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Fear.

That is how it all begins.

That is what makes my being.

That is the future.

Revenge.

That is my sustenance.

That is what keeps me alive.

That is the dream.

Death.

That is my fate.

That is what will bring me peace.

That is the only certainty.

All of that is who I am.

It is all there in the blood, strung around the room like an impressionist work.

It is all there in the looming shadow that towers over my hiding place.

It is all there in the cold steel that closes around my throat.

And yet it is a memory.

It is no more than a piece of the past.

But that does not weaken the power it holds over me.

That does not drive off the fear that grips my body at the merest hint.

That does not quench the burning thirst of vengeance within my soul.

That does not satiate the reaper that looms over me, counting my every breath.

Just as he was when he came calling in the form of five dark figures.

Just as he was when he destroyed the life I would have had.

Just as he was when he claimed my family.

My loving father...Conner...an honest working man.

My precious mother...Merriam...a goddess among mortals.

My amazing and compassionate twin brother...Sly...an irreplaceable piece of my heart.

And now...it's my turn.

Fear...

Revenge...

Death...

Good dogs.

Go fetch.

-

From the confines of the Library of the Cycle

Located at the End of the Universe

Nicki Fowl and co.

Is proud to bring you

Slick Copper and the Thievius Raccoonus

Part 1 of the Copper Tales

-

Notice: I, the author, do not own Sly Cooper, the Sly Cooper franchise, or any ideas, concepts, or characters belonging to the series. I do not claim ownership of said franchise. I do own the character of Slick Copper, the original storyline composed for the Copper Tales, any out of character (OOC) or non-canon behavior and/or material that is part of this story. I made it. It's mine. MINE!!! Story thieves are the one thief I will never tolerate.

-

It was dark; the clouds covered the skies in a patch-quilt blanket of darkness, as if trying to cover the stars themselves.

Trying, and failing.

On the street, a store for clocks tells the time for the world, a minute from midnight, and peddles its wares even at this late hour, as if trying to sell people more time to live on this world.

And he might have been. But that is not the center of the story.

The center of this story is set upon a nearby cafe, located but across the street from the clock store, and the two patrons who were sitting at one of the tables, each with a cup of something strong and steaming sitting before them.

On one side, a turtle fiddled with his bow-tie, his green complexion nearly neon despite being hidden under the parasol, which had been left open despite the clear darkness.

He sat on a phone-book, his short legs unable to reach the cobblestone ground. His glasses were somewhat large, and they slid down his nose, forcing him to replace them. He had given thought to contacts, but that, in his mind, would be more costly. And he had no money to spare.

As he was investing every spare penny he could muster, to a degree, into a thus-far fruitless search. A search for a person he'd only known for a month, if that, but had nonetheless touched him deeply enough to never be forgotten.

His shell felt itchy, but he resisted the urge to scratch it, focusing more on his companion sitting opposite him.

His companion, at least twice his height, was a rat. A gray rat with a slender build, his pink nose low so as he could maintain his best neutral expression, his whiskers apprehensive, as if searching for dangers, his two ice-cold brown eyes focused on the file the turtle had lain on the table, the gaze intense enough that you might have sworn he was trying to light a fire.

His small tuft of spiky head-fur seemed to be the one lenience he indulged in. The rest of his appearance was meant for one thing.

Business.

His boots clicked against the pavement, steel toes inches from bending the leg of the chair into a new shape the owner would most likely not appreciate, the gloved fingers of one hand resting on the table quietly while the other fingered his cup. He rustled out a small watch from under his jacket sleeve, his plain white shirt covered for the moment before hands were back to their old posts, the lip of his blue jeans barely visible from beneath the table. His large ears were drawn back against his head.

He looked both edgy and dangerous.

That was the idea.

The turtle took a moment to drink from his own cup, trying to gauge the rat like he would a difficult chess match, thinking out his reaction by the presence of the information that now lay in his reach, what he had been told in confirmation of details he'd already given.

The rat reached over for the file, never looking up once, and plucked it from its spot on the table, taking the time to quietly thumb through the contents before he returned it to its resting place, crossing his fingers and resting his elbows on the table, his chin supported by his laced fingers. His eyes glazed over, his ears opening up and swiveling to catch all the snippets of sound around him.

The file had touched him in some way; that much was clear. How it had was too soon to tell, but he would open up at some point, of this the turtle was certain. No soldier of fortune or indeed any soldier that survived would keep up that 'mask of indifference' forever. At some point or another they let it fall, and then they opened up.

"Are you sure this is an accurate copy of the information?"

He had been expecting this. Doubt was a natural part of the process. The turtle nodded, once again adjusting his glasses, "Absolutely. That kind of information isn't high risk. A simple search on their site's engine brought up what I needed. After I found the base file, everything else fell together."

