Milan, Italy.

Nineteen Seventy something.

Abramo Vincenetti's villa sprawled over a hilltop, gleaming like a stolen diamond. The open-air courtyard was bathed in the soft glow of lamps and fairylights and rustic torches – while the perimeter of the compound was dotted with security spotlights, cleaving jagged beams through the warm night air.

A shadowy figure slipped from cover to cover, darting through the darkness. A thief. Not just any thief, in fact. This man would go down in history – vaguely – as one of the finest thieves of his generation, having orchestrated a daring heist of the world's largest diamond. Tonight, his target was a simple garage door.

It confounded him.

Minutes passed as he struggled with the wiring inside the door mechanism. This should be easy, he was smarter than this, he–

The walkie-talkie on his belt crackled and he almost flinched.

A voice he knew well. Rich and smooth and tinged with anger. "How's the door coming, Maury?"

Maurice Moreau, PhD – former starving academic, current underfed thief – sighed through his pointed teeth. "It's – it's fine."

"Doesn't sound fine. Doesn't sound open."

"I just–"

"Have you tried resetting the connection to the power source?"

Maurice's fingers were thick, but nimble. He pulled at a few wires. "...Hmph. That's done it."

"Well, obviously! That's the first thing any sensible engineer would try. They didn't teach you that in class, college boy?" He laughed. "God, you're such a moron."

A third voice came over the comms. "Yeah! It was obvious."

"...You've got no idea what we're talking about, do you, Jim?"

"Not a clue, chief. I just like busting Maury's chops."

"Hard to blame you. As chops go, they are especially bustable."

Maurice bit back the malformed retort in his mouth. That always just made them laugh harder.

The mandrill checked the garage. Empty. Before long, he was guiding Jim's truck inside. The two of them would be doing the heavy lifting. As usual.

Not their boss, of course. He was already inside the mansion. Specifically, he was in one of the opulent restrooms, admiring his own reflection.

God, he was so pretty.

He was especially handsome tonight, in a 'disguise' that consisted of a deep blue tuxedo and copious cologne. But he looked amazing in any outfit, with or without his mask. It was a good thing he was going down in history. The whole world deserved to see this face.

He met his own gorgeous hazel eyes and treated himself to a wink. "Looking good, kid. Knock 'em dead. You know nothing can stop Cunning Conner Cooper."

Apparently his walkie-talkie was still receiving. "Please stop pushing that. It's not going to stick."

Conner scoffed. "As if you know style, Maury. There's a reason you're working backstage tonight. There's no way you could schmooze with all these mafia princesses. You'd hyperventilate."

A crackly sigh. "Just... try to focus. Ogling the female guests gets us nowhere."

"Gets you nowhere, maybe. Come back to me when a woman actually lets you touch her."

Satisfied with his suit – who wouldn't be? – he prepared to leave.

"Alright, showtime. Next time I see you, you better have your hands full of mobster gold."

"Gotcha, chief!" said Jim.

Maurice, as ever, had to ruin the mood. "Wait, how will we stay in contact? I thought we agre–"

Conner clicked off his walkie-talkie, shoved it into his pocket, and strode out into the party.

A Rottweiler guard huffed quietly as Conner passed him in the hall. The mansion was open to guests, but just for restroom access. Vincenetti preferred everyone to stay in the courtyard, where security could better see them.

That worked for Conner. He was looking for the birthday boy himself.

He ambled through the crowd, soaking in the ambiance. Good vibe, except for the music. Vincenetti had set up his cutting-edge sound system to blare out operatic overtures by that pretentious hack – what was his name? Something Octavius? Conner had to actively keep his face from darkening as he passed a speaker. Christ, man. Get with the times.

Mobsters.

He smiled and quipped and broke a few hearts, probably. It was a nice change of pace from darkness and dust, but it couldn't last. Finally, amidst a cluster of guests, he spotted his target. A heavy Italian Mastiff merrily sweating through his bright white suit.

Time to get to work.

The plan was simple. Conner just needed to lift the key to the basement vault from Vincenetti's pocket. The lock was too advanced to pick, so Maury was going to make a copy on-site. To create an accurate duplicate, he needed three minutes with the original. Jim was on standby to cause a distraction if necessary, and being two tonnes of Pacific walrus, Jim could be very distracting. But Conner was confident he could steal the key and have it back in Vincenetti's ugly suit before the mobster ever noticed.

