1. No Strong Drinks

The Stabbington brothers had no idea who they were dealing with when they saw the young teal-vested man strut into the Snuggly Duckling. He looked fresh from the streets, a gung-ho air around from him borne from the naivete of youth and the firm belief in one's own immortality. His fashion taste was at least something you could give credit to, classy if a bit pretentious, though they themselves were never such good judges. He swaggered in with confident, striding steps, throwing lopsided smiles freely, acting very much as if he owned the place. The patrons could have slaughtered him into unrecognizable cadaver in the blink of an eye if they wanted to, all they needed was a reason. And while the ever-classic 'your attitude seriously pisses me off' would have sufficed, the big macho men of the Snuggly Duckling always liked playing with their food first. Cyclops, the less visually-endowed of the twins, took a chug from his beer mug, eyeing the new customer warily.

The stranger stumbled, swaggered, tripped his way past the drunk patrons and waiters to the bartender, who regarded him with a murderous look that he gave all mischievous-looking customers as he sat onto the stool. He pointed at the dagger strapped to his belt. "Looking a little young for that, lad," the bartender said gruffly.

"Oh? You mean this?" he replied with all the trappings of a man who had merely been waiting for such a topic to arise. He quickly unsheathed it with all the flair of a Shakespearean actor, twirling it around his hand. It glittered in the dim lights, and had a hilt adorned with stainless silver and carved with runes. "The King didn't seem to think so. After all, he was the one who gave it to me. He owes me a big favour, you see," he chimed with a smug smile, breathing onto his fingernails and polishing them on his shirt, "I did my best to refuse, like any self-respecting gentleman would, but what's a guy gotta do when someone tries to thank you for saving his life?" Cyclops heard his brother snort. He would have joined in too, but he didn't really think it wasn't the effort. He may be half-blind, but even he could see the near-identical resemblance of the dagger to the toy knives that Shady Steve sells in his pawn shop at two copper coins apiece. The only difference was the shoddy paint job on the hilt, still wet and barely enough to cover the rust colour underneath.

An impassive mask remained on the bartender's face - not a hint of expression flickered. "Try not to cause too much trouble with it."

"You ask too much from me, my good man!" he cried out vehemently as he began fencing the air with the dagger. "I am such a master with this blade! It's like a third arm to me! It calls to me for blood!" he said just before it slipped through his fingers, careened through the air and stabbed deep into the blueberry cupcake of a fellow patron, showering the table with purple-jam crumbs. A low, raspy growl came from underneath the knight's helmet, close enough for the man to feel his hot breaths. "Attila doesn't like you."

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Would you like a drink? Cos I could use a drink. Gaston, a drink for the fine man, please!"

"Name yer' poison."

He smiled, as though he knew just exactly what kind of hard drink was the right choice to impress. "Goat's milk."

The bartender probed his face for the telltale signs of a bad joke, and found none. "We don't have any goat's milk."

"Alright," he raised his hands and placed one on his chin. He was a pretty flexible person, he could try and experiment with some new beverages. "I'll have some fresh cow's milk."

An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. "Look around you," he said, stretching his arms wide, "Does this look like a farm to you? Order a real drink, kid."

"Do you have any water?"

A real class act. Cyclop's one eye could see right through the cracks in his veneer. Another one of those dime-a-dozen urchins, stuck in that dreadful in-between of age where they couldn't effectively depend on alms from the street to eke out the daily bread anymore, too old to coast on their cute factor but too young to garner pity for their lot in life. Then they come looking to try their hand in the seedier vocations. They try to fit in with the men.

Cyclops could see everything there was about him. He was an open book, an absolute nobody with no future, no family, and nothing to lose. Hands that were willing to get down and dirty. Exactly what he was looking for.

His twin brother, Cutjack, had been following his gaze, and he knew what he was thinking. It was to be expected when you were twins. "Three's a crowd," he grunted, his voice in a baritone so low that the glass cups on the table rattled.

"We need cannon fodder. One extra knife to bring into the fight. One extra pair of cuffs to bring us down-"

"And one extra slice of the pie we're going to have to share," he grumbled.

"Who says we're sharing?"

And a wicked smile spread across both the Stabbington brothers' faces.

They left their table and sat down next to the man, one on either side so that they could completely wedge him in. The boy might just be stupid enough to believe them. He was sniffing at the concoction, taking a swig out of the heavy-brew ale he thought to be water. The bartender's idea of a joke. He'll be waking up two weeks later underneath a bridge wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of bunny slippers.

"Gaston-" the mug of frothing vodka came immediately in front of Cyclops. "Thanks."

Cutjack eyed up the man as a predator would his prey. "Cutjack," he began, "This is my brother, Cyclops."

"Rider. Flynn Rider," he said, and offered his hand. Neither of them took it.

"Listen, Rider. We're not one for small talk. So we'll cut right to the chase. Me and Cyclops here are thinking about offering you some work."

Flynn's eyebrows shot up. "Work?"

"On the high risk and reward end. Breaking and entering. Stealth, security expert, rapid recovery. Falls into your skillset, maybe?"

"Like a glove," he said enthusiastically, "What's our target? The jewelry store? Tax collector's office?"

"Think bigger."

"Ah. I see. You mean the brothel. Steal us a couple of mail order brides? Hmm?" He gave them both a nudge nudge and wink wink.

Cutjack glance around furtively, then bent in closer, his voice a low whisper that made Flynn shiver with excitement. His eyes quickly reached plate-wide proportions upon hearing what he said.

"You're joking."

Their faces were deadpan. "No."

"It's impossible."

"Only because we haven't tried it yet."

"You want me to . . . you're really going to steal . . ."

"That's right," said Cutjack, "The Crown of the Lost Princess."

Author's note: The eye-patched Stabbington brother is actually mute throughout the entire movie. I never actually noticed it until it was too late and I've already drafted this whole story out. While it does make this story less credible, I nevertheless hope you enjoy the story I've written.