The rat continued to eye the file. Something was nagging him; you could see it in his posture. He had some thorn lodged in his side that wouldn't leave him alone. He looked at the file again and found it, right there, like a pet snake desperate to bite him for being so negligent.

"So you are sure this is one hundred percent accurate. To the letter?"

The turtle couldn't resist raising an eyebrow. Yes, doubt was part of the process. This, however, seemed to be something more. "Yes. To the letter."

"If that is the case then I feel I must 'up the schedule' as it were." "The schedule?"

"Yes."

He closed the file and laid it back on the table, lacing his fingers and resting on them in thought. If what he had just read was that accurate, then it was time to implement damage control, and do it quickly before things started to fall around his ears.

"Fine. In what way."

"I will need to make my move tonight."

"That is...a rather sudden change in plans." "Unforeseen circumstances have forced me to play my hand. If I do not move immediately, much of the work we have been doing for the past three months will be all for naught. Speaking of which, would you mind updating me on how your 'search and destroy' mission has been going?"

The turtle couldn't resist giving a small 'tch' of annoyance at this. First it had been consultation; then he had requested small 'favors' in operations; and now he had both him and his friend so enthralled somehow that he had convinced them to become some sort of cohorts. Search and destroy indeed.

"Yes, well, that was no easy task you gave me." "If it had been easy I would have done it myself. As it were, your report?"

"Now listen here, I am not some random hacker to be told to go and chase down however many copies of a particular person's file like a cat after mice." "No, you are a paid hacker, and my consultant, and paid rather handsomely at that. Now, report."

The turtle felt an urge to walk away this instant and leave that rat to fester in hell, but he couldn't for a number of reasons. For one it would only take a single phone call to have the police banging down his door with a warrant, something that originally he had tried to avoid being lured into, but again, for some reason, he could not refuse this...figure...his wishes. The other was the need for money. He had a lot, and the turtle certainly needed a lot to fund his project.

He sighed, once again consigned to defeat, and handed the rat another file.

"From what I've gathered, there were at least several sources where this file could be located globally, not including the possible hundreds of thousands of personal computers that could access it. I did, however, manage to write a simple background virus for targeting those files on the computers in question. It could take a few hours, or it could take months-"

"Months are out of the question. I need those files erased quickly."

Once again the turtle had to choke back down a retort crawling its way out of his throat. "Well, that shouldn't be an issue. I managed to place the virus on a popular website. It should be scouring the last of those files as we speak, if it has not done so already." "I cannot help but ask; what site?"

The turtle smiled evilly, "Google, of course."

The rat nodded once in approval, a rare occurrence. It was a nice thing to elicit such a response, but it did not last.

"So, the digital versions are taken care of?" "Yes. The virus was written around an original base program that anti-virus programs will have no frame of reference to recognize. On top of which the virus will erase itself once its parameters have been completed, leaving no trace, just as you requested."

"Just as I require to operate. Good."

The rat began to fiddle with his drink. "Now it is time to move to the second step. Elimination of the physical copies. Thus why I must up the schedule. It has come to my attention that a side project I started to help deter the attentions of the law has now come under threat. This is why I need this file and why I need to break into the offices of Interpol..."

At this point the turtle took a massive spit-take, the sheer surprise written all over his face.

"...tonight."

And now he had to set down the cup in his hands for fear of dropping it. The rat took a napkin and proceeded to dry himself off as the turtle went off on a tangent, while doing his best to keep his voice down.

"Break into Interpol?! Are you insane?! Given the time to plan I could see it being done, but tonight?! As much as I would enjoy you being caught, I get the distinct feeling it would lead to me soon following after."

The rat got up and dropped his napkin in the nearby bin, never once looking at the turtle. "I suppose that is good incentive not to allow me to get caught, isn't it? Well, that and your fee, which I cannot pay from a jail cell, as far as I know."

The turtle was still not convinced, but even though he didn't let it show, the rat guessed as much.

"In any case, I was already preparing to break into the offices with or without your help. This is crucial to the plan I have in mind."

The turtle raised an eyebrow. His plan?

The rat remained stoic in response as he sat back down, resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. "By openly breaking into the offices of Interpol, I will also openly declare my intentions to my opponent and strike a critical blow to his efforts. He must be put on edge in order to for the scheme to be effective. And the best way to put him on that edge is to declare my intentions in the most brazen way possible, through direct action. I only sought this meeting tonight to help further increase the chances of success for this mission. You could always, of course, decline."

The turtle snorted; a rather interesting sight. Yes, he could refuse, and invite the rat to bring hell down upon him in the form of the boys in blue.

The rat seemed to read his mind, touching his heart as if shocked, though the action did not show in his presentation, which was as cold as ever. "You would think me so cruel as to turn on my consultant in such a brusque manner? Touché, if a bit expected."

