Disclaimer: I love Sly Cooper, but no way in hell do I own it.

Artha; The Constable

"Society prepares the crime, the criminal commits it." –Henry Thomas Buckle

"Lay down on the table, Ms. Neyla."

The nurse pointed, looking slightly bored, and Neyla obliged, lowering herself onto the cold steel. The MRI machine loomed above her, a metal monster anxious to swallow her like a snack. She disliked hospitals, doctors, any type of medical practice, but this was necessary. She needed to see if some screws were loose upstairs. Or at least if a physical affliction was driving her to the fuzzy edges of sanity.

Still, all this goddamn white was unsettling. She hated brightly-lit places; it seemed destiny that she should despise hospitals, as useful as they seemed in premise. Nightclubs, alleys, nighttime… they were her allies. Not this blinding light. The light had never done her any good, not in her life.

"All right, all right, let's get movin' now deary, shall we? Jesus Christ, you're goin' so fucking slow," Neyla snapped. Her discomfort had pushed her stress levels even higher; the bored nurse immediately perked up and embarrassedly clicked the button, shuffling Neyla's body into the confined space of the MRI machine. Neyla sighed deeply. Now they would expect her to stay still for a long time. Well, she could achieve that quite easily, but she was bothered already, and the necessity of remaining completely still only added even more to her annoyance. Ever since that fucking Cooper had shown up again, she'd been experiencing odd moments and random pains. It must have almost a week later and she was still constantly uneasy, a ship churning about dangerously in the storm at the port. She didn't want to capsize. She didn't want to sink. Not when everything was getting so close to working. Not when immortality was coming even closer to within her grasp.

Lights surrounded her, studying her in a circular motion. She sighed once more. It'd been a coincidence, more than likely. She couldn't blame the raccoon for her ailments, as much as she would have liked to. As much as she would've liked to have been able to blame him for anything. But yet again, he remained comparatively innocent. It seemed whatever dealing she had with him, she was the villain. No doubt she was a shifty person, on the gray scale of morality… but she wasn't a villain… was she? She didn't deserve the infamy of someone of such scale as, say, Clockwerk.

One of the lights burst within the MRI machine, and Neyla jumped. She could hear the nurse muttering, furious button clicking. It seemed the platform she was resting upon was attempting to exit out of the hole, but was stuck. Stuck on what? It certainly wasn't her. More than likely a malfunction.

She fucking hated hospitals.

"Uh, ma'am? We seem to—" the nurse squeaked.

"I'm trapped in this piece of shit, aren't I?" Neyla said softly.

"…Yes."

"Fucking fabulous. Go. Run off and get your superiors. See if you can't get me out of this 'ell'ole." She could hear the nurse's shoes pattering against the floor quickly and the slam of the door as it closed behind her. Goddamn shoddy hospital had her trapped inside a malfunctioning MRI machine. The space was too small to maneuver, the opening too confined to allow her to shuffle out. She was caught, all right. There was no escaping from this.

Perfect.

She smacked her head sitting up so quickly, but Neyla ignored the ache rushing into her head.

"WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?" she screamed. No answer, as she'd predicted. "GET. THE FUCK. OUT OF MY 'EAD. YOU 'EAR ME?" Still no response, but she felt as if something was listening to her yells… even enjoying them, in some sick, twisted way. Or was that her imagination? It was getting hard to tell the difference between instincts and insanity.

She collapsed back onto the platform in exasperation, punching the inside of the machine half-heartedly. This was her luck. This was just her luck. She tried to trick herself a lot by saying that her complete control over other people put her two steps ahead of the entire world, but Neyla knew there was too much bullshit in her life to make up for the karmic slag.

Sleep.

Neyla could feel the yell starting to rise out from her chest and burst through her mouth, a mixture of fear and anger, but the bubbling scream slid back halfway through its ascent; she found her eyelids drooping heavily, and suddenly Neyla was falling yet again down the deep, black hole she seemed to return to every few days or so.

For once, Neyla found herself yearning for the light.

The handcuffs chaffed against her wrists, clinking as Neyla was escorted roughly by a pig on one arm and a German shepherd on the other. Her shoes scraped along the floor, squeaking noisily through the empty halls, and she could see the shepherd's ears twitch in pain at each high-pitched squeal. She grinned sneakily. At least she wasn't the only one suffering through all of this shit.

In the planning stage, only words floating around an open room, it sounded painless enough. Especially for the bird, the idea was flawless; she'd get caught by the fuzz on purpose, jimmy off her handcuffs, sneak around like the acrobat she was, and relieve the local police station of its most confidential files. Apparently Arpeggio, the intelligent bastard, had been able to track down some of the most important files regarding the Fiendish Five gang; they'd been cleverly hidden in a lower-ranking station, what would've seemed like mere fodder for any criminals such as themselves seeking to acquire high-class information on law-breaking legends. It was quite clever of the police, actually. But they didn't quite know the references her avian friend had.

