Sixty years ago, south of Mobotropolis…

"I hope you know what the hell you're doing."

"Course I do, they won't know what hit them." The other figure replied, as his knife chattered against the tumblers in the lock. As each part rotated there came a barely audible click, and the figure gave a barely perceptible nod to match as he slowly cut his way through the door security.

After five tense minutes, the last click sounded in the crude bionics of one of the figures, and the door cracked open a notch with a squealing creak.

"Shit! Shit! Watch the noise!" his accomplice whispered frantically.

"You're too hyped-up about this, Wesker, calm down or I will drop you too."

"Frag you." Wesker replied. Wesker was a badger, about three feet tall with black & white striped fur. He had covered himself in brick-dust and black paint for this little operation, but the job had not been thorough and patches of white showed brightly against the moonlight.

His companion, Syna, was a lynx. She stood at four foot three inches, and her dark brown fur was a tangled mass of knots and links. Unlike Wesker, who wore only a ragged olive-green overcoat and a pair of black panelled gloves, Syna had on her a black body glove, utility belt and combat boots.

"Alright, now, let's get what we came for and get out of here." She told the badger, before notching the door open a little further and edging inside the substation.

"Why are we-" Wesker began, but Syna clamping a hand over his mouth silenced him quickly, and with her free hand she pointed out the watchman, asleep against a chair, rocket back slightly against a line of power cables. Lowering her hands, she slid a small syringe free of the belt and attached a needle. For a moment she held it to the single, flickering, dim light that swung ponderously in the middle of the room, and inspected the blue fluid within. Then, moving on the balls of her feet, crept over to the sleeping guard, a spider wearing a dull grey uniform, and quickly stabbed him in the neck with the needle, swiftly entering the contents into his neck. He jerked forward, suddenly awake and lurched from the chair, hands moving to the half-a-dozen truncheons he had on his belt before the contents of the little syringe took over and his willpower drained away. His arms went from the frantic motion to hanging limply by his side, and his black, unreflective eyes took on a glazed look, all eight of them. Wesker moved past him, and began to work at the consoles, occasionally stopping to clip a wire in the large voltage boxes with a pair of insulated wire-cutters. Away in Mobotropolis, a very concentrated area of the city suddenly found itself devoid of power. Then the badger placed one had at his ear, listening intently for a moment.

"The others are in position, we can proceed."

Syna did not reply, merely nodding, keeping her gaze on the spider. "Where is the hatch?" she asked the disempowered guard, who, after a few seconds, raised one hand slowly to a slightly slouching point to the corner of the single room.

Syna thanked him with a smiling nod, more out of social instinct than any real need, then injected him with a second vial that stopped his heart. He toppled soundlessly onto the concrete, but with a loud, cracking impact.

Wesker finished with the consoles and packed up, following Syna to the small trapdoor in the corner. The lynx had already pried it open and was waiting for him impatiently. She waited for him to begin his climb down the ladder within, then followed him, giving the room a quick glance before shutting the door behind them both and climbing down herself.

Present day…

The crime, the motive, the suspects, all were based on rumour, and the MUCSI were finding it infuriating. The MUCSI, or Mobian Unsolved Crime Scene Investigation service, dealt with jobs like this, solving cases that had been closed pending investigation, to be opened and solved at a later date in lieu of more urgent cases. Most officers from the Mobian Security Wing thought of it as well-paid early retirement.

"So, motive?"

"Money, I guess. Don't see why anyone would have taken it otherwise."

"Locations?"

"One in North Block B-14, one in a substation couple miles south."

"Shit, take it that means we don't know who the suspects are?"

"Course we don't, MPD don't give us shit these days and you know it. On top of that, this thing is meant to be so important that even though the case happened half a century ago we still have to solve it!"

Sixty years ago, Mobotropolis, North Block B-14…

Three figures crouched at the edge of the district, hidden from the streetlights by the enclosing shadows of a stinking alleyway. Across the dimly illuminated street was a warehouse. Used for storing consumables such as foodstuffs and medical supplies, it would be no wonder if anyone were to discover than the trio were about the make a break-in. What would have surprised them was that they weren't interested in the warehouse, but rather what was under it.

"Why the hell aren't they done yet?" The lead figure whispered in hushed tones, "it's past time!"

"Chill, amigo, you'll give ussss away…" the second whispered back, with an accompanying half-silent cackle, causing the first to shrink up. No-one liked snakes, especially the ones with a sense of humour.

Yes, the second of the three was a snake, green, reflective scales clicking almost silently in the night, a pair of sinewy arms sprouting from the body just below the hooded head. Only an adder, perhaps, but a snake that big didn't need venom; the fangs were big enough and a snake could crush you before you could scream.