He returned to that familiar stance that seemed to exude authority in some way, despite the lax appearance of his posture, with his chin on his fingers and his elbows rested on the table. "I would not betray the only two figures that could possibly fit the bill for my plans. You, with your razor-sharp technological talents and inventive nature, and your 'friend' who has the muscle and driving skill. Out of everyone I looked into, only the two of you could possibly be of any help."

He had laid it on a bit thick, as he thought about it, possibly too thick. The turtle snorted again.

The rat got up from the table, brushing himself off. "In any case, whether you help me or not is irrelevant. You've done what I asked. The funds will be transferred into your account. If you feel the need to part ways, I will contact you after I return from my 'visit' to discuss the next course of action. Until then."

And the rat began to walk away. He got several steps from the table, almost around the corner when he heard what he'd been waiting for.

"Alright! Dammit, alright, I'll help you!"

He stopped and smiled. Excellent.

"That is very helpful of you. Well then, I will get it touch with you once I've moved into position. Do whatever you feel is necessary to prepare yourself in that time. Au revoir, Mr. Key."

And the rat walked on, not once concerned that anyone would feel the need to phone in what they'd overheard.

After all, if no one was there, there was no one to overhear. A quick phone call had ensured that, as an act of faith on his part.

The turtle felt a chill crawl up his spine as he remembered that particular notion. That rat had to have serious pull to 'convince' an entire street corner to be somewhere else for three straight days. He tried to sip from his tea, only to find the cup already empty, and sighed. Well, at least he'd been kind enough to provide drinks.

"Do you think he'll do it, Bentley?"

A large purple...something...came from around the other street corner, leaning against it and cracking the bricks in a few places. He wore goggles and an ill-fitting shirt. A bag of BBQ chips was in one hand, the others fingers covered in seasonings. He looked concerned.

The turtle adjusted his glasses as he got up, thinking over the turtle's question. _Did_he think that rat, with his cold, stone-like stature and heartless comments, be able to break into Interpol on the drop of a hat?

He tweaked his bow tie, and then had his answer.

"Murray, if there's one thing I know for certain, is that Slick most definitely lives up to his name."

The large something nodded, walking beside the turtle as he munched on his chips. As he did, his thoughts strayed back to someone else he knew that lived up to their name.

Someone else he hadn't seen in years...

Slick walked around the corner of the building and then hid quietly behind it, pressing his back against the wall, his ears now poised for even the slightest pin drop, as he waited.

He didn't have to wait long. In moments the turtle and the big...thing...most likely a hippo, turned around and walked away. He waited until they were well out of sight before he came back around the corner, walked across the street, and gently opened the door to the clock shop.

The shop's interior was covered in clocks and clock parts, spread across the walls and even decorating the ceiling. Bits, bobs, pieces and parts covered every inch but the polished oak floor and the shopkeeper himself, brandishing all sorts of details and fancy designs of every shape and size. The owner himself was a barn owl who seemed to be getting on in years, a pair of oversized glasses perched on his beak and tools in his fingers, an oil-stained apron over his front as he fiddled with a small pocket watch.

When he saw who came in, however, he put it away his little 'project' and wiped his fingers on his apron, which only served to make them even more filthy than before.

The rat came up to the desk and simply stood there for a moment, looking around at all the merchandise, as if deciding what to buy. His right hand came up to his chin as he eyed a small garden based piece, and as he scratched, the garden-clock started to pour water out of the miniature fountain in the center, prompting an impressed grunt from the rat.

He eyeballed the owl, and they had a small staring contest, which barely lasted ten seconds before the rat gave an order.

"Report."

The owl nodded, bending down and pulling out a file from within the desk and handing it to the rat, who looked through it lightly.

The owl started.

"Mr. Co-"

The rat responded with a single held hand, continuing to read the file on one specific page, before he set it down on the counter, very still. He eyed the file like he wanted to burn it. And the way he eyed that file seemed to put massive pressure on the owl, who was sweating bullets.

"Mr. Copper."

He looked the owl in the eye, shutting off any statement the owl wanted to make, who was mentally wondering what epitaph he'd want at his funeral.

The rat held up one finger.

"I have one question. Answer this correctly and you'll live. Can you give a satisfactory explanation as to why you allowed a child-like figure to record a supposedly random part of the street, on which I was talking with my adviser, when no one is supposed to be here?"

The rat, clearly in charge, didn't make it as a threat. His voice was such a dull cold that he couldn't be doing anything other than quoting fact. His free hand tapped a staccato drumbeat on the file in question, his other now pointed accusingly at the owl, but in a lazy manner, as if he did this every day.

Incidentally, he did.

The owl started to stutter, trying to put out something, anything, that would get his neck off the chopping block. The rat brought his finger back up just as the owl was putting something together.

"Don't. There is no excuse. You were sloppy and didn't even bother to check. I know..."

He pulled out a hidden earpiece, so small it was near impossible to see, before placing it back in his ear.

"...You are not the only pair of eyes I have. Come out from back there. Now."