Picking his pocket would be easy. Introducing himself and maintaining a full conversation as he did it would be bonus points. Conner slipped on his best smile and began striding over.

The walk across the courtyard felt agonising. At first, Conner thought it was just the nervous energy before a performance. But that was wrong. Something was wrong. He'd pulled stunts like this for years without feeling uneasy, as though a ghost was watching him, as though–

Conner saw bright red on Vincenetti's suit and in a second it crashed into him.

Laser sight.

Sniper.

Conner Cooper liked to call himself cunning, but when it mattered, he was a man of action. He didn't think. The heist fled his mind. His suave demeanour fell behind him as he suddenly sprinted forward, full pelt, sending squawking guests sprawling and catching Vincenetti's shocked expression and tackling him at full speed.

The shot rang out.

The bullet missed its target, but still killed the ambiance. In seconds, the guests were fleeing. These were white-collar types, thinking themselves dangerous by association. There were few actual criminals here. The gunshot sent them running for the exits as Vincenetti's guards snapped to attention.

"What in god's name–?!" spluttered Vincenetti, limbs flailing. They both landed in cover behind a sturdy table.

Conner glanced up in the direction of the shot. Only darkness greeted him.

"Sniper." All humour had left him. His voice was grim.

Vincenetti stared. "You're kidding."

"Yeah, that classic birthday party prank. No I'm not kidding, you fat idiot." Conner sniffed. "Must be a professional, too, if he got this close without your goons catching him..."

"Yeah. Yeah..." Vincenetti ran a hand down his face. Hand and face were equally sweaty, so not much changed. "Listen, I owe you, kid, but we'll talk later. I gotta get to my panic room!"

"I'll–"

"Sorryonlyfitsone," said Vincenetti, shoving a hand in Conner's face. With that he ran for the house.

Conner wiped his face on his sleeve, trying to clear the memory of the sweat more than the sweat itself. He watched Vincenetti, half expecting another shot to end things before he reached the door. But nothing came. He doubted the sniper had left. Probably just repositioning for a second attempt.

Conner glanced down – and, to his own surprise, found Vincenetti's safe key in his hand. He had listened to his gut and almost ruined the heist, but apparently his hands still knew what they were doing. Natural instincts.

Key in hand, he turned his walkie-talkie back on. Maurice's squawking voice instantly met him.

"–n't see you, and we don't even know what this gunman wants, so it might be best for MacSweeney and I to withdraw–"

"The hell you will," growled Conner.

"Boss!" said Jim. "Are you okay? Ya had us worried!"

"I'm fine. Even got the key." He poked his head over the table. Still nothing. Not even Vincenetti's guards. "But I can't see the son of a bitch who ruined the party. Where are you?"

"By the safe," said Maurice. "Security has thinned somewhat, as you can imagine. Will you be joining us?"

Conner glanced around, eyes sharp. "Fine."

He broke cover, still low to the ground.

"But only because I'm faster than either of you slobs. Once I get my cane, I'm finding the sniper."

"Oh." Maurice paused. "...Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'?!" Conner slipped inside the mansion, heading for the basement. Aside from the far-off yells of security, it was eerily quiet. The decorations seemed distant. "Someone's trying to kill our mark!"

"What I'm about to say is callous, I recognize that, but permit me to play devil's advocate... Is that a concern?"

"What?! Are you kidding?!"

"I'm being fully serious."

Jim's voice entered. "Ha ha! More like deadly serious!"

"Jim," Conner snarled, "shut up."

"S-sorry, chief."

Conner reached the vault. Two guards were slumped by the vault doors, unconscious. Conner threw the key to Jim, who produced Conner's cane and tossed it over in exchange.

"I mean it," continued Maurice, lowering his walkie-talkie. "Vincenetti is scum, Conner, you and I both know that. And our plan would require a lot less complexity if he was, well, dead."

"I'm a thief, Maurice, not a fucking grave robber!" Conner's eyes burned. "The point is stealing from chumps who are alive."

"Oh, I'd love to see the full set of these unspoken rules you keep mentioning." Maurice folded his stout arms, staring him down. "What? Are they all listed in that filthy scrapbook you won't let us touch?"

Conner stepped forward. His cane was steady. His voice was low. "What was that?"

Maurice swallowed. "I..."

"Maurice. Did you just belittle my family name? The way I warned you not to?"

