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Chapter Text

He’s still learning how to properly utilize the Voltage Strike that he’d tomfuckered his way into while scuffling in Rajan’s temple. He’d panicked and had just sparked up, lightning arcing from his cane as he’d swung.

He didn’t currently have his cane, unfortunately. Hopefully he could still do it.

. . .

He’s dead. He can’t quite find it in himself to be guilty, but he’s definitely about to be dead.

Sly had meant to use the Voltage Strike alongside some kind of escape plan. Knock out some guards, turn off the power, something.

She’d startled him. He’d shocked the Contessa. He’s about to die.

An icy fury burns in her eyes as she glowers at him. Like a deer caught in headlights, he freezes, ears pinned to his skull. He has half a mind to apologize— but he doesn’t get the chance. (And he really doesn’t feel bad. For a split second, before the oh shit had settled in, he had thought it was funny.)

The Contessa smiles. Her expression remains dangerously dark, mandibles clicking as she fucking grins at him. If he hadn’t already been convinced of his imminent demise, that would have done it.

“Hold him here for a moment,” she hisses between her teeth, still smiling.

When she returns, the guards practically scatter away from him, desperate to avoid her wrath. Suddenly unhindered, Sly scrambles backward. He pins himself to the wall, claws scrabbling against the stone.

She has something, held behind her back like one might hold a surprise present, still beaming. He growls, only for it to pitch up into a frightened hiss as she continues to approach.

Unfazed by his (frankly pathetic) attempt at a warning, she gives a quick gesture. Two of the wolves lurch into action, taking him by the shoulders and wrenching his head upward.

“Get off of me—!” He thrashes, of course he does, but the struggling doesn’t do much.

She clicks something into place around his throat. It digs, turning his breaths quick and shallow. It’s not enough to choke him— that is, until she hooks a claw into it and yanks, and he’s cut off with a sharp strangled sound.

“That’s a fascinating ability you have, Cooper,” she coos, waving a ‘hand’ once more and allowing the wolves to release him, “Unfortunately for you, I’ve come prepared.” He flattens backward again, hand coming up to press at the strange—

—collar? She’d collared him?

“Go on!” The Contessa claps her hands together like an excited child. “Try your cute little party trick now.”

…Sly really, really doesn’t want to do that. But he knows better than to disobey an order like that. (The gashes still crisscrossing his back ache pointedly.) So, reluctantly, he reaches into that feeling, letting—

—White hot agony arcs through him. He lets out a choked cry, now-twitching hands coming up to desperately scrabble at the collar— at the shock collar. He’s sent spasming, writhing away from the pain— get it off, get it off, get it—!

All at once, the worst of it is over. It’s like a switch is flipped (belatedly, Sly realizes that’s probably exactly what happened), and the pain sizzles off into an ache. He slumps, eyes glassy, panting.

The Contessa stands over him, looking positively thrilled. “Well, that was a wonderous show,” she coos, crouching down enough to cup his chin and tilt his gaze to hers. He whines, ears pressing down as he tries to pull away. Her grip turns bruising, and he stills. “I think I’ll keep that on you for a while. Teach you some lessons, yes?”

Sly hisses again, and almost immediately regrets it as she draws back to turn the collar on again.

“Now your training can truly start,” she smiles, though she knows he can’t hear him. “I can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

He’s shoved down the stairs— he wouldn’t have willingly gone down them, not in a million years. The door slams shut behind him, heavy metal shuddering, trapping him in suffocating darkness.

Sly sucks in a shaken breath, immediately flinging himself to his feet. He can’t stay down here, he can’t, he can’t—

A slot on the door slides open. “Perhaps this will teach you some manners,” the Contessa chuckles, she chuckles, and the slot closes again. He chokes on a sob.

Now look, Sly Cooper isn’t afraid of the dark. He’s a master thief, he likes the dark, likes the safety and anonymity it provides. But this? This just feels like the closet again, the darkness pressing in and the walls much too close—

His breaths aren’t enough; the effort it takes to force them in and out is herculean and he’s still not getting enough air. The walls are closing in, crushing him, punching the next breath out of him and he can’t pull another one in he can’t breathe he’s gonna die here—

…Sly spends a long time panicking before he wears himself out.

It’s a lot bigger than the closet, and colder. He just has to keep telling himself that, or else he’ll lose himself in the memories again, every distant thud just Muggshot’s gun and every rats’ skitter just Clockwerk’s talons—

No. No, come on, Sly, breathe.

