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Credus Ereptae,

or

The Credo of Thieves, part 1

Night had barely fallen over the Brighton skyline, made even darker by the smoke of countless chimneys. The daytime residents were heading to bed, and the night life was just beginning. This was a time where everyone, regardless of activity, was all either looking down, or straight ahead. Why should anyone look anywhere else?

This meant there was no-one to watch the lithe, shadowy figure scamper up an archway and climb a hastily secured metal pole. His cane, specially treated to neither glint, shine, nor rust, was slung securely over his back; to hold it in his mouth would be ungentlemanly, especially if he were to chip a tooth! That could be trace enough to give the whole game away!

His eyes shifted back and forth, then settled on the path before him: the poles over the archway suspended a wide banner, announcing " Ancient Mysteries in Hove's Brooker Hall!" His planned path almost shone in his mind, a sparkling trail of danger from one end of the banner to the other. Suicide for some, perhaps, but to this one, a mere trifle. He hopped up on the top of the pole, did a mid-air pirouette, stuck both his feet out-

-then slipped, tumbled a dozen yards, and had his skull cracked apart by the reliable street.

DESYNCHRONIZED. RETURNING TO MAIN MENU. AVOID HIGH-PROFILE ACTIONS WHILE BEING WATCHED.

"Argh, I could almost feel that..." The lid of the machine slid open with a loud hiss, letting the gray-and-black Raccoon out of it to rub his head. "I thought you said I could push the Circle button to walk and slide across stuff like that!"

"Sorry Sly, I knew you'd be able to do that, but you're reliving the memories of your ancestor from 19th Century England! Maybe he just hadn't developed the Tightrope Walk yet?" He could almost see the face of a familiar bespectacled Turtle from the other side of the thick sheet of glass, and could hear his comforting, dorky voice. Still, it couldn't have been him. "Yeah," he thought, "the Rail Walk was already written there by then, and you knew it."

"Wait, tell me again what this thing is. Reliving ancestors? Genetic memory? I thought that stuff was some made-up sci-fi stuff. So if your dad was, say, a bartender, you could get in this thing and learn how to mix drinks from your bits of his DNA?"

"Well, that isn't, uh, all of how it works. We've had to do a lot of research of our own, and the company that originally designed it keeps all its information a tight secret. Just go with it, okay? Oh, and the machine's Latin for 'soul'. You remember any Latin, Sly?"

"Heh, I've only ever read that fake kind where they stick Latin-y endings on all the words. Say, uh, Bently, right? Sorry, my memory's still shot; we've known each other how long?"

"You still don't remember? We go back a long way, all those adventures we had together? How you helped me study for all those computer science degrees? I'm in information security now!"

"Nothing specific, not even the orphanage. Maintain cover, huh pal?"

"Well thanks for the reminder, but what's the point of all this again? Setting up this expensive soul-memory-magic thing so I can play video games where my great-great-grandfather sneaks around to steal things? I always thought my ancestors made barrels."

There was a pause from behind the glass. "You'd be surprised, Sly. If my hunch is right - and my hunches are almost as accurate as my calculations - reliving your ancestor's adventures will point us to a hidden treasure that's been lost for centuries! So, are you ready to climb back down your family tree?"

"...Sure, Bentley, but not now. I've got a date tonight at Le Chauve-Souris Rouge, and I'm not gonna be late for that!"

***

Brooker Hall, the former mansion that would later officially become the Hove Museum and Art Gallery, was closed for the night, secure and silent. The gentle touch of padded feet against the floor - and sometimes the walls - went completely unheard. Rigid, secure wall ornaments and chandeliers were swung from with deft uses of the burglar's lacquered hardwood cane. Night Watchdogs patrolled connecting passages, to be sure, but the ones that were even awake plodded back and forth like the obstinate servants they were. The ones that were sleeping would wake to find their whistles and truncheons misplaced.

It was just too easy...

The last key he needed lay on a platform secured to the ceiling, supposedly requiring two men and a long stick to recover. However, a couch sat next to several different statues of the Buddha nearby. One leap and some hops, one, two, three, a swing of his cane, and the key was in his pocket by the time he landed. Simple, at least for him.

Strolling back across the empty hall, twirling the key on the crook of his cane, the despondent thief nearly let out a sigh. There had been no excitement, no real danger, and even if he'd timed himself, it wouldn't have made a difference. Just on the other side of those upcoming reinforced double-doors lay his prize, gleaming with both moonlight and hidden secrets. In three minutes, his calling card would be in its place, and he'd have safely vacated the premises, but what good would that do if it was all assumed to be the work of... an imitator?

The sound of the patrolling Watchdog shuffled steadily closer, but he'd disguised his scent well enough. Nothing else for it, then... Slipping behind a potted fern, he waited for the guard's approach, preparing his thickest accent in the meantime.

...The Dog's long, tired yawn was cut short by his sudden inability to properly breathe.

"Ooh, wot 'ave we 'ere, then? Oi loiks a gel wit' spi- no, that ain't roight!"

"Hrk."