"Guys, keep it down! I heard something!" the third and final figure whispered back.

"You're a field mousssse, Jericho, you're jussst paranoid." The snake hissed at him.

"Maybe, but healthy paranoia has kept me alive so far."

"It won't ssssave you from me, if you don't sssshut it." The snake flicked his tongue out at the field mouse, who did not return from his hunched position, tail flicking erratically as he registered every sound of the night. The mouse cowered, cursing his luck. No-one liked snakes, maybe, but he was a mouse. For him it was practically a phobia. The only reason he had agreed to go with the warehouse group was because he was the only one of the three who knew how to pick locks, and Wesker had needed Syna, Wesker himself not being a very competent combatant.

It wasn't a great life, but it got him by and at the moment, that was what mattered.

The lights went out, and the lead figure, a white-furred coyote, put one hand to his ear and whispered. "Lights out, confirmed." Then to the other two, "let's go."

The three left the cover of the alleyway, moving fast to avoid being seen, up to the gate of the warehouse compound, where a guard waited behind a rail in a small pillbox.

The coyote motioned for the other two to stop, and unclipped a pistol and silencer from his belt.

"Laser-link." He muttered to himself, and the eyepiece he wore clicked as it calculated bullet trajectory, eventually coming up with where the bullet would land. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger, once. There was a soft thup as the bullet left the chamber along the silencer, then a slightly more audible thump as the corpse hit the ground.

The three of them slipped under the barrier and across the compound to the warehouse door.

"Aight, Jericho, you're up." The snake whispered, slipping aside for the trembling mouse to get to the lock. He fumbled with the pick for a few seconds before the lock clicked.

"They must have no idea what's in here." He told them, "the lock was barely even that."

He edged the door open for them, and the unlikely party slipped inside.

Present day…

"Er, boss? What did they actually steal?"

"Some sort of gem, or crystal, or something. Meant to have been worth loads."

"Who wanted us to suddenly up and search for it?"

"I think his name was Miles Prower…that freedom fighter guy."

"They must have been lying, I swear, why would he care?"

"Definitely him, he walked into my office and explained in pretty clear terms. And freedom fighters need money, same as the rest of us."

"I suppose, but why this? Isn't there some cheaper way for him to get money?"

"Probably, but if he wants it, we get it for him. He's paying us handsomely for it."

"Something is off here…"

"I know the feeling, but you do want that pension, don't you?"

Sixty years ago, south of Mobotropolis…
The tunnels went on forever, it seemed to Wesker. His eyes ha

d some natural night vision, but his particular family had the gift of short-sightedness, and so he was practically clinging to Syna as she made her way along, her night vision flawless. The tunnel was dank and long, the walls practically lost behind a mass of ominously groaning pipes and tanks, the contents of which Wesker did not want to discover.

After what seemed like forever, a small red light appeared, another five minutes, the source was there. A safety light, casting a glow over a doorway where a pair of Echidna stood watch. They were still out of earshot.

"Now any ideas, princess?" Wesker whispered forward to Syna, who bristled in response.

"Of course I have, now be quiet." She reached down to her belt and removed a pistol, custom make, modified to shoot the syringes she was so fond of. Raising it, she pulled the trigger twice, firing two vials of the heart-stopper into the Echidna guards. They didn't see it coming; by the time they registered the contents being emptied into their neck, they were already dead, hitting the floor with two resounding cracks. The two Mobians crept from their hiding space behind a sizeable tank and moved to the door.

"Now, get that open." Syna whispered to her companion.

Wesker slid a small cuboid out of his pack and fixed it to the door with a powerful electromagnet, and began tapping rapidly on the keypad taped to one end of it. In a series of clicks and clunks, the locks disengaged and the door swung open soundlessly…to the surprise of the wasp on the other side, about to open it himself.

Syna acted without hesitation, springing forward, clamping one had over his mouth and slitting his throat in one ergonomic motion, the blood pooling around him on the floor.

"Damn, I was hoping I wouldn't have to do that yet." She muttered. Using the same knife, she sliced off the tip of the wasp's sting and using a ceramic vial, she collected the venom. It wasn't great for killing, but mixed with a minor quantity of grease it made an excellent paralysis mixture.

"Do you have to do that now?" Wesker asked a little frantically, "we still have to get in and get out again, can't you find some other victim for your weird alchemy?"

"You collect when you can, I don't see why it's a problem."

