Work Text:
Thunder roars in time with the banging at the door, with the sound of someone shouting. They’re asking for his father, for reasons Sly doesn’t know yet.
Connor Cooper carefully tucks his son into the closet with the Cooper Cane and, after a moment, his hat. It’s much too big for the kit, immediately tumbling over his eyes, but— well, Connor’s decently sure he won’t be needing it anymore.
The door’s not entirely shut, but Sly doesn’t dare reach forward to close it. Too loud, too much motion. He shuffles as silently as he can into a corner, keeping out of the strip of light leaking in.
Silence is safety, his father had said. He repeats it to himself as the noises continue, flattening tiny hands over his mouth. A master thief had two best friends; the quiet and the dark. Sly does his very best to remain in both.
He swallows a whine as a trio of particularly sharp bangs ring out, their echoing nearly drowning a cry. His father, his mother, he can’t tell. Tears sting his eyes. He hopes they’re okay.
A shadow struts in front of him, speaking in an unfamiliar voice. “We don’t want any more trouble, see?” Sly inches forward just slightly, just enough to try and catch a glimpse of whoever it was. To do some reconnaissance, like his dad always said a good thief did. He can’t get close enough without sliding back into the light, or risking a noise. “We just want that book. Surely you’ve got plenty,” the shadow continues, “you won’t miss jus’ one little page-turner, will ya? It can’t be worth any more than yer wife here.”
There’s a moment of tense silence. Sly holds his breath— without the conversation to cover him, he feels so much louder.
“Come on,” a different person groans. Their voice is smooth, slimy almost, like an evil prince’s. “Just show us where it is.”
The next voice is his father’s. “I— I can’t do that,” he says slowly, shakenly. Sly does his best to tamp down the fear that bubbles up in response— he’s never heard his dad sound like that. As scared as Sly felt. His tears soak into his gloves.
“Sure ya can!” the first shadow grits out, a little tighter.
“He ain’t gonna.” Another silhouette passes by, bigger, carrying with it the smell of mud and smoke. (Sly silently scrunches his snout.) “Always so stubborn, these fellas.” They click their tongue.
“Perhaps we should simply slay him and be done with it, if he will not be of any use,” another one says, low and even.
“No.” That voice stills the very air around it. Sly considers pressing further into the darkness as he hears it, but he can’t move, practically frozen in place by the mechanical rage echoing beyond the door.
There’s a little “hm,” but none of them ask any more questions.
“Go on.” Sly finally, finally finds it in himself to move, and dares to shuffle forward. “Show us the Thievius Raccoonus.”
They wanted to take the Thievius Raccoonus?? But— but that was his! He’d hardly even gotten the chance to read it! How was he supposed to be a master thief like his dad without it?
With a still-frightened flavor of fury backing his resolve, Sly pokes into the light. Just enough to see.
The two shadows that had passed him stand side-by-side, an alligator and a dog. Sly tries not to shrink back as he takes in what the dog is holding, cradling a gun nearly as big as Sly is. On his other side is Connor— the dog has an arm around his shoulder in a way that almost looks friendly.
“You know I can’t do that,” Connor says, trying to inch backward but being stopped by the arm. The big dog rolls his eyes, and the alligator scoffs. Sly chances a look at the others.
The frog looks unassuming enough, small and in a sophisticated-looking hat. The panda’s intimidating, his arms crossed and his expression intense. It’s the— the monster that catches Sly’s attention, though, hardly able to fit into the house with its size. The lights gleam off of silvery, sharp-looking feathers, and its yellow eyes positively pierce. It looks angry. Sly swallows another whimper.
The metal monster tilts its head. It steps forward, talons tearing into the floorboards. The wood screeches as it tears, and if Sly wasn’t stuck on the spot, he would probably wince away from the sound.
It doesn’t stop to tear up his dad, though. It just struts by, head whirring as it turns, inspecting the walls. “A painting safe would be predictable of you.” It doesn’t turn around. “It is how you Coopers are.”
Perhaps the thing that scares Sly the most is that his dad isn’t doing anything. He looks terrified.
“Raleigh,” the monster says, without looking up. The frog steps carefully to its side, following a silent command. He pulls a silly mismatched pair of goggles from his hat and carefully places them on, squinting.
Crossing back in front of Sly to stand beside the panda, the alligator whispers, “He looks ridiculous in those things.”