The owl obeyed, falling to his knees as he came out from behind the counter and pleading helplessly at the rat's feet. He kicked his head in response.

"Get up. You're no use to anyone groveling on the ground like that."

He slowly got to his feet, quivering so much he could make for a massage chair.

The rat placed a hand on his chest, smiling, though he couldn't put any warmth into his face. Not that he didn't try.

"Calm down..."

The owl looked at him and smiled, thinking for a moment that he might make it out...

...before his heart popped inside his chest.

He didn't even feel it. He was still smiling, eyes closed, when he sudden went limp. The rat simply stepped to the side and let him fall, popping his neck in preparation for something more audacious than just a murder.

"...you might get a heart attack."

He pulled a two-way radio out of his jacket pocket.

"Kane. Get down to Rue des Pyramides, the old clock shop. Yes I know there's a leak, that's why I need you to deliver a package to the nearest place you can think of to get rid of a body. Don't be like that; this is what you're paid to do. Now get to work."

He put the radio away as he walked out.

"I have a break-in to commit."

-The streets of Paris-

A single figure defied the flow of the crowd as he made for a tall building that seemed to be more significant than the rest.

Perhaps because of the large neon sign that said 'La Polizia'.

He paused, once, before the main entrance, casting his gaze up the towering complex, as if sizing it up for its value, before ducking into an alleyway.

His jacket fluttered in a breeze of his own creation as he moved, his steps devouring pavement as he disappeared into the dark shadows of the alley, never ceasing in his movements, almost as if he were walking into his own house.

And the shadows responded in kind, swallowing him in their embrace as if welcoming him back.

He reached the end of the alley and started to search for something, digging through the refuse with a slightly rabid effort, but efficient, practiced, experienced like a veteran predator seeking out prey.

Then he found something, grabbed tight, and pulled out a big black duffel back buried under half a dozen black trash bags full to near bursting.

He wiped off some of the garbage that had stuck to his jacket, thankful he'd remembered to put on gloves before he left his apartment to do this. He took the bag and placed it as his feet, pulling out his radio and tuning it for a second before speaking.

"Vixen this is The Reynard, I am preparing to make my way into the Hen House. Respond."

A voice crackled in over the receiver, British and feminine.

"Roger Reynard. I will be waiting on standby." "Understood." "Hey, please be careful. I'd like to have you back in one piece."

The rat couldn't hold back the small grin that lit up his face, the barest hint of warmth behind it.

"Feelings for your boss?"

"Who else would write my checks?"

"Hmph. Hurtful, if true."

And with that, he dropped the radio and crushed it underfoot; dropping a water balloon on it from within the confines of the bag to ensure it was completely destroyed. Then he swept the pieces into the garbage nearby with his foot, dropped a bag over them, and dove into the bag.

He half-vanished into the duffel bag, almost in comical fashion, as he searched for something within it. In moments he found what he was looking for, withdrawing himself from the maw of the duffel bag's opening and clutching his prize within one hand: a strange pair of blue binoculars.

The binoculars were less sleek than most store bought models, and on one side was a USB port for computer uploads and downloads. On the other side was another slot, this time for a small blue tooth like earpiece, colored black like the port, and shaped like a teardrop instead of a rectangle. While it did have two eye-holes on one side to look inside, instead of the same on the other side, there was a single unbroken visor, also blue, but a darker shade than the rest of the paint scheme. On top, instead of a dial, there were several different colored buttons, placed just so for easy access. Finally it came together with a simple power button near the eye-pieces on top, right next to the strap.

He looked it over. Altogether, it was a fairly impressive looking piece of hardware. It didn't seem too expensive, but then again, knowing that turtle, it didn't need to be.

He slipped it into a pocket and then took one last moment to ensure that no one could see him. While he was hidden away in a back alley, all it would take was one pair of eyes to bring everything down around his wide gray ears. Thankfully, the people were clearing out.

Then he felt the droplets and realized it had started to rain. Perfect.

Regardless, he looked up the side of the building, following some form of incomprehensible maze along the edges, windows, corners and pipes. He scratched his chin, shifting his stance, as if thinking about the best way to climb up it. But that couldn't be, that only happened in fiction.

Right?

He reached back into the duffel bag and pulled out something else, his attention now turned away from the odd maze he'd made of the brick wall. As it came from the bag, a stray thought took comfort in the fact that no one was around. Seeing something like this would definitely raise questions, questions he wasn't in the mood to be answering.

What he withdrew was a single cane. It had a solid oaken shaft that felt firm and welcoming to his fingers, like taking the hand of an old friend. The bottom and top were both made of a kind of gold-colored metal. The top itself hooked and came to a point, the shape of which was a decently sized stylized capital 'C'. It was fairly long, not to the point where he might use it for improving his appearance among the people, but long enough for him to get a good extension on his reach.