The mandrill faltered, his eyes now on Conner's expensive shoes. "I-it's not about your family. Of course not. I just..." The words died on his tongue, the moment dragging.

Jim, as ever, was oblivious. "Y'know, one time my cousin was robbing some old lady's house, and when he broke in she was dead, 'cause she, y'know, fell down the stairs. Tripped on her slippers or something. And then he got busted and done for murder!

"Jim's right, for once." said Conner, shrugging off his jacket. More mobility. "If people think I'm part of this, it'll ruin my reputation."

"You and your damn repu–!" Maurice forced himself to take a breath. "...Very well. If your image as a noble thief is really that precious, it's not like we can stop you. But let's not abandon the heist. We're most of the way there. We just need an exit. Perhaps Jim and I can capitalize on the commotion in order to affect a workable alternative."

"Yeah!" said Jim. "Either that, or we could take advantage of all this craziness to throw together a Plan B."

"That's precisely what I just said."

"Oh, was it?"

"Whatever!" snapped Conner. "Clear this damn vault by the time I get back, understand?"

Maurice mumbled an affirmative, but before Conner could leave, Jim waved a meaty hand. "Oh! Chief!"

"What?"

He produced a scrap of black cloth. "Mask!"

He threw it over and Conner put it on. Part of him felt more at home. "Thanks. I'm glad one of you idiots gets what I'm doing here."

With that, Conner sprung into action.

He tore back out of the basement, but slowed to a stop in the foyer. The air was oppressive, but silent.

He glanced around, on high alert. "Where-?"

There was a gunshot from above, followed by a scream, followed by one of Vincenetti's guards falling down the stairwell and landing in a bloodied heap on the ground floor.

"Son of a-!"

Conner waited a second. The guard did not get up.

"Upstairs," he said quietly. "I'm going upstairs."

Conner took the stairs two a time – no sense showing off. The banister was thick and solid and inviting, and normally he would sprint along it just because he could. But such thoughts were far from his mind now.

Someone had ruined his game.

This wasn't the tallest mansion Conner had raided. Including the basement, there were four floors total. Before long, he had reached the uppermost corridor.

Vincenetti had said he was heading for his safe room, but that plan had obviously gone awry. Conner found him standing in that darkened corridor, eyes wide, suit stained with sweat. He wasn't alone.

Between Conner and his mark stood the sniper.

Whoever this punk was, apparently money wasn't an issue. Multiple holsters holding multiple implements of death – pistols on the hips, rifle slung like a backpack, even a good old-fashioned Knife Boot. All this on top of combat armour that balanced durability with speed. The material looked solid without being cumbersome, and it was black enough to blend into the night sky. The armour was total, shoulders to boots to tip of tail, topped with a black helmet.

Two green eyes shining like murderous gems.

The sniper's voice was impossibly deep and tinged with a slight electronic edge. Most likely a voice modulator – though Conner wasn't prepared to rule out some kind of android assassin. The field of robotics had made some impressive progress lately.

"Abramo Vincenetti." With a smooth motion, the rifle swung back into its owner's hands. "Stop embarrassing yourself."

Vincenetti stared down his assassin. Almost effective. Almost kept his lip from trembling. "You think this is really gonna change anything? My syndicate is untouchable. The name Vincenetti is gonna live on for decades!"

"Sure." Spoken casually. "But you won't be there to see it."

Conner realized time was running out. Vincenetti did, too. The defiance drained from his face. In seconds, he was begging.

"C'mon, Fletcher, please. I... I've heard about you, you know. You're honourable. You think you're... one of the good ones. Are you really just going to–"

"Three."

Vincenetti swallowed. "What?"

"I am one of the good ones. That's why I try to keep fatalities to a minimum on a job. But to get here, to make it to you, I had to end three lives. Guard on the outer wall; tried to subdue him non-lethally, but he struggled and fell and landed on his neck. That's on me. I admit that."

"I–"

"Courtyard, during the panic. Two guards spotted me. I shot both in the legs but one was real persistent and wouldn't stop firing. I had to put him down. Self-defence."

"Please, anything–"

"And your right-hand man, who tried to slow me down on the stairs?" A tilt of the head. "Well, everything that got you in my crosshairs, he was there for too. Bonus points."

"I'm… please, you can't–"

The assassin's voice was a death knell.

"Four."