“Right here, boss,” the frog— Raleigh— says, either unaware of or unfazed by the insult. He reaches sticky fingers up to pluck a picture from the wall, revealing the safe behind it. Connor stiffens, and the dog presses the big gun to his back. Sly holds his breath again.
The mechanical menace doesn’t bother with the safe’s combination. It reaches up with those talons and simply tears the door from its hinges, carelessly discarding it off to the side.
Raleigh’s the one who pulls the Thievius Raccoonus down, though. They couldn’t just take it, surely they couldn’t! It was Sly’s now, he’d just gotten it!
The frog tears a handful of pages away from the spine, effortlessly, carelessly, and Sly gasps.
He immediately flattens backward, pressing his hands over his mouth again, but it’s too late. “Well, well.” Raleigh turns to him, breaking into a twistedly terrible grin. Sly vanishes out of sight into the darkness again, but he can still hear the frog approach. “Who are you hiding in here, Cooper?”
“No,” Connor breathes. He thrashes against the dog’s arm— harsh enough that Sly can hear it, the scuffle of feet on the carpet— repeating, “No! Stay away from him—!”
The door swings open. Sly’s not even given the chance to bolt before there’s a hand on the back of his shirt, scooping him effortlessly into the air. It’s not Raleigh’s, though, it’s the panda’s— he would have rather it been the frog’s, suddenly held much too high up for his liking. Well, okay, he would have rather not been caught at all, but—
“Hm.” The monster tilts its head again, staring into him, gauging. “Disgusting.”
“Well, you’ve got a little brat!” The dog laughs, unmoved by Connor’s thrashing. “Spittin’ image of ya, too. How cute,” he spits, in a way that makes Sly think he really doesn’t find it cute at all. Sly’s still rigid, frozen, hands still pressed to his mouth.
The alligator looks surprised by his presence, but Sly can’t see the panda’s face. Neither of them say anything. Sly’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
“Put him down,” his father demands, kicking out to strike the metal monster as it passes by him. (It looks like it hurts Connor more than the thing, but he kicks again anyway, desperate.)
The metal thing raises its talons and— and swings—
It’s mostly blood. Sly’s just close enough to be covered in it. But it’s— it’s other things, too. Sly can’t move, can’t scream, can’t think. His dad falls to the ground beside his— his insides. That were now outsides. If Sly could do anything, he would probably be sick, but the nausea doesn’t even process to him . He just stares. He forgets to breathe, even, until his lungs hurt and the reminder kicks him back into action.
He writhes in the strong hand that holds him, kicking, thrashing, screaming. He screams until his voice gives, not words, just— just sound. The panda looks only slightly phased. Eventually, he moves, simply raising his other hand to still the writhing raccoon. Sly’s voice gives, and all he can do is frantically shake his head.
“A warnin’ would’a been nice, boss,” the dog grits out, stepping away from the carnage. The ‘boss’ doesn’t respond.
“Release the child.” The panda does as he’s told, dropping Sly to the bloodied carpet. He flings himself backward, pressing desperately to the wall.
Sly stills again as the monster leans down over him, trapping him under a trio of tainted talons. His eyes are wide, shell-shocked. It leans close enough that Sly can see his own reflection, not that he really looks at himself. He barely tears his gaze away from his dad (or what’s left of him) long enough to look at the beast.
“Consider this a lesson,” it hisses to him, before it draws back. It steps toward the door, tearing more wood in its wake. “We are done here.”
The alligator shoots Sly a backward glance before they leave. “We’re just gonna… leave him?”
“He is not worth the effort of slaying.”
She pauses for a long moment, still looking at him. The panda waits, just briefly, at her side. “If you say so, boss,” she eventually sighs, shaking her head. Without another word, the two of them leave, too.
The Fiendish Five vanish into the night, leaving two corpses and a terrified child in their wake.
…
It takes him a long time to work up the courage to move. He carefully slides to his feet, more weight on the wall than on his shaky legs. He still hasn’t been able to look away from his dad. From what’s left of him.
His throat hurts from screaming. He tries to call for his mother, but the only sound that escapes him is a broken whispering whine. Sly winces, and shakes his head.
He— he had to be quiet. What if the monster heard him and came back again? Sly shudders. He had to be quiet. Besides, it wasn’t as though his screaming had done anything. Not a sound that he’d made had helped. He had to be quiet.