He can almost hear his brothers saying it to him, guiding him out of whatever (emotional or physical) dark place he’d been in that time, and Sly nearly bursts into tears again.

His brothers. He misses his brothers. He feels almost childish, admitting it, but Bentley could be dead in the jungle for all he knows, and Murray was here somewhere, hurting, and—

—and it was all his fault.

Sly sobs, sinking down to press against the cold stone.

Chapter Text

He’s a few hours into his five fucking day drive when the van breaks down. It sputters to a spontaneous stop, still in the middle of nowhere. Bentley knows a lot of things. How to fix the van, however, is not one of them.

…Yet. It’s not yet, because he’s about to learn. He has to. He has to.

. . .

The first day, he makes no progress whatsoever. He’d love to keep working through the night, but it’s— well, it’s dark, and the mosquitos are hellish. Logically speaking, with no van and no way to fix it, and no signal to research the Contessa, he should sleep. He does not do that.

Bentley is a nervous turtle on a good day. He’s a nervous turtle when Sly’s smirking at him from the front seat, or cracking quips over the ‘com. He’s a nervous turtle when Murray’s constantly offering him snacks, or cheering as he tosses guards around. Without the two of them…

Without the two of them, he’s terrified.

What little sleep he does manage is fitful and full of nightmares. He just— can’t stop thinking about the trouble they’re in. His brothers could be dead right now. He hadn’t been able to even vaguely tell the extent of their injuries before they’d been carted off.

When Sly had hit the wall, the crack had been loud enough that Bentley could hear it over the Binocucom. He might not have even made it out of the jungle. And Murray had fought Rajan and all of his men singlehandedly.

Oh gods, what if his brothers were dead?

Bentley has to physically shake those thoughts from his head. “They’re fine,” he says aloud, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes like it’ll clear the imagery, “It’s Sly and Murray, they’re both tough, they’re fine, they’re fine.”

He has to think about this logically. He can’t afford to be anxious or else he’s never going to get anywhere. He takes a slow, hissing breath, forcing it in and out in a semblance of a deep breath.

Legally speaking, they couldn’t just let Sly and Murray die. It’s in the Contessa’s best interest to have them alive— it couldn’t look good for her if she lost prisoners. Bentley forces another breath in and out.

He trusts Sly and Murray. They’re the two strongest people he knows— though perhaps in Sly’s case not physically— they can take a few hits. Bentley breathes a little easier. He trusts his brothers.

…and he misses them. But that’s emotion and not reason, so he shoves that thought away.

For now, he just needs to focus on fixing the van’s stupid battery. Everything else can come after.

Chapter Text

Sly’s learned how to keep his head down. Murray has not. He fights his way through a good half of the guards on-duty before they can pin him down, bruised and battered but smiling, shouting, “Is that all you’ve got?!”

He’s wrestled into a space much too small for him, kicking and screaming all the while. It’s a cage, a literal fucking— Murray doesn’t know a lot about the technicalities of things, but that can’t be legal, right? (Eventually, both him and Sly will figure out that it didn’t matter. In the prison, the Contessa was the law.)

He’s not even really able to stand, hunched in on himself in the tiny space. It’s like he’s a caged animal— well, okay, Murray supposes that technically he is a caged animal, but semantics really aren’t his concern right now. Small as it is, he’s curled in the corner.

It’s almost vulnerable. Murray’s kind of a big guy, and to be forced to feel so small…

Physically it sucks, too. He doesn’t really know how long he’s been sitting in here, but he’s started to ache; his back’s protesting, throbbing outward from where his shoulders are pressed to the wire. He thinks his knees are bruised, too, both from the cage itself and from sitting so long on the cold concrete below.

The blood on his snout has dried, crusted uncomfortably against his upper lip. He reaches up to rub it away— but there’s still not a lot of room to move here, and he elbows the wire and knocks himself in the jaw. He eventually just drops his hands back into his lap, sighing.

At some point, the skitter of too-many-fucking-legs lets Murray know that somebody’s finally come to visit him. (Not that he really wanted her of all people to visit. He would have much preferred Sly.)

The Contessa tilts her head at him, smiling. She did that a lot, he’d noticed, always sickeningly sweet. He can’t wait to whack the look right off of her. “That’s quite the predicament you’re in!” She steps forward, and Murray draws back, face twisting into a snarl. He must really look like a caged animal now, huh?