Still, when put in practice, it'd been a pain in the ass allowing those fat, sweaty cops to grab her and restrain her. She knew she'd been felt up at least twice by the phantom hands of an officer working under the cover of physical restraint, and pig breath smelt even worse when confronted up close; the only relatively nice part had been the fact that they'd come bursting through her door of her own accord instead of the purposely-shoddy robbery Neyla'd been planning to pull off to alert the police of her presence. Apparently, there'd been a rat in her homework ring operation, and sooner then she'd thought they had chained her up and read her the Miranda Rights.

Mission accomplished, thus far.

But something was troubling Neyla somewhat, as she was propelled clumsily forward by the lackluster cops she begrudgingly allowed to incapacitate her; she'd seen the jail cells in the entrance area, lowly lit and sparse except for a dour-looking groundhog and a drunken she-bear. Why hadn't they dropped her off there? She was no threat, and she knew a way to rig a way out from behind those bars in about thirty seconds flat. This was against the plan. This was a big fucking wedge rearing its nasty head into her way. Where in God's name were they taking her?

Abruptly, an unassuming grey door appeared around a corner, and swiftly the officers stomped through it. She could feel its heaviness reverberate as it rattled against its frame. Neyla cursed silently, glaring back and forth between the canine and the swine.

Fuck-a-doodle-doo, she thought.

In stereotypical interrogation manner, the room was dark, illuminated only by a solitary ceiling light; a figure sat at a thick-looking metal table, a silhouette only distinguished by the dark from its slender frame and what must have been glasses softly reflecting the scarce light in the room into Neyla's eyes. It beckoned. She was thrust into a seat roughly. Peeved, she reshuffled in her seat and observed her original captors recede quietly into the darkness behind her.

Fuck-a-doodle-doo, she thought twice.

The figure sighed deeply, drumming its fingers on the table's metallic surface, and Neyla could see the tired eyes staring out from beneath those brows as her night vision kicked in. It looked like a lizard of some sort, and an older one at that. Its suit remained uninspired. But even so, the glasses created an air of authority that immediately put Neyla at odds with the cop.

A file appeared from under the table, of the common Staples-bought manila type, and drifted onto a position in front of the lizard. Carefully, he opened the file, and Neyla found her own image staring back at her. Mug shots from that sting operation in Cairo, apparently; she could see the painful black eye she'd suffered mere minutes before her photograph was forcibly taken. Glamour couldn't be afforded when it came to legality, she supposed.

She'd hardly noticed the lizard begin to speak, she was thinking so deeply.

"Matilda Kahn. Karla Kucing. Miss Megumi. Stefania Pisică. The Gonzesse. Venus Verma. Lady Dronning of Oslo. All of these aliases, and yet we know your true name, Neyla. Looks like you wasted all of your goddamn time on making up fake people to pretend to be… and yet here you sit, me addressing you by your given name. How does that make you feel?"

He sounded like a shrink. She hated shrinks. She hated anything medically-related.

"Like a fuckin' butterfly. Listen, does this 'ave any relevance to anythin', orrrrr can I just go back to bein' incarcerated? I think I'd prefer the second choice, quite 'onestly."

The lizard laughed warm-heartedly. "Spunky. I see. That should serve you quite well. I imagine it has proved largely successful throughout your life, yes?"

She nodded in mock enthusiasm and rolled her eyes. She didn't feel like turning on the charm for this one; she felt being as rude and distasteful as possible would drive him far away from her, which would give Neyla the perfect opportunity to sneak out those ever-important files. For a while, though, it would be necessary to entertain this lizard. 'For a while' were the most emphasized words for her.

Still, the lizard laughed. "Around here they call me Colonel Drake. I prefer just Drake, to be truthful. I suppose you won't be very keen on referring to me by anything remotely benevolent right now, but it's to be expected. No one can expect the criminal to become friends with the law."

"That's bloody right."

Colonel Drake sifted through the different files, neglecting to respond to Neyla's witty comment. "Larceny… petty theft… embezzlement… extortion?"

"Wouldn't you be tempted to use your knowledge of an American senator's secret cocaine industry to its full advantage, given the chance? Oh, no, wait, you're the bobby 'ere, you can't answer anythin' other than 'no' to that particular question."

"I admit… it would be tempting."

Neyla raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Maybe you're not as lost as I thought you were."

"Still quite lost, I'm afraid; I find myself remarkably opposed to breaking the law even when faced with the chance to do so discreetly. When you get as high as up as me in the law enforcement business, there are many, many chances to become corrupt."

"Never mind. You're lost."

"Do try and forgive me," Drake replied, smiling faintly.

"I suppose I can try. A little." Perhaps she could have a little fun with this one before the true interrogating began, whenever it would come. Had they tracked her to Arpeggio? She figured she would persuade him to believe that she'd never heard of such a criminal, but still, it was worrisome to think someone had caught on to one of her best-kept secrets.

They would never get the greatest one, though.

"Do you suppose you can try to cooperate with me in a serious conversation? Outside of this banter, there are real reasons behind my wish to speak with you privately. Please don't mind the dark atmosphere in this back room, though; it does seem rather covert, but quite honestly we can only chalk up this darkness to faulty wiring."