Silence is safety. Sly carefully inches forward.
He falls to his knees at Connor’s side. Something squishes underneath him. He shakes his dad’s shoulder, trying to rouse him.
There’s no response, not a hint of resistance. “Dad? Papa,” he says, quietly, even though at the party he’d been telling his dad he was too old to call him that. “Please.” It hurts even to whisper. Sly does it anyway, choking on his fear. “Please wake up, Papa—” he hisses in a breath, why won’t he wake up, why won’t he—? “I’m scared, Papa, please wake up—”
Sly chokes on a sob.
His dad’s covered in blood, too. Sly’s covered in it. He draws backward, slowly at first and then more frantic, skittering out of where it’s dried in the carpet. It’s in his fur. Sly reaches up to claw at it, tearing carelessly at said fur.
Get it off, get it off, get it off—! He’s covered in it, it’s everywhere, it’s— his dad is— everything’s covered in it— he’s scared, he wants his dad—
Eventually, he flings himself into motion, once more scuffling to his feet. He needed to get Mama. Surely she would know— surely she could wake him up, right? She’d wake Dad up and clean up all the insides-outsides and the monster would be gone and they’d figure out how to get the book back, they would, they had to—
He can’t make his voice any louder than a whisper as he darts into the kitchen, but he tries anyway, cracking and aching now. “Mama,” he manages. That’s her skirt, she’s right here—
In his hurry, he slips on the corner of her skirt and tumbles forward onto something squishy and sticky, covering the tile. He sits frantically, practically throwing himself upward.
Sly stops. For a long moment, he doesn’t even dare to breathe. Mama’s covered in it, too.
But her eyes are open. She’s awake then, right? “Mama?” He whispers, daring to hope. “Mama, papa won’t wake up— why won’t he wake up?” Sly tears up when she doesn’t move, his whispers wet and shaking; “Mama, please— I’m scared, why won’t Papa wake up?” Very, very quietly, even moreso than he’d been, he asks, “Why won’t you answer me?”
Sly’s next few breaths come in quick, panicked gasps, falling back into his fear. “Did— Did I do something wrong?” He reaches up with the hand that’s not holding her one to scratch at the blood still dried in his fur. “Is that why the bad people came? Is that why Papa won’t wake up?” His whisper breaks off, shaking in silent sobs as he presses his head into his mother’s literal cold shoulder. ‘Please, mama,’ he mouths, but the sound doesn’t escape him. Not another sound escapes him.
Silence is safety, his father had said. Without his parents, little Sly Cooper clings to the notion that anything could be safe right now.
. . .
Eventually, he cries himself out, once more shaking his mother’s shoulder before he stands. His parents aren’t waking up. Sly sniffles, curling his arms around himself. He— he needs help. He can’t wake them up. Sly glances down at her, at the three bloody circles on her head, at the splatters around her.
He’d done something, he must have. He’d made a mistake and that’s why the bad people came, that’s why Mama and Papa won’t respond. They— he must have— Sly flattens a hand over his mouth to keep his sob from sounding.
He silently sidles toward the phone. He— he needed help.
…Papa would be mad if he found out that Sly had called the police. But Papa wasn’t waking up, and he wasn’t sure who else he could. Uncle ‘Sweeney, maybe..?
Clumsy, bloody fingers dial McSweeney’s number. It rings for a long time, and Sly sobs again, pressing his head to the counter. His voice still isn’t working again yet. Help. He needs help.
Uncle ‘Sweeney doesn’t answer, hadn’t answered since Sly had last seen him. He sobs, shaking and still silent. Silence is safety. Nothing else is safe right now. He had to be quiet.
He does the only other thing he can think to do. Papa would be mad, but he would take Papa being mad at him as long as he woke up. Sly sniffles. He’d take anything from Papa right now.
The lady on the other end asks what the problem is, and Sly can’t make his voice work to tell her.
“Hello?” she asks, after a second.
He— he needs help. He forces the word from his aching throat. Help. He needs help. It’s all he can say, one word before his voice crackles and gives out.
He doesn’t make another sound. He sinks against the counter. The lady’s still talking but Sly’s not listening, not really. Choking out the word took all he had, and now it feels like there’s nothing left but a shell.
Sly Cooper curls in on himself, clinging to his father’s hat.