The rifle aligned to Vincenetti's face and with no better options Conner flung his cane. The hook slammed into the gun just before the shot rang out. The bullet embedded in the floor. Vincenetti whimpered, the only casualty his dignity.

The assassin glanced in Conner's direction – then ignored him, moving to shoot Vincenetti again. The mobster had recovered enough to dodge the shot, stumbling away fearfully.

Conner jumped forward, trying to wrench the rifle out of the assassin's hands. He couldn't muster enough strength, and they were left struggling over the gun.

Conner found himself facing down the helmet, two green lenses reflecting his own glare. "What the hell are you doing?!"

He snarled. "You ruined my plan. I'm not letting you have yours."

Laughter, distorted by the modulator into hellish music. "You're saving this murderer's life out of spite? That's... you know what, I kind of respect that. That's pretty funny."

Conner pulled the rifle hard, and found himself falling backwards when it actually gave way. The assassin had relinquished the weapon to throw off his balance. Conner flung the gun away, but his opponent drew twin pistols.

"Dance for me, prettyboy!"

Hail of gunfire.

Conner didn't panic. Conner kept moving.

The Coopers had no one fighting style, given how their lineage stretched across time and space. Henriette and Thaddeus would not have seen eye to eye on what constituted honourable rules of engagement, while the tactics that brought Galleth glory would most likely have gotten Tennessee killed.

But if centuries of Cooper combat experience could be distilled into one sentence, that sentence would be: Stay alive, and wait for an opening.

That is what Conner did.

Conner stayed alive, using every ounce of his athleticism to dodge the hail of gunfire, rolling and jumping and shifting direction faster than his opponent could predict.

And he waited for an opening. An opening that came when both pistols ran out of ammo at once. Overconfidence.

Hissing a curse, the assassin paused to reload – and Conner, without losing an instant, fell into a sprint. He kicked his cane up into his hands as he passed it, he closed in, he pulled back, and he struck with full force.

Both pistols went flying – and so did the helmet.

Black curls tumbled out, rolling like ink spilled in water. The dark helmet gave way to fur, almost the same shade as his own. Conner stopped short, staring at a pair of sharp green eyes.

"You're..." His brain had reset. "...way prettier than I expected."

It happened faster than he could process it. She swung a leg into his, toppling him, and leapt at him as he fell. Her fingers, hard as steel, found his throat. She drove a knee into him, pinning him to the floor.

Even without the modulator, her voice was rough, but now he could better hear the vague twang of her accent. "And you're even dumber than you look."

"I look," choked Conner, "very smart."

"You don't." She broke into a vicious smile. "Not from here."

Conner had one hand on his cane. He struck at her feebly, and she caught his wrist. Conner's breathing was becoming strained – he didn't have much time. But, unlike the assassin, he still had one hand free.

He found his walkie-talkie and clenched his fist around it. Backed with adrenaline, he slammed it into her stomach. Enough force to for her to feel it, despite her armour. Enough force to make her wobble, and give Conner the chance to push her off.

He got to his feet, coughing violently. He leaned on his cane and dropped the walkie-talkie. He was just glad to have finally gotten use out of the damn thing.

She seemed unconcerned. She flipped to her feet, pulling the knife from her boot as she moved. "So," she said, blade curved defensively. "What's with the mask? I know you're the guy who ruined my first shot. We're the only two raccoons here, genius."

Conner kept his cane thrust in front of him. "Not trying to hide who I am."

"Uh huh."

She began to pace, and he matched her. They circled each other, weapons ready. Ears tall.

"And remind me..." she drawled. "What's your relation to Vincenetti?"

Conner's glare sharpened. There was no sense lying, but the truth was ridiculous. "I'm... here to steal from him."

"Yeah. I figured."

There was something burning in her green eyes as she spoke. Conner knew he wasn't dealing with some cold, emotionless assassin. He almost wished he was. The fire he saw in her was unsettling – and now, it was directed at him.

"Let me guess. You've got some kind of personal code, don't you?" Her grin widened. "I bet you've been waiting for the chance to tell me it 'feels wrong to fight a woman'..."

"Maybe," muttered Conner.

"Well, save it," she snapped, growing serious. "It's not my business what you tell yourself to sleep at night. We've all got lines we don't cross. But now you're in my way. And for what?" She looked him up and down. "I'd understand if you were a cop, or even just some bystander. But what does some lowlife thief care?"