He took a moment to finger the cane, holding it in his hands like a lost treasure. The metal 'C' gleamed brightly, and he could see his reflection in the metal. He took a couple of swings with the cane, his arm whipping it with practiced ease, the golden metal gleaming despite the lack of sun. For a moment, he forgot everything else and smiled, relishing something deep within him.

Then the moment passed and he slipped it onto his back, the cane catching hold on a sheath he'd had sewn into the back of his coat. He took the duffel bag and threw it into the dumpster nearby, burying it under the shear amount of garbage bags, which he was quietly thankful for.

Then he turned back to the wall of the station, once again glaring at it like there was something he wanted it to tell him. For a moment, nothing happened. The wall was as stark as he had left it, despite his incessant staring.

Then a single little blue sparkle started to glow somewhere near the base of the pipe. It was soon followed by another, and another. In less than seconds the entire side of the building was covered from top to bottom in blue sparkles that almost seemed to dance. They floated on every edge, shined on the ledge of every window sill, paraded their way up the pipe and seemed to beckon to him.

He took hold of the pipe and started to climb.

His path was far from straight. He stood on ledges that seemed far too small to hold him. He almost ran up the pipe, which was far from prime condition, and should have collapsed under his weight. He nearly flew up the side of the building. And all the while, his every footstep and every handhold followed the dance of the small blue sparkles, which showed his path and guided his every movement on his gravity-defying climb.

And then he was up. He pulled himself onto the roof of the building, his breathing only slightly ragged. He stood up and brushed himself off, and then stared at the sparks. He blinked, once, and then they were gone, as if they'd never been there.

And he wiped a single bead of sweat from his forehead.

He looked around the top of the police station. Surprisingly, or rather not considering, there were no guards. There was only a water tower, a rooftop exhaust fan, some antennae, a useless sign, and a vent.

He made his way for the vent. Then he remembered the device he'd put in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking it over one more time, remembering what the turtle had told him to do with it when he'd given it to him beforehand.

He put the techno-binoculars up to his eyes and then pressed the power switch. At first it was black, but once he pressed the switch he was given a short loading screen followed by a high-definition video feed and, more noticeably, a turtle shouting something in one corner of his screen.

A puzzled expression dressed his face, at which the turtle, the one he'd dealt with earlier, proceeded to slap himself in the face and then point to one side of his head. It took a second, but Slick got the message, and slipped the headset into his ear. The effect was immediate.

"HEY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?! COME IN!"

And he just as quickly slipped the earpiece out of his poor aching eardrum and well away from his face. Despite his size, that turtle could certainly raise the volume.

He shook it off, putting down the device for a second to get his vision straight. Hurting ears and disorientation? If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn that turtle was a living sound grenade. Then again, with what he could do with a few household pieces, that wouldn't actually be all that surprising.

He put the visor back up to his face, and saw the turtle was clearly irritated. A thought crossed Slick's mind that questioned why he could only see the turtle's head, but he put it aside as he spoke somewhat softly but very clearly into the microphone.

"Yes. I can hear you. Don't shout. I still need my eardrums."

Then he put it back into his ear, but didn't remove his fingers in case the turtle shouted again. He'd have to fix that. If the turtle did it again at a critical point Slick might end up in serious trouble.

Thankfully, the turtle had calmed down.

"Well, breaking into police headquarters at the drop of a hat can really unnerve a guy."

"Understandable. However, do not let your emotions affect your abilities."

"Are you giving me an order?"

"No, I'm giving a suggestion. One that would certainly help keep your fee at its rather high margin."

There was a short moment of silence. Slick interrupted this with the question biting his tongue.

"Why is your head floating in the corner? That isn't a very safe feature."

"Indulge my preference to speak face to face, even if it's over a video screen. Besides, you can't use the binocucom without passing the retina scan that occurred during the loading sequence."

"The binoc-u-what?"

"Binocucom. That's what it's called. I had to name it something."

"Alright, fine. Moving on. Are you in a secure location?"

On the other end of the line, the turtle pulled away from the green binocucom, mounted on a silver stand, to check with his friend who was driving the van they were hidden in. "Murray! We clear?"

The hippo responded with a single, quick, thumbs up.

"We are good to go. So, what's the plan?"

"The idea is simple. Once inside, you'll guide me to the office of Inspector Carmelita Fox. Once I've broken into the office and grabbed the file, I'll make my way to the back alley located behind me, on the left side of the target complex. You'll pick me up from two blocks down, and we'll make our getaway with the highway traffic. By the time the theft is noticed, we should be a few miles away."

"So you wouldn't have been able to do this without us, would you?"

"Hardly. I had several contingencies in reserve which could be implemented at a moment's notice. Should you have rejected the proposal, it wouldn't have been too much of a hindrance. However, most relied on searching the building from the top down or relying on any information I could gather while inside. I have at least one man inside, who could easily point me to the office. But I'd rather not have risked compromising his position. He provides some very critical information."

