Murray rested, sitting on a rock on the outskirts of the debris left by the impact of the possessed Neyla's crash. Although late into the night, Paris glowed with millions of points of light screened by dust and fog. The blue flashes of the police cruisers were faintly visible from their collective position.

Bentley was still in Murray's arms, breathing shallowly. Murray knew that they both needed help, and at least shelter and rest. With one last gaze at the distant, circling chopper, he felt a small inch of pride warm within him. He lifted his large body and carried Bentley into the balmy Parisian night, heading slowly, hopefully, to the old safehouse.

Walking the streets of Paris unnoticed was a challenge, even for the time of night. More than once, Murray had carefully placed Bentley on an out-of-the-way surface to take on or scare away guards or civilians who were in his path. Finally in sight of the safehouse door, Murray cautiously performed an area check on the exterior, searching for bugs and abnormalities, and taking a moment to mourn the empty parking space.

With a heavy heart, aching body, and empty stomach, he carried Bentley up the steps, taking care not to jostle his unconscious friend. He opened the door slowly and quietly, peering in. The tiny apartment appeared to be deserted, and even looked to be in the exact condition the group had left it when they had left what seemed a lifetime ago. The darkness and quiet made the room almost cozy, and Murray felt himself returning to a more relaxed state. He carefully placed Bentley on the planning table, then flipped a few light switches. Two overhead lights still worked. The tiny domicile was equipped with a bathroom that fortunately had a bathtub, with heated water thanks to the area's communal water system. Murray drew the water, filling the tub. He returned to the dusty living room in no hurry.

He took a moment to take in the familiar surroundings-- the filthy, sparse living room lit by a bare bulb and containing just the three chairs around the table that now held the unconscious turtle. There was one other table, but it had a broken leg and a space for a drawer, but the drawer was missing. The light from the bathroom made a skewed, yellow rectangular shape on the floor. Murray's eyes came to rest on his friend lying on the table, who was looking very dead.

He felt despair creep up from his flighty, empty stomach to his eyes, and stepped forward to take his friend to the bathroom.

In the city outside, a figure was racing along the rooftops, not pausing for anything, until it reached its destination. Looking up at the safehouse, Sly was filled with the reassurance of the safety of his comrades upon seeing the dim light through the dingy windows. He sighed and headed for the door.

Murray had deposited his friend in the warm, shallow water, keeping an arm around his shoulders to steady his movement. Sitting on the cold tile floor, he felt alone, scared, and hungry. He tried to let the feelings just wash over him and be gone, but as he cared for Bentley, he couldn't stop his tears or the void of despair he felt.

"Bentley?" He hoarsely whispered. "Buddy, can you hear me?"

He knew he wasn't helping his friend or himself with the wasted attempt, and sobbed on the floor, still holding the still turtle.

Sly entered the safehouse with ninja precision, having been struck with worry on his short trek up the stairs. He heard the running water, and could see a lumpy shadow in the light from the bathroom. He put his cane on the table, and had taken one step when he heard the distressed voice of a broken Murray. He stiffly listened, until the voiced dissolved into tears. Sly entered, terrified of what he might see.

On the off-white tile floor was the muscle of the group, helpless and beside himself. His arm was around the motionless form of Bentley, who was positioned in the running bath, and not, as Sly had feared, covered in blood, mangled, or mortally wounded.

Sly exhaled deeply, and crouched down, reaching out for Murray's large shoulder. Murray turned, eyes wide and wet, and met Sly's steady and reassuring gaze. For a second, he was silent, and then Murray lost it completely, and he was wracked with emotion, gasping for breath between sobs.

"Hey, hey, big buddy, come on," Sly began, moving closer, and wrapping an arm around the distraught hippo. "No, listen, we're all right now. Look at what we've done. Clockwerk has been completely wiped out. Hundreds of years of fear and murder have been ended, and it's all thanks to us," Sly softly spoke, trying his best to provide comfort.

"But look at him!" Murray choked out. Even through the outburst, he was starting to get a grip.

Sly did look, and just in time to see two beady eyes blearily stare around. Murray didn't seem to notice as Bentley slowly came to grips with his surroundings. He gazed at the source of the arm around him, and tried to speak.

Sly helped him out. "Hey, check it out, big guy," he chuckled.

Murray looked up, and saw Bentley smile at him. He gasped, and giggled awkwardly.

"How ya feeling, Wizard?" Sly gently asked, leaning in.

"Well," Bentley's nasally voice began weakly, "I can't see, I can't move my legs, and quite honestly," he swallowed and cleared his throat. He looked up and said strongly, "I've never felt better."

The two closest thieves hugged, and Sly seized the moment to turn off the tap and hide his own tear. He contemplated the next course of action, noting the absolute necessity of a hospital, and turned to observe the sincere moment between the brains and the brawn of the infamous Cooper Clan.

Across town, the police arranged and called for traffic controls and cleanup for anticipation for the morning's traffic, and Sly marveled at his Clan's ability to take care of its members, even when traveling the world completing impossible heists.