“Do you want out?” Her tone pitches up, light and mocking, and Murray realizes that’s exactly what she’s getting at. She’s talking to him like one might a particularly stupid (wild) animal. He winces at the thought and tries to straighten up, but the cage makes it impossible.

The Contessa laughs. “Oh, you must,” she says, watching him strain against the wire. She reaches up to reveal a ring of keys in her hand, taking one between her claws, and for a moment, Murray dares to hope.

“You’ve been causing quite a lot of trouble for my guards,” she says, her smile unfaltering but her jaw tight. “I think you should do something to make up for that, first.” His hope pops like a bubble on a blade.

She pretends to muse over this for a few moments, analyzing him. “Perhaps we’ll start with asking nicely.”

Murray narrows his eyes at her, internally weighing his options. The idea of it burns, red-hot and nauseous— he’d taken down a whole squad of wolves, and now he was considering playing nice because, what, she’d asked him to?

…but he aches. If he wants to fight his way out of here (and what else could he do?), he’s going to need to be in top shape. And this? This is not top shape.

Unsatisfied with his hesitation, the Contessa clicks her tongue. “So be it,” she sighs. She reaches forward, reaching a claw through the wire to tip his head up— Murray winces as his head’s pressed to the top of the cage. “I suppose this does take care of some things. You’re quite a bit more… tolerable, like this,” she coos, smiling once more.

Oh, I’ll show her tolerable, Murray thinks, and then he bites her hand.

Chapter Text

The Klaww Gang did not generally occupy the same space. They were pretty widespread; Rajan had his weird royal thing going on, the Contessa had her prison, Bison had his weird logging thing— and, of course, Dimitri had his nightclub. As a gang, though, they were also not unfamiliar with occupying the same space.

Dimitri never much cared for those times— Rajan was the only one who would even remotely put up with his greasy-sweet jive, and even then it was usually only to talk dirt and spill beans on the other two. Arpeggio probably would have, but he usually had “more important things to do,” and wouldn’t be there for more than a few hours at a time.

Truth be told, the Klaww Gang were not exactly… kind to each other, especially when they were in the same house. The other three had quite fiery temperaments, and though Dimitri did too, he knew better than to pick a fight with one of them. (He shudders at the thought of upsetting the Contessa.)

He had been under the assumption that the Cooper Gang would have been much the same— so when Penelope knocks into him and a cup slips from his hand, he panics.

Penelope squeaks when it shatters, before bursting into nervous giggles. “Oh, heck,” she mumbles. Dimitri doesn’t quite notice, mostly trying to stifle the all-consuming feeling of oh shit. Bison was gonna kill him, but the Contessa would be furious— oh gods what if she thought he needed—?

“That was my bad, sorry,” Penelope laughs— right, there’s no Klaww Gang here. He tries to remind himself of that. She inches past to get the broom, brushing just close enough to him to make him jump.

It technically was her fault, yeah, but she hadn’t meant to. She was nice— she didn’t deserve even half of what the Cracker-box would no doubt do once he found out.

“I’ll take care of it,” Dimitri waves her off, hoping she doesn’t hear the catch in his voice. “You should skedaddle back to the living room, no? Cooper’s not going to be happy.”

Based on the way she squints at him, she had absolutely heard the catch. “Sly’ll understand,” she slowly says, letting him take the broom.

“Mhm, I’m sure,” Dimitri responds, both distracted and unconvinced. Penelope gives him another nervous glance before she slips out.

Penelope does not, in fact, skedaddle back to the living room. Instead, she tracks down Sly. She pokes her head into Bentley and his room with a little “hey.”

“Hey,” Sly responds, without looking up. “If you’re looking for Bentley, he’s trying to convince the Panda King to tell him how to make fireworks.”

“Again?” Penelope asks, before she shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter— I’m here for you, actually,” she explains, “Are you busy? Dimitri and I dropped a glass.”

Sly gives her a little amused look. “You’re both adults,” he teases, “You need me to come help you?”

“He thinks you’re going to be mad.” Penelope tosses a little look back in the direction of the kitchen, nervously reaching up to adjust her glasses. “He seemed a little, uh… shaken up, I think?”

Sly’s amusement turns to worry, and he sets down the Thievius Raccoonus. “You want me to come talk to him?” (Sly doesn’t know entirely what the Klaww Gang was like to each other, but he’d seen how the Contessa had treated Rajan during the arrest. Considering the way Bison and Rajan both talked about the lounge lizard, he had his assumptions.)