"I – I know!" Conner glared. It was all he could do. "I know I'm not a good person. I'm a criminal, and not even a nice one. And I know the world wouldn't miss Vincenetti, and this would only make my heist easier, and it doesn't make sense for me to step in..."

He sucked in a breath.

"But goddammit, it's not right. I'm no saint, sure, but that doesn't mean I'm okay with just standing back and watching this. Scuttling in afterwards to steal things I haven't earned." He met her gaze. "I'm a lowlife. And I'm a thief. But I am not a lowlife thief."

She raised an eyebrow. "Wow. That was almost profound. You a poet?"

"Writing runs in the family."

He lunged, swinging his cane for her face. Despite her breezy demeanour, she was ready.

She blocked the strike with her forearm, using her other hand to slash at him with the knife. Conner leapt back, barely dodging it before it reached his face.

He growled, trying to find a new angle of attack – stay alive wait for an opening! – but she was already pressing the advantage. She jabbed, jabbed, feinted left and slashed heavily from the right.

Conner parried, cane meeting knife – and while her focus was drawn up he snuck a kick to her stomach. She wobbled a little, then laughed. Not the reaction he hoped for.

He switched tactics, aiming a punch at her face with his other hand. Bad move. She went to meet his arm with her blade, and he had to awkwardly pull back, disrupting his balance. She pressed again, stabbing at his chest. He dodged backwards, and when she went to follow him he cracked his foot out and caught her in the knee.

Her momentum slowed, just for a second, and he brought his cane around. Sweeping strike. She rolled her shoulders with it at the last moment, lessening the impact, but he managed to catch her right in the face.

She laughed again. He really did find that disturbing.

She ducked back gracefully. "You know how to make a girl break a sweat! Looks like we're evenly matched." She smirked. "With one difference."

"And wh–?"

Her hand flashed behind her back and a second later another knife was flying at him.

Conner's reflexes kicked in and he dodged past it, but she was already moving. With a powerful slash she knocked his cane from his hands. She twisted around and grabbed his shirt with her free hand, slipped a foot into his ankle, and toppled him.

In an instant, Conner was pinned again. Trapped against the wall, too low and awkward to get free. She was grinning down at him. "You're too much of a sissy to fight dirty."

He swallowed, and felt her knife against his throat. "Well, you had the advantage on weapons. How about next time, we just bring ourselves? Au naturel, y'know?"

She chuckled. "Oh, I admire your optimism..."

Conner tested her grip, but she was giving him no quarter. Not any more. He got one last glimpse of those green eyes, almost glowing in the dim light. And then her knife came for him.

He flinched. Eyes shut. Too young to die too handsome–

Nothing happened.

Conner gingerly opened his eyes, one at a time. The knife had come for him, alright. It came for his expensive shirt, through his collar and behind his shoulder. She twisted it into the thin wall. Pinning him.

"That was fun," she purred. "But we're done here. Be good and sit still."

He caught her gaze. "You...?"

The question didn't form. Neither did her reply. All she did was smirk down at him.

Conner felt like he was missing something, but before it materialised, she was pulling back.

"Well, time to end the life of an unrepentant murderer. Truly a dark day for world peace, but hey, you tried."

"You!" Vincenetti's voice rang from the end of the hall.

She looked up. So did Conner.

She stared. So did Conner.

Vincenetti had not grabbed a gun, or even something as sensible as a knife. He had grabbed something short and stout and metal which wobbled very dangerously in his sweaty hand.

"Abe," she said, "that's a grenade."

"You're damn right it's a grenade!" Vincenetti's eyes were wild. "My father gave his life in the war. So did my granddad and my uncles and one very determined aunt."

"I think we should stop making so many jokes about France's army," said Conner, "and make fun of the Italians instead." He was ignored.

"But," spat Vincenetti, "they left me with a legacy. With this. I know you, Fletcher. I know how dangerous you and your kind are. So I'm taking no chances!"

Conner saw the calculation in her eyes – a bullet would end things immediately, but their fight had disarmed her. Her pistols and rifle lay scattered. Even her knives had been wasted on Conner, and now her target stood metres away, armed when she wasn't–

And then it was too late. Vincenetti pulled the pin.

"This ends here, you hear me?!" he declared. "I won't be pushed around!"

She blinked. "Um–"

"Not by you! Not by nobody! The name Vincenetti–"

"Oh my god!" yelled Conner. "Throw it, you stupid fu–"

Vincenetti did not throw it.