"Save yer breath," he wheezed - that's what he'd remember now, the wheeze, the accent, his whistle pinched right out of his pocket, with not a single feature of the assailant behind him, "an' yew c'n be the one what almost caught 'im this toime, hmm?"

In the subsequent pause, his ears caught the faintest of sounds: the sound of a slight breeze, followed by a massive burst of destruction as the nearby hallway was smashed apart. The ceiling buckled, the doors were wrenched off their hinges - causing the chains and locks to slump uselessly to the floor - and the shower of wood and glass forced the thief to shove his captive away to avoid a wayward plank. By the time the guard had regained his breath, the thief had already bounded through the clouds of dust to chase the looming figure who had fallen through the museum's ceiling.

The Raccoon cursed his new foe for choosing such a brutish option, while carefully taking stock of him as he pursued: an enormous ancient Owl, larger than any he'd ever seen before. Wicked talons, plated with metal fit for Death's scythe left gouges in the floor with every step. The beast could barely fit through the hallway, causing more damage as it tore its way into the new exhibit's atrium. The sounds of his movement hidden by the clatter of falling debris, the shocked thief switched his glance to the prize he'd sought: the museum's newest addition, a pair of golden, apple-sized orbs of machinery more complex in its minutiae than anything from the technology of their age. Now, this would be challenging! He'd have to trip the switch, climb the pole, navigate the ceiling decorations, avoid the tripwires and get to the case in time without being seen or heard by the-

His heart sank as the entire meticulously constructed setup fell to pieces, brushed aside by the Owl's massive wings. With a change of plans, he readied his cane and crept forward, thinking of a way to deal with this gormless monster. His eyes caught a nearby tapestry when the thing suddenly stopped.

"... Cooper..."

"Hm?"

The voice, a calm, deep rasp with faint hints of oiliness, had caught him off-guard, and for that matter, so did its wing. His last-minute leap and roll managed to turn the crippling buffet into one that merely knocked him back against the wall. With surprising speed, the Owl turned and caught him in those razors, carefully dragging the thief into view and scraping through the floor.

The Owl looked as much machine as beast, with metal plates on its wings, legs, and underside, with a mask and helmet over its face and beak. Where there once might have been a crest of feathers that looked like horns, there were sharpened metal spikes. What feathers remained visible looked old and worn, the feathers of one who'd passed his autumnal years. He could faintly hear the ticking of tiny gears as the thing's talons flexed, putting it squarely in the collective nightmares of Shelly, Verne and Potter. More worryingly, the thing had pinned his arms to the ground, trapping his cane with them.

"Wh-who are you to commit such rash violence?" Even with his advantage lost, he was still determined to show no fear.

" I have hunted your family wherever they hid themselves, Cooper. Killed your petty self-righteous relatives one by one. How will it feel, to die having failed in your last act of thievery?"

For a moment, he found himself speechless. The chilling voice, its pernicious owner, the deepening cuts in his arms all ate away at his determination and his otherwise positive outlook. "B-but why? What could cause a clockwork monstrosity to persecute my entire genealogy?"

" Hatred." His face grew nearer, bringing that hooked beak closer to his face. " Cold, simple hatred. I've ground your ancestors to pellets, and will outlast you long after your kin's smug thefts have been forgotten." The beak's point was nearly touching his nose, yet the voice stayed exactly the same. " History will only remember my name. Yes... History will only remember Clockwerk!" With the moan of metal-on-metal, the beak opened wide enough to engulf the Raccoon's head, and-

Several lights shone on the Owl's face as the guards levelled their weapons. "Nobody move! Fold your wings!"

The Owl didn't move his head, merely squinting in the sudden glare. His muscles, however, twitched at the brightness and new irritants. One such twitch caused his talons to relax slightly, which allowed just enough leeway for his prey to thrust his cane directly into the monster's eye.

MEMORY SYNCHRONIZED. NEW MEMORIES ACCESSIBLE. THE PRESENCE OF BLUE SPARKLES ALLOW SPECIAL ABILITIES TO BE USED WITH THE CIRCLE BUTTON.

Once again, Sly found himself coming around in the bed of plastic and metal with a rush of memory as if he was really there.

"-think that's the best place for a save point. How do you feel, Sly?"

"Fresh as a daisy, Bently. Nothing like getting crushed in the talons of a crazed murderer to bring back memories of my father. So, you still can't tell me why you're doing this?"

"I... told you before, Sly, it's to find-"

"Clockwerk is dead, Bently, his eyes blown to rusty bits like the rest of him. I thought we could finally move on and repress it, so c'mon buddy, what's the real reason you're doing this to me?"

"...Sorry, Sly. I never meant to hurt you, but it's to find out more about Clockwerk and how he did what he did to himself. Uh, if I got enough information to reverse-engineer anything, to digitally encode someone's brain without just simplifying them into a hateful killing machine, it could make science-fiction a reality! Plus, since we can't study those eyes any more, all I can go on is just detailed accounts. If this is really that hard on you, buddy, I'm willing to stop it."

"Hey Bently, I hope you didn't have to proofread those lines..." "Don't get all sad and guilty on me! I could guess how it ends, but that won't stop me from doing this all the way through. All that stuff before the end was fun, actually. So, same time next week?"