“Please,” Penelope nods, before she follows him back into the other room.

There’s the sharp clatter of what sounds like glass shards being dropped when Sly turns the corner. “Woah— sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the raccoon says, inching backward. Penelope pokes around the corner after him.

Dimitri looks scared, tail twitching against the counter he’s pressed to, eyes wide. “Cracker-box,” he greets, forcing a non-convincing smile.

Sly hesitates, and eventually settles on a concerned, “Hey.” His tail swishes, leaning as casually as he can on the doorway. “Penelope told me you broke something.” Dimitri’s gaze flicks to her, and she sees just the slightest hint of betrayal there— “You… okay?”

He glances up again and presses back impossibly further. “Right as rain, bro!” He laughs shakily, giving an unconvincing nod. Sly gives the room another once-over, gaze focusing for just a moment on the remnants of the cup.

A moment too long, if Dimitri’s reaction is anything to go by; he full on flinches, choking out a quiet apology. There’s a little distance in his eyes, a frightened wildness.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Sly raises his hands placatingly, taking a step back. “It was an accident, I’m not mad. Well— I trust it was an accident,” he jokes, chuckling. “Long as you’re okay.”

Dimitri blinks at him. “You’re not going to—?” He stops himself, shaking his head. He gives a dismissive wave, “Well, then, I’m as perfect as ever, mon ami. You can go back to—”

“You’re bleeding,” Sly points out. Dimitri stops, and slowly moves to curl his hand into the lapel of his jacket.

“Did you cut yourself?” Penelope asks softly, glancing toward the first aid kit. (They had several; the Cooper Gang was fairly accident prone on a good day, and their missions often left them roughed up.) Sly beats her to it physically, though, popping it open.

Dimitri’s got that frantic look again, stepping forward to hold his hand out. His other hand is in a white-knuckled fist in his suit.

Sly takes careful note of the look in his eye and makes no move to approach. “Dimitri, buddy,” he says, slowly, “I’m not gonna hurt you.” The lizard looks remarkably unconvinced. “I’m not,” Sly repeats, firmly. “I just want to make sure there’s not any glass still in there or anything.” He steps back, once more raising his hands. “Do you want Penelope to do it?”

“I can,” she mumbles.

“…I’m not afraid of you, Cracker-box,” Dimitri responds, after a long moment. Sly’s expression is carefully calm, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow.

“Penelope, you think you can clean this up, then?”

Nervously, the mouse nods, and immediately gets to work as the other two step out. Nicely sat on the couch, Sly arms himself with a pair of tweezers and sets to work on retrieving the remaining shards. “How’d you manage this?”

Dimitri hesitates for a long moment before he quietly responds, “I couldn’t find the dustpan.”

“So you grabbed it?” Sly asks, quiet, concerned, and incredulous.

“I didn’t want you to…” The lizard trails, eventually saying instead, “I panicked.” He winces away, looking at everything but Sly. “Foolishly, of course. You don’t have the guts to hurt this main machismo man.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cooper responds slowly, almost worriedly. “Nobody here will. If anybody wants to mess with my team, they’ve got to go through me.”

Dimitri blinks at him. “You— what?”

“If anybody wants to mess with my team,” the raccoon repeats, “they’ve got to go through me.” He shrugs, carefully wrapping the cuts. “You make a lot of enemies when you join the Cooper Gang. I’m sure the Klaww Gang and the Five won’t be happy if they find out.” When the hand he’s wrapping starts to shake, he’s quick to add, “But it’ll be okay! Like I said, they’ve got to go through me,” he assures, “and I’ve beaten them all before.”

“Right,” the lizard says quietly, breathlessly. “Why?”

“…Why did I beat them, or?”

“Why would you protect us?” He draws his hand away the moment Sly’s done with it, suspiciously squinting.

“Because you’re my team,” Sly answers. A hint of concern worms its way onto his face as he continues, “Look, I don’t know how the Klaww Gang was to each other— well, okay, I have my suspicions,” he admits, shrugging once more, “but that’s not important. You’re a part of the Cooper Gang now, and I won’t let anyone hurt you. Okay?”

Dimitri flounders under the weight of that knowledge for a few seconds, stammering. Eventually, he manages, “okay.”

Sly smiles, and puts the first aid kit away.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long day. The Panda King sighs.