The sound was deafening. Conner flinched, slamming his hands over his ears. He was vaguely aware of the assassin losing her footing, her arms thrown up defensively.

But that was it. She was a safe distance from the blast.

Then came a silence, punctuated by the crumble of masonry and the ringing of ears. On instinct, Conner dislodged the knife – loosened by the vibrations – and pulled himself up.

He could suddenly see far more of the glimmering night sky. Most of the wall was gone. So was Vincenetti.

His own voice sounded distant. "He... he's dead."

"Suicide by stupidity, huh?"

Conner turned. The assassin stood before him, brushing dust from her suit. No worse for wear.

"They call that 'death by misadventure', I think? It's still death. I'll take it." She stretched, working out a kink in her back. "Alright. Cool. See ya, prettyboy."

Conner's brain wasn't quite up to speed. "Whuh... what?"

She shrugged. "No harm, no foul. My contract's fulfilled – only specified they wanted Vincenetti dead. Never said how."

"I..."

"Listen, I won't tell if you won't. I got what I wanted, so no point wasting a bullet on you. Bye. Have a nice night. Drive safe."

With that, she began gathering up her things. She hummed to herself lightly as she reclaimed her twin pistols. Conner was left staring.

"There's Lefty... there's Righty... where's...? Oh." She pointed next to Conner's foot. "Could you pass Ambi over? Thanks."

Conner looked down. Her rifle lay on the floor. Without the rush of battle, he could make out the details. An inscription on the stock read, in flowing script, Duchess Ambidextricia.

The rifle was aptly named. It took Conner both hands to lift it. And it took him both hands to fling it at the sniper's head.

"Hey!" She hurried to catch it, gathering it in her arms. "What are you-?!"

"I'll show you who's a waste of a bullet!"

She laughed, a touch nervously. "Haha seriously dude, what is wrong with you?"

He lunged for her. Not for the first time in his life, Conner was operating on instinct. Rage. His cane was back in his hands and he swung it in a barrage, giving this murderous woman no chance to strike back.

She didn't.

With a fluid motion, she slid backward, slipping the rifle onto her back. He expected her to switch to her pistols, produce another knife, spit at him, something. But she just kept backing up. Dodging his blows. Watching him. Smiling.

"You don't know when to give up! Walk away, prettyboy."

"How can I?! You killed him!"

"Yeah. We're done."

The shift was sudden. She slipped out of her defensive stance in an instant, her boot shooting for his ankle. But he didn't hesitate, driving his cane forward. They crashed into each other.

Conner found himself wrestling her, fingers digging into wrists, legs and feet battered by unsteady kicks. They swung down the hallway, towards the ruined wall, in almost perfect sync. A waltz.

For a moment, all Conner saw was her. Her face. Her smile. The tinge of mania in her green, green eyes. For that moment, she was his whole world. Stealing all his attention.

So it took him a second to notice something had tangled around his ankle.

He glanced down. They had waltzed all the way to the blasted wall, the courtyard laid out far beneath them. The explosion had unearthed the thick black wires of the mansion's electrical system, and one of said wires was now firmly attached to Conner. A quiet but useful part of his brain noted that this wire was, at least, not actively discharging any electricity. That was good.

"Here's where we part ways."

He looked back up, meeting her gaze. Her grip on him was strong, keeping him in place. Holding him still while she enjoyed her big moment.

"Maybe we'll bump heads again sometime..." Her voice softened. So did her expression. "...prettyboy..."

Conner felt a shift. Everything had gotten so quiet all of a sudden. They were alone in the night air, under the stars, no sound except their breath. And when she started leaning toward him, he found himself matching her, aligning for a kiss...

...which never came, because she headbutted him on the nose.

"Oh, you fucking-!"

He heard her laugh merrily as he stumbled backwards – out the hole. Into the night air.

His Cooper grace did not provide much help. Conner plummeted towards the courtyard, fur ruffled, limbs stiff, frantically calculating his best landing strategy. He only had a second.

Then the wire caught. He hung there. Level with Jim's eyes.

"Oh!" said Jim. "Hi, chief."

"Huh?"

"Conner!" Maurice was next to Jim – considerably further away, given the height distance. "We finished with the vault, and – what's happening? Why are you–"

Conner cut him off with a groan, half anger and half nausea. "Either you numbskulls got a gun?"

"N-no?"

