his wrist with her hook, and twists it around, nearly knocking Sly over. "I could use some faihr hands on this job. Why not; you lot can assist me."

"Hey, you'll be assisting us!" says Sly.

"Keep tellin yuhself that, lubbuh. Thuh ole binin shack on the edge of town, init it?" She starts back into the woods without waiting for a response.

Sly scrambles to catch up. "Yeah, actually, it is. Oh, and... don't tell Bentley how you heard of me. He's fretting himself sick about messing up the past by mistake."

JOB COMPLETE

Sly spins his cane once, puts it over his shoulder, and sprints after Henriette, who isn't waiting around.