PROGRAMS OF BETRAYAL

Job 2: What Does The Fox Say?

Sly climbs out the window and stays on the roof, looking about, and just takes a moment to stand there and stretch, arms overhead. Whatever's going on, it's a beautiful evening, with a clear night sky and stars peaking out by the dozens. He could pick out constellations, if he wanted or knew any. One great thing about time travel: no light pollution.

Once he's finished his stretch, he glances at the ground, making sure the coast is clear, before dropping down and making his way to the partially-built airbase. There are lots of guards around, more than there were earlier: foxes with flashlights and far too much muscle patrolling here and there, but others, rats in gas masks but with wrenches in hand, scowling at piles of machine parts that will never be planes. Even Murray would know—no, Murray actually built a plane once; Sly actually is the most ignorant member of the gang about this, and there's no way those will ever be planes of any sort.

He climbs a drainpipe to a rooftop and pulls up his binoc-u-com. "How you doing, Bentley?"

"No sign of anyone yet," says Bentley; from the way the background looks, it seems he's the one keeping an eye on the hotel.

"Okay. If anyone does show up, just give me a yell, and I'll tail them."

"Do you think I'm not capable of doing that myself?" Bentley asks, eyebrows raised.

Sly decides to change the subject. "So, what do you need me to do here?"

"We need more information, and those foxes are our best bet. You stand the best chance of passing yourself off as one of them."

"Uh, Bentley... Carmelita actually is a fox."

If it's possible, Bentley's deadpan look gets even more deadpan. "Do you really think Carmelita should go undercover in a group working for members of Interpol acting illegally?"

Sly winces. "Forget I said anything."

"Thought so. In any case, you're going to have some fun ahead of you before you infiltrate the guard compound. You're going to need to steal a jacket, goggles, a scarf, and a hat."

"That sounds simple enough." Sly takes off his own hat and twirls it around on his cane.

"Once you're finished, you'll have to do some leg-work. The guards around here are always password-checking each other."

"So the Interpol guys are going the way of the most paranoid crime lords?" Sly flips his hat back on his head.

"That seems... accurate. In any case, there are three foxes that seem particularly social; if you follow them, you should be able to overhear the passwords. Once overheard, I'll write them in the gadget menu."

"All right, let's do this."

Sly tucks his binoc-u-com back into his thigh pouch and looks around. Not far from him, a guard removes his hat to scratch his head; Sly jumps off the building and shadows him. The guy stops again to scratch, and a third time. Stealing his hat seems like the obvious choice; the guy would no doubt find it easier without it.

Sly steals the guy's scarf though. He's scratching so much he may have lice—no thanks. He takes the hat from the guy standing at attention with his back to lots of rats working on what seems to be an oversized fan.

The brown-furred fox who keeps stopping his patrol to swagger already has his jacket off, tied around his waist to better show off his muscles (not that there's anyone watching him pose). Sly slips it off him without him even knowing. The last guard, a purple-furred fox with a yellow-tipped tail, unfortunately for them, is passed out in a corner, snoring; Sly pulls the guy's goggles off from over his eyes and, after a moment's hesitation, adjusts the guard's hat so that it's shadowing his face. "Sweet dreams, fella."

With that accomplished, it's time for a bit more work. Sly climbs to the top of the partially-finished ramp and looks around for way-points. Three of them, of course: one in the fields around the safe-house, one near the castle, and the last by the well in the center of town. Sly stretches his legs and decides to start with the one by the castle. He's high enough up that he can glide most of the way there.

His target is near the top of the hill, walking up and down and up again. Sly hooks onto the wall, a spot where he'll be out of view, and waits.

His arms have started to ache when he hears, "Stop! What's the doctor's password?"

"Square triangle square triangle," replies another.

Bingo.

"Oy. It sure is a pain having to check that all the time, inn't it?" asks the first guard. Sly hoists himself up to solid ground and glances below, in time to see his target lean against the wall. "Security security security... I know where I'd like to shove his security."

His companion chuckles. "He ain't so secure as he thinks. Do you know how many times I've transferred? His passwords are the same everywhere that spider didn't touch."

The first guard shudders. "Nothing worse than that spider."

Then they're off in separate ways again, leaving Sly smiling. One down, two to go.

Sly heads into town for the next guy. This fox is standing by the well in the center square and... he's fishing. In the well. He has a pole, and a line, and he's... what.

Sly just stands on a nearby roof and stares for a while, wondering what on earth happened that this is going on. Across the square, on a similar roof, Bentley stands, looking similarly confused. A tank circles the well, then crosses back over the bridge, without taking any notice; Sly shrugs and uses a bouncy wheel of cheese to get to the small roof over the well. The desperate fisherman waits below him.

It doesn't take long before another fox walks in from the wooded area nearby. "Halt!" shouts the fishing fox. "What's the volcano password?"

"Circle x circle x," the other says at once. Sly gives Bentley a thumbs up. "What are you doing?"

"Fishing."