"Oh, goody. I was imaginin' back-room nonsense of the 'dominant/submissive' type, if you catch me—"

"Most certainly not, Ms. Neyla," Colonel Drake huffed indignantly.

"Kidding, kidding," she hissed, emphasizing the g's she found herself dropping even more so often lately.

"I believe I spoke before of the tumultuous relationship between law-breakers and law-makers, correct?" Drake said, attempting to change the subject.

"This is true."

"But sometimes they marry, my misbehaving friend."

Suddenly Neyla found herself much more interested in actually listening to the shocked Colonel's words.

"I'm sorry?" she said, leaning forward in her seat.

"As you can clearly see from this file, Ms. Neyla, we know a lot about you; about how you operate, about your skills, and about your ways in the criminal world. We've been studying you, keeping as many tabs as we can… surely you, in all your dealings with crime and fleeing from the law, have heard of Interpol, Ms. Neyla?"

She nodded calmly, leaning ever further over the table.

"Many of my colleagues have come to the conclusion that crime is best fought with criminals themselves… reformed members of society who have a personal element in the crime-fighting realm that puts them ahead of normal police officers by miles. Chances like these open rarely, and even so, the act is highly risky, as you could very well imagine. But it is our opinion, and my own very high opinion adding to this conclusion, that you, Ms. Neyla, are the perfect convert."

Neyla sat back in her seat, slightly stunned. "So… let me get this 'un straight… you're askin' me to leave behind me life of crime and become a part of the Interpol force?"

"Precisely," Drake said. "You're of the right intelligence, right skill set, right athleticism, even right disposition and criminal record… honestly… I could not have found a better match than you if I looked across the world and the seven seas until my death. Believe you me, it already took the better part of my career just to find you, and it was purely by chance in the first place. Quite lucky on my part; quite possibly lucky for you, if you take up the offer."

"Oh, so it's an offer, is it?" Neyla said.

"Indeed. Although the jail-bound alternative doesn't look quite as attractive to me, if I do say so myself."

The memory started to fade out, blurring out into nothingness, but Neyla could remember well enough on her own what followed; she took up that offer, stole the files on her way out, and made what might have been the happiest phone call Arpeggio ever received from her in their long and complicated partnership.

That time, things had actually turned out better than expected, for once in her life.

"…to me. Captain Neyla?"

Neyla awoke to the disconcerting sight of the mouse nurse, twitching nervously and hovering over her like a vulture over a corpse. She preferred not to be dinner, and quickly sprung up into a sitting position.

"How long was I out?"

"I…I don't quite know. I walked in a minute ago and the machine had pulled you out, finally… you were muttering to yourself and staring at the ceiling. I try to talk to you, but you didn't respond. Up until now, I was quite sure you were in a trance of some sort—"

"A trance? The fuck are you talkin' about, you rodent?"

The mouse drew back into herself, eating the words she'd been prepared to speak. Flustered, Neyla swung off of the table and practically ran out the door. She needed her goddamn clothes, needed to get out of that goddamn hospital, and get to a quiet place where she could bang her head against a wall so the white fuzz in her ears, slowly driving her to deafness, would just leave her THE FUCK alone.

Over the static and the wind as she split through the air with her speed, still she could hear that cold voice, freezing Neyla's bones as it whispered to her from an unknown part of her own mind.

Running will never take you far enough away from me, kitten. Never.

"Shut UP, would you?" she screamed to herself, frightening various hospital inhabitants loitering about the halls as she came sprinting through.

Neyla had been capable of running away from many things, varying from rabid animals to cop cars, but no matter how hard her feet pounded against the floor, the voice stuck with her, taunting her from the inside.

Eventually, she found the room where she'd initially taken off her normal attire, and quickly she thrust it all on, more than likely having put on her shirt backwards. She didn't mind it much. The goddamn hospital, it was what was ailing her. She'd been in a place she despised for far too long… it was giving her the spooks, that was all. That pesky voice was something she would look into later, perhaps in the more tolerable psychiatrist's office; for now, Neyla's objectives lied solely with escaping from the hospital and breaking into the fresh air outside, shaking off her misplaced rage.

Discomfort. That's all it was, discomfort, and stress, and exhaustion. Driving her over the edge. Maybe the voice was even a temporary thing, a sort of recurring hallucination from being over-worked. Why, that donkey on the CSI unit had been caught conversing with the water-cooler last month, purely out of exhaustion. Constable Matthews, his name had been. Maybe she'd go pay him a visit, see if he had any good meds for when the mind started to go off course a little bit. Even if she couldn't coerce the ass into giving up some anti-depressants or whatever the hell they'd put him on, a good old-fashioned home invasion would work just fine as a substitute. She could predict her little problem disappearing within a few weeks, given some well-used self-medication.

Deep down inside, Neyla knew her "little problem" wasn't going to be fixed with some psychiatrist's crazy pills.

But still, Neyla did only as she could do.

She ran.