The tiny turtle head nodded once. Rather incredible how he'd done this, really.

"So this plan was your best bet. You wouldn't have to risk your mole; you'd have information on where to find the target, and even a getaway driver to boot. This wasn't just on a limb. You had other ways to convince us, didn't you?"

Slick gritted his teeth, just a tiny bit, not even enough for Bentley to notice.

"I will not discuss my negotiation methods with you now of all times. The clock is ticking and this is the only shot at the file I will get. It's time to move. I'll contact you once I'm inside. Refer to me as Reynard until we are all clear, understood?"

"Got it."

"Good, Reynard out."

A single tap and the device, the binocucom, blacked out. He put it away, drawing his cane as he took slow, deep breaths. His body tensed for a moment, and then relaxed slightly. His eyes closed on the second breath, his body shifting into a new stance. His feet spread apart; his body weight leaned on his back foot. A tiny wind blew the rain diagonally across his body, spreading the coat a bit. His tail came down and straightened, not a twitch to be had. His cane hand, his right hand, came behind him, gripping the oak handle near the neck, but an inch or two away. His other hand fell to his side.

He could hear the cars on the street, despite being so high up.

He could feel the individual raindrops pelt his fur, the added weight they brought him.

His nose could smell the fumes of smoke and chemicals that laced the air.

His eyes could pick apart all the bumps and protrusions on the ground he stood on.

He could taste the metallic presence of a storm in the air.

This was his element.

This was what he was born to do.

This was the core of his very being.

Theft.

It was in his blood, making it burn hotter in the cold rainy weather.

It was in his breath, giving it a sweetness none could describe.

It was in his soul, giving life to the thrill and firing his senses.

And despite his discipline, it was this, the very act he was about to commit, that was one of the two things he lived for.

He looked at the vent. It was a little small for him, might be a bit of a squeeze, but he could fit.

And with that, he took off.

He hopped over a tiny ledge and slid under an antenna, bending back with an Olympian's ease. His knees skidded on the asphalt roof, but then he was up again and right before the vent.

It was short, but he could feel the cold sweat of excitement already trickling down his face. He'd tried to grind this desire out before. But he'd found that it was important. Too important to loose.

He flipped the cane around in his hand, hook on the bottom, and then used the 'C' shaped hook to rip the vent cover off. It came off without too much noise, something he took note of, but he didn't stop to ponder it as he re-sheathed the cane and crawled inside.

It was a little filthy inside, to be honest. Nothing he couldn't handle, but even still, you'd expect them to do more maintenance work. He even spied a cobweb. Now that was rather strange. If there had been enough time to allow for spiders to take up residence, then this vent was well overdue for a good scouring wind.

A turn here, a drop there, and he was almost in. He was more subtle with the next vent cover, taking the time to remove it carefully, and not allowing it to knock or creak loudly enough for anyone to hear. Then he squatted there for a moment, checking for anyone inside. Not a peep.

He took a chance and poked his head inside. No one. The light was off, the computer was down, and the door was open.

This time he raised an eyebrow. Granted, some cops were a bit hot-headed, but even they had the sense to lock their doors. Not that it mattered when you could simply be invited inside, but still.

He dropped down and closed his eyes. Not a sound anywhere. He didn't even feel the need to check for alarms. His instincts were already telling him something. The office did close early today, he'd made sure to plan for that, but this seemed a little...odd.

He walked out into the hall and contacted Bentley.

"Come in...Do you read me? I'm inside."

It took a moment, but then Bentley's head popped into view in the little corner box.

"I read you, Reynard. Tell me where you're headed."

"The office of one particular inspector. You should know who I'm talking about."

He nodded, "Indeed I do. Just tell me where you are and I'll do the rest."

Slick read the number on the door and relayed it to Bentley, who he could hear typing it into the keyboard.

"Got it. Okay, as you walk out the door, take a right and walk down the hall. Take the next two lefts you see, walk down the next hall, and its right in front of you. Easy as cake."

"It's never that easy." And with that, he put the visor away. He left the earpiece in though, just in case. Following Bentley's instructions, he walked deeper into the building, not passing up the lack of any real security, and came to stand right in front of a bright red door with a unique symbol on it. A stylized fox head with three normal star points. All together it made an eight pointed star-like shape.

He jiggled the handle. Well, at least ONE door was locked. He drew his cane to smash it down, looked at the odd colored frame, and thought better of it. Instead he contacted Bentley.

"So, what do we have here?"

He showed Bentley the door, and the odd-colored door frame. He made sure to also get a close up of the doorknob, which, instead of a normal keyhole, had a blank spot where the hole would go.

Bentley looked down in the binocucom, more typing was heard, and then he sighed.