"In a well?"

"Bruno said this was a fishing well."

The patrolling fox's sigh could power ships. "Wishing well, Richard. A wishing well. You throw money in, and all your wishes come true. Watch."

Sly bites on his lip to keep from laughing as Richard says, "Wow! What did you wish for?"

"You to get your ears checked. Come on, at least go to the river; something may have made it through the dams."

The two wander away in opposite directions. Sly stands up and dusts off his pants. One to go.

The last guard he has to follow is patrolling the open fields near the safe-house. Keeping an eye on this guy means ducking from one bit of cover to the next—the safe-house roof, the inside of another barn, pressing back against the raised bridge, the work. Sly's posing as a scarecrow when a rat trooper comes into view. "Halt!" Cries his guard. "What's the robot password?"

"Triangle x triangle x," replies the rat. It titters unpleasantly through the gas mask; the sound makes it impossible to tell if the rat within is male or female. "Though you shouldn't be asking me, you fool. I serve the doctor's interests better than you fools."

"Shows what you know," retorts the fox. "Like works for like, that's how it goes."

The two don't seem friendly, and separate almost at once. Sly disentangles himself from the pole and shakes straw from his sleeves. "Okay Bentley, now what?"

"The guards have a base of operations across from the hotel," he says, and a new way-point springs up in Sly's binoc-u-com. "Go inside, then find some way to endear yourself to them. We need more information."

"Anything in particular?"

"Well, there have been lots of mentions of a 'doctor'," Bentley says, pulling out his holographic computer screen and checking his notes. "All over the place. So anything about what sort of doctor might help. Or the name of the person behind this, or even their status in Interpol"

Sly removes his hat and dusts straw off it. "You have no idea, do you?"

"No," Bentley admits, putting his computer away. "There are too many variables. And with Penelope involved... Winthorp showed her a picture of me, Sly, he had to have. I don't know what's going on anymore." He pushes his helmet up to rub his forehead.

"Calm down, Bentley." Sly puts his hat back on. "We'll get this. Don't worry."

"Easy for you to say." Bentley grumbles, and cuts the contact.

Sly puts his binoc-u-com away and steps in the bottom half of the nearest barn to change his clothes. He emerges moments later, fully dressed. The hat covers his ears and the goggles disguise his mask; he could pass for a fox if you squint. They're not too dissimilar. And, since he now looks the part, all he has to do is walk in.

So he does, blatantly uncaring about the rats (who snap to irritated attention when he walks by) or the tanks (that ignore him right back). He heads straight to the door of the guards' compound and knocks. A peep-panel slides open. "What's the volcano password?"

Sly immediately puts on his Italian accent. "Cuhcle ex, cuhcle ex," he says.

The guard rolls his eyes. "Is this stupid accent day? Seriously, you're the fifth person. Come on in and talk normal, why don't ya."

With the flash of a LOADINGscreen, Sly's inside. He keeps his eyes open as he walks in, checking all around. The guard's relaxation area is a wide-open space, with a small band in one corner and tables around the edges. There are a handful of doors at the far side of the room. Foxes stand at random all over the place.

Sly walks up to a group of three foxes at random. "I just-uh transferred here," he says, still using his accent, "and I haven't-uh signed up for a health plan yet. Do you-uh know-uh which doctor I should talk to?"

"That is the worst joke I've heard in years," says one fox.

"And an even worse fake accent," says the second.

"You want me to talk, eh?" asks the third, setting down his drink. "I wouldn't do this normally, but that accent was so bad, I'm not saying a word. If you want to prove you're one of us, you have to beat us in a competition first."

Sly raises one eyebrow behind the goggles. "What's the competition?"

"Thank you for dropping the accent. Dancing," says the fox. "How's your tango?"

Sly smiles a sly smile, a sentence I've been trying not to write for the past year only to fail now. "Oh, I think I'm pretty good. But it takes two to tango."

A broom is thrust in his arms. "Work with it."

Without further ado, Sly is set up to tango with a broom, and the band in the corner starts a beautiful song. But... well, just like I was incredibly unqualified to write out a dance scene between Carmelita and Thaddeus earlier, I have no capability of writing out a dance scene here. I barely know what a tango is. I'm sorry.

But his broom dance is more impressive than that fox can do with his foxy fox partner, and that's just plain impressive.

After, the fox who challenged Sly slaps his knee. "Shucks, I'm sorry to have doubted you. But don't fun about the doctor like that, you understand me? He don't like it."

"That's good to know," Sly says. "Sometimes, it's hard to know what I can't get away with."

"So, are you another of his police blokes, an Interpol stoolie, or one of us low-rankers angling for a promotion?" asks the fox. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wallet, flipping it open to reveal a police badge. "I've had enough of writing parking tickets for the next ten lifetimes."

Sly does not freak out. "You and me both, pal."

JOB COMPLETE

Sly continues chatting with the foxes, who—it seems—are ALL cops. From around the world. Don't tell Carmelita.

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