"All due respect, chief," said Jim cautiously, "I don't think that's the best way of getting ya down."

"Not for the rope, dumbass! For – for her."

Conner turned his attention upwards, bending slightly at the torso to get a better view. Above the Cooper Gang, standing in the ruined wall, stood the assassin. Triumphant.

She caught Conner's eye. She smirked for a second, then gave him a wink.

Then she turned and walked away. Tail swishing behind her.

Jim was beside himself. "What! What! Did you see that, boss?! She was mocking you! That crazy broad, I'll – I'll–"

"Stay your hand, Jim," said Maurice. "I think I recognise our mystery miss..."

"What? Ya do?"

"Mmh. I believe that's the infamous assassin Beatrice Fletcher. Informally known in some circles as 'Trixie'."

"Heeeee," said Conner, who by now was very light-headed. "Tricksy."

"Yes, yes," sighed Maurice. "Cunning and Tricksy. Very funny. I think you'd find the whole thing less amusing if you knew just how close you were to dying."

Conner dragged his eyes over to Maurice. "Whuh?"

"She is remarkably deadly. Her fatality rate is high both for targets and anyone stupid enough to impede her progress." Maurice folded his arms. "If you confronted her and walked away, luck was very much on your side."

"One way to look at it," said Conner. "But s'not luck. She's just super into me..."

Maurice turned to Jim. "And that's our cue to cut him down. Obviously the blood's rushing to his head. It must be such a strange sensation for him. There's usually nothing there..."

"Hagh," said Conner, "fuck you, Maury."

Jim soon had him loose from the wire and back on solid ground. Conner waved off any further assistance and led the way to their truck. He hobbled thoughtfully.

Tonight had been a success. The guys had taken everything he wanted from Vincenetti's vaults and more. Things had gone sideways, and Conner had adapted. The way he always did. The way a Cooper should.

But that woman, that assassin, wouldn't leave his mind. She was just behind him, still smirking that smirk, still taunting him with that twang. Trixie Fletcher. Ugh. Another name he'd have to remember. Another psycho who had gotten in his way, and probably would again. Someone who could end his life in a second.

Conner shook his head. "What a scary, blackhearted, downright psychotic woman."

He slowly let out a sigh.

Kinda pretty, though.

An anonymous town in the United States.

September First, 1990.

Conner's eye lingered on the date for a moment. Eight months of the new decade already over... he mused. Where does the time go?

With that, he continued down the newspaper's front page. He read about Iraq and Germany and South Africa with a detached interest – it was important to keep up with the world, even if he had withdrawn from it. His chair was comfortable, his pipe was lit, and things were quiet here. Comfortably so.

His favourite section was Finance, all those stories about bloated banks and bumbling billionaires. But these days, the plans were just fantasies. He was a very different man now. And he had other responsibilities.

"Dad?"

Conner looked up. He didn't even notice that he broke into a smile.

Sly. His son. A lifetime of daring capers and incredible heists, and Conner was proud to say that the boy staring up at him was his finest achievement. He would turn six years old this month, and already he was getting so big. And so curious...

"Hey, sport!" he said. "What's up?"

"Can I ask you something?"

Conner grinned. "Of course! Fire away."

"How'd you and Mom meet?"

Conner's grin froze.

Oh dear.

He felt as though he should have been better prepared for this. Instead, he bought time with a classic parental tactic. "Uh... did you ask her?"

"She told me to ask you."

Conner looked past Sly to see Trixie hovering in the doorway, wearing one of those dorky sweaters she loved so much. She shrugged helplessly, green eyes wide.

Conner had always been good at thinking on his feet, but those feet were now comfortably propped up on a footrest. He gave it his best shot. "It... was... at a party. In Italy. A long time ago, now."

"Oh," said Sly. "Okay."

Conner paused. "Is that all you wanted to know?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Well... alright then." Conner fixed him with a smirk. "I'll be sure to tell you more about it later, okay? When you're a bit older?

"'kay", said Sly distantly, having already lost interest. He wandered out of the room. Conner and Trixie gave a simultaneous sigh of relief.

She padded over, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Bullet dodged," she noted. "You did always have a talent for that."

"I did, didn't I? I suppose we better have our story straight for the next time he asks. It might be hard to explain our... early dynamic."

"Yeah." She returned his smirk. "But hey. He's a flexible kid. If anything, he might find it funny." They both chuckled at that.

It was not a story he ever got to hear.