"I wouldn't advise trying to force the door. It's specially reinforced. See the door frame? Solid steel. You can't see through the window, or find the keyhole, because that's just really a decoration. The other side of the door is a solid steel piece with an automatic lock. The Inspector really takes her security seriously."

"Especially since all the other copies of this file have disappeared somehow. That and she never plays around when it comes to me."

"That too. From what you've told me, she really wants you bad."

"If only it was the way I want her."

"Huh?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it. So, no going through the front door?"

"Not unless I can do an electronic super feat, a miracle happens, or you have any spare C4."

Slick eyed the window, or rather, the little blue sparkles dangling on the thin ledge right outside it.

"Well, I may not be a fan of going through the front door, but I think I can arrange a miracle."

And with that, he hung up.

The ledge outside the window led to another open window, which in turn led right into the office. Cake, or so it seemed. Unfortunately, the ledge had a few loose bricks in it. One false step and it was over.

Slick nearly flew across the entire ledge and into the window without missing a beat, landing on every ill-fitted brick and not loosening a one. Easy.

He landed on the floor without a sound, and as he expected, no one was there. He did, however, first notice the vault-like slab of metal slapped over the door, the seventeen separate bolt locks, the oversized hinge, and the sensor that sat at the center of it all. It creeped him out a little. Sure the inspector was serious when it came to him, but this seemed like overkill. Well, if it hadn't been for the open window, that is.

He looked around the rest of the office. Books and papers were scattered in various stacks. They seemed enough to repaper the whole office. A simple desk sat opposite the window, hunched under a small picture of dogs playing poker. On the table sat more papers and, surprisingly, a half-drunk bottle of amber liquid.

Slick took a quick sip. Yep, alcohol. Spiced rum, to be exact. And that was when he noticed the subject of the papers strewn around, but even more so the map she'd hidden by sticking it on the ceiling. Each of the papers was either a victim, one of five individuals, and a small raccoon boy. He picked one up that caught his eye. A news article

The title read, "Family of four murdered in own household. Lone survivor off to Happy Camper's."

His body shook, his fingers crumpling the paper.

It came back.

The quiet night in the living room, illuminated by the roaring fireplace and the smiles of his family.

The knocking on the front door sending his father into a state of fright.

The dark interior of the closet he'd hidden in.

The five huge shadows looming into the room as the fire went out in their presence.

The fear.

The sadness.

The blood.

The hate.

The hate.

The hate.

The sheer cold hate of that enormous metal face.

The blackness that ate at his eyes as he couldn't breathe under those enormous metal claws.

The bitter salty taste of his own tears as he was left to mourn.

The rampage through the house.

The cries of elation.

The officer's taking him away as he screamed.

And the stare of those frozen yellow eyes that wanted to see his throat slit, his belly sliced open and his blood poured all over the floor.

A loud crash shocked him out of his mental prison. He'd forgotten he'd been holding the bottle of rum in his hand, and now it had fallen to the floor and shattered.

He shook it off. No time to dwell on the past. Time to work.

He set the paper down and eyed the vault in the corner. It was rather large to hold one file, but it might very well have held some other, more lethal items at one point or another. It had a bit of an old style look, complete with the light bulb-esque shape.

He knocked on the door. Yep. Solid steel as well. But that's not what struck him as the most odd. Why go through the trouble to install such a high security door and not update the safe as well?

He bent down near the dial and put his ear against it, closing his eyes as he concentrated. Now he had to focus on getting it open. He could think more about his suspicions in a moment, although he did note the nearby fire escape. Now he had a vault to crack open.

He turned the dial slowly, listening carefully for the telltale ticks and clicks as each number fell into place. His hand twisted the dial with caution, making sure to allow each tick or click to make a clear sound before he went further. It was a rather slow process, one that took more time than he felt he had at the moment, but he managed to get each tumbler to fall into place until...

Clunk!

He grinned rather slightly in the corner of his mouth. He had it. Now to get the file and deal with the 'other' problem.

He pulled the vault open and saw the file on the pedestal. It was pretty simple. A single folder that had a form and picture paper-clipped to the top. And yet his hand stretched slowly, as if expecting it to catch fire or even eat him.

He pulled out the file and flipped through the contents. All of it was there. Including one extra piece he knew didn't belong, especially because of the danger it presented.

He shut the file and snuck it into his jacket pocket. He would have brought a bag, but it was better not to risk it. Too bulky.

Click.

He froze.

"I think you know very well what that sound means, criminal. Now, if you don't want to wake up in a jail cell in _excruciating_pain, you'll take the file back out of your jacket, place it back in the vault, and put your hands on your head without a fuss."

He sighed. She certainly hadn't disappointed him.

"Hello Inspector Fox."

"Hands. Moving. Now."

"Certainly. Where would you like me to start working? Hips? Back? Or should we skip right to the naughty bits?"

"Can it, Ringtail. You're a criminal. And you're going to jail just like any other criminal."