Ever reckless, Muggshot had once more managed to graze his allies. The King is— as much as one can be in such a situation— simply grateful that it hadn’t hit dead-on. He sighs once more. How idiotic.

He truly would rather not be a part of this team, but… well, he was made an offer he could not refuse, and he doubts Clockwerk would take kindly to him backing out now. Evidently, the others felt much the same, and yet none of them had the courage to defy the mechanical bird. Even Muggshot, in all of his furious foolishness, hadn’t tested his limits.

They truly did not care for each other— none of them did, from what he had seen. Mz. Ruby was tolerable, at least, even if he wasn’t exactly fond of her work. Raleigh and Muggshot were both simply insufferable.

Clockwerk… Hm. The Panda King tries not to dwell on them. They were admittedly rather intimidating, though he supposes that’s a logical response. They were a giant mechanical bird filled with nothing but rage.

Mz. Ruby had admitted to being curious about the beast— that was what they were, was it not?— but it was not a shared sentiment. The Panda King would like nothing more than to be as far from Clockwerk as possible.

He carefully disinfects the wound, remarkably unfazed by the sting. This is not his first rodeo. The Panda King once more sighs, shaking his head. Again, Muggshot was simply insufferable. Had he not been an unfortunate necessity, he certainly would have been slain a long time ago.

He’s almost surprised that Muggshot had yet to simply shoot Raleigh and be done with it, considering how little the two got along. It was exhausting just to hear their incessant bickering. The King did not make a habit of befriending his ‘teammates’, not in the slightest, but at least he knew better than to provoke them.

The wound shouldn’t inhibit him so long as he’s careful (which he usually is.) He’s in the middle of returning his things when the shouting he’s grown accustomed to resumes beyond his door.

He bites back a groan as he stands. No rest for the wicked.

Chapter Text

The Contessa gives him the creeps. The heebie-jeebies. Bad vibes, if you will.

It’s something about the way she looks at him. She smiles, and her gaze glints with… with something. Hunger, almost, but if he thinks about that too hard he’ll make himself nauseous. She was handsy, too, moreso than Sly had ever seen her be with any other prisoner.

He figures out why not more than a week into his impromptu prison vacation. She guides him to the room she typically used for… “behavior adjustment.” Sly panics accordingly, carefully trying not to let it show. (His ears are pinned to his skull regardless.)

Sly knows it’ll only make it worse to struggle, but it still takes everything in him not to thrash as he’s pinned down. Tied down. He swallows thickly.

“You’re very special, Cooper,” the Contessa explains, her sickeningly-sweet smile unfaltering. “Usually, my goal is rehabilitation. To convince criminals to once more become functioning members of society.

“But you— you are stubborn. Rebellious,” she says, only furthering the pit in Sly’s stomach. She steps closer to him, tilting his head with her claws and inspecting him like a predator inspects a particularly appetizing prey. “And such a pretty face, too! No, you’re much too special for such treatment.”

The Contessa steps away again, trotting over to… to something, a strange slot in the wall. He watches, trying to quell his trembling as she… lights a fire?

He’s almost afraid to ask. But she hasn’t said anything more, and Sly would really like to know what’s about to happen to him. Cautiously, slowly, he manages, “So… what are you going to do with me?”

She flashes him a smile over her shoulder as she places something into the flame. A rod of some kind? Simply, pleasantly, she says, “I’ll keep you.”

…Gods above, she couldn’t have meant that.

Sly doesn’t respond right away. His stomach turns, tail coiling. He’s been in the hands of law enforcement before— it makes it infinitely easier to just do as they say, keep your head down and keep your strength up. An unnecessary fight will only end in unnecessary injuries. He knows that here— in this morally gray dead zone where the Contessa called every shot— that’s more important than ever. And he really doesn’t want to find out what will happen to him if she decides she doesn’t want to… “keep him.”

But surely she can’t be serious. This— this was— this couldn’t have been legal, she couldn’t really—

Done with letting him process, the Contessa draws the rod— the brand, he sees now, the Widow’s hourglass proudly stood on the end of it— from the fire. He can’t move. She couldn’t— she couldn’t really—

Sly fucking screams. He writhes— his arm is pinned down tight, but he writhes anyway. The skin sears, the fur smolders, the smell is horrible but it’s the pain that’s the worst of it, of course it is—

—and the Contessa’s fucking laughing. Sly wrenches away, chest heaving even as she draws back. She’s still giggling.

Sly thinks he might be sick.