"What about our little rendezvous?"

"Plenty of time for that once you're safely behind bars."

It happened faster than she could blink. He swiped the gun away from his back with his tail and grabbed her by the arm. He pulled himself in and didn't stop until he could practically kiss her.

"Sorry, but I just stopped by to pick up this case file. I think you've had it long enough."

Then he whipped around and made for the fire escape, only to trip and end up with the gun pointed at his face.

"Not so fast, Ringtail. First, you need to return the fire stone of India to its rightful owners."

"Aw, but I thought it might make a nice anniversary present of the day we first met."

He looked her over. She was just as beautiful as ever in his eyes. Her figure shaped itself in all the right places, and her little jacket and pants made her seem tough. The badge on her jacket gleamed, and her boots looked ready to cave his head in if necessary. Her long blue hair was tied up mostly, but a few stray strands could be seen here and there. But the most important thing he looked at was her eyes. They had a fire in them like any other, a sheer force made of pure passion that showed in her every action. Exactly what he needed, as always.

Then he noticed the gun in her hands wasn't a typical model.

"Hey, that bazooka brings out the color of your eyes. Very fetching."

"It is, particularly when it comes to criminals. This pistol packs a paralyzing punch, and it's like my own pet police dog."

"Does it know any tricks?" "Just one. Sic'em!"

She pulled the trigger, and Slick managed to throw her off just before she did. The shot hit the window to the fire escape and shattered the glass.

Slick spoke quickly into his headset as he ran down the fire escape. "Bentley! Change of plans! Parking lot of the station. NOW!"

He streaked down the steps, not caring if he did slip and fall. That might actually help him escape the crazed cop chasing him, if it didn't break his bones first. But he'd rather escape without breaking his bones. A lot easier that way.

He didn't bother with the ladder as he rolled into a run, the solid mass of the concrete jarring his head as he landed. It didn't faze him very much, and he kept his motion. The inspector followed suit, keeping a steady stream of shots aimed in his direction, egging him on.

Halfway across the lot he saw the van spin around and open up. He took a chance. Slipping a small little black orb out of one pocket, he threw it in Carmelita's direction. She shot it out of instinct, which summoned an enormous black cloud of smoke that obscured her vision.

As she coughed and wheezed, still trying to nail Slick with even wider shooting patterns, Slick bowed his head and ducked into the van, which sped away immediately.

Carmelita waved away the last of the smoke, catching the end of the van in her vision at the last second. She swore and pulled her radio off her belt.

"All units within range, we have a 459 in progress southbound from HQ! Be on the lookout for a large van with raccoon themed decals! Repeat..."

She clipped the radio back onto her belt as a small purple-furred weasel came out of the building holding a coat.

"Ms. Fox! Are you alright?"

"I'm fine Winthrop, just had Copper slip through my fingers...again."

"You'll get him next time. You must be freezing out here! Good thing I brought an extra coat!"

"You aren't wearing a coat."

"Oh...um...right...well..."

"Keep it, Winthrop, the rain will do me good."

Carmelita holstered her pistol and looked up into the sky. From this view, it looked as if the sky was falling. Or she was flying into the clouds.

"Next time...always next time..."

She sighed. Then gripped her pistol.

"Yes. Next time you're mine, Copper. Bet on it."

And she left the scene with Winthrop at her heels, already planning her next move in the cat-and-mouse chess game that was Copper and Fox.

-

I stared at the record that now lay in my lap, almost afraid that if I touched it, I'd wake up in my bed like I had been for a week prior.

All my efforts on grabbing this file, this little bundle of paper and ink, and making sure it was the ONLY copy had now come to fruition.

At last, I could use the information in this file to track down a group of vile figures that had made my life hell and turned me from a child into their creation.

Their creation...which would now hunt down its creators.

I flipped through the file, not reading it thoroughly, but just assuring myself that all of this was real, that I had finally done it. The pages under my fingers, though I could not feel them, were real enough for me to finally admit that it had finally happened.

Now began the real challenge.

First things first, I had to decipher all of these sources and leads to pinpoint where those five were hiding. Even if I had only one of them, that was one link I could use to start a chain.

I allowed myself to show my excitement, gripping the folder so it crumpled and shaking slightly in the back of the van, out of sight of both of them. I was at my most vulnerable emotionally, and I could not afford to show any weakness.

Now I and I alone had the key to vengeance. No one else could stand in my way. Nor could they throw themselves in danger. This, I knew, was important to make happen. I and I alone had to bring them down. Only then could I rest easy, my task complete.

But, once again, first things first.

As I sat in the back of the van, a single image popped out at me, after I took the time to look more closely at the files. Under the picture was a name.

Sir Raleigh the Frog.

I had no idea why he of all of them popped out at me, until I saw he was last sighted somewhere in Britain.

I grinned. A starting point. Good.

The dominoes had started to fall.