Wesker scowled. Syna finished collecting the venom and stood, continuing without another word. The corridor was shorter this time, and the pair found themselves in a wide chamber, Syna guessed was a water purification plant for the city.

"As good a smuggler's den as any, I suppose." She remarked casually, "I bet hardly anyone comes down here." She glanced back to Wesker, "how long until the others get here?"

"Give them a minute." He replied.

"Wait here, then; I'm going to look around." And without waiting for an answer she sprinted low and quiet, to one of the massive water tanks, and began scaling the ladder.

Wesker put one hand on his pistol – somehow, it didn't reassure him to have it.

Present day…

"Warehouse was unlocked, signs of forced entry…one guard killed; single bullet wound. Contents of the warehouse weren't touched."

"Then what were they here for?"

"Fragged if I know, maybe whatever it was they came for wasn't here."

"maybe the sweep will come up with something."

"Bloody hope so, or we won't get paid."

"Sir! We've found something."

"What is it?"

"A trapdoor – rusted shut, haven't managed to force it open yet. Want us to send someone down there when we manage to prise it open?"

"Get to it, send two men. It isn't much, but it's the only clue we have."

Sixty years ago, beneath Mobotropolis…

"Guys! I can hear it again!" Jericho whispered, clutching the sides of his head.

"Shut up-" the coyote began, but the snake cut him off.

"No…I can hear it too. Sssome sssort of sssinging but not sssinging…"

"You're both mad- what are we after again?"

"It'sss called a sssuper emerald, by mossst."

"Look! There she is!" The coyote was almost glad to see Syna, balancing athletically atop one of the massive containers. He knew she could see them, so he waved at her. She returned it with a sly wink and a two-fingered salute. He returned his attention to the centre of the room. Around a large stash of crates sat the smugglers, an assortment of foxes, echidnas, wasps and other Mobian varieties. They were casually playing cards over a table, unaware than their guards were dead and that there was a lynx adept at killing hanging over their heads.

"Melor, over there." The coyote indicated to the snake, pointing at a stack of crates on their side of the smugglers. Melor gave a mock salute with his tail before sliding off, moving flat on the ground, lower than any of the others could go, a shotgun strapped to his back and braces of shells looped round him. He reached the crates, giving the other two a thumbs-up before sliding the gun off his back, pre-racked.

"Jericho, you're on overwatch." The coyote told the field mouse, handing him a case containing the sniper rifle. Jericho nodded, swinging round a pipe and scaling it with the claws in his hands, to the gantry than ran round the length of the room up high. When he reached the top he opened the case and assembled the sniper rifle with a practised speed of several years of experience.

Below, Temris, the coyote, counted to thirty before moving. He couldn't risk having Jericho signal him, so they worked under the timing system. He sprinted forward, low and fast, joining Melor at the crate. They were too close to talk now, so he gave the snake a few curt signals before raising three fingers to Syna on the tank above.

One.

Two.

Three.

Melor and Temris rose from behind cover and began firing. Two of the bandits died before they knew what was happening, and a third had his neck snapped as Syna dropped on him from above. Two bolted, and the echoing bang of the sniper rifle discharge silenced them permanently.

That left about twenty to contend with. Four against twenty. Temris wasn't happy about the odds, but they had the element of surprise and they had him.

A beam of heat flicked across his shoulder, leaving an angry red scorch mark and spoiling his aim. He found the offender and fired a bolt through his brain. By the time the smugglers had organised themselves, they were down another four; sixteen left.

Fire began to wing their way, an assortment of pistols and bolt-action rifles, Melor was becoming ever more conscious of the fire he was attracting. Snakes were rare, and their scales were quite expensive. On top of that, he was putting out the most weight of fire. He fire with his hands, reloading with his tail, and he was down half of his ammunition already. The smugglers had taken positions behind crates, and now the team were firing more conservatively, conscious of hitting the emerald. They didn't know which crate it was in. A smuggler raised his head from behind cover and the crack of the sniper rifle blew the back out of his head and he slumped back.

Temris unclipped a grenade from his belt, pausing as he saw the alarm on Melor's face.

"Look, jackass!" he pointed through a gap in the crates. Melor followed his gaze to a steel contained, where the smugglers were concentrated. "I figure that it's the most expensive thing here, they want to keep it safe. They put it in a crate, when shit hits the fan, they crowd around it. I throw a frag in, bob's your uncle."

"And Sssyna?"

"That's her problem." Temris shrugged, pulling the pin and lobbing the armed explosive over the crates. His aim was true and it clanked loudly on the concrete behind the crates where half the smugglers stood, and the space became a charnel house when the grenade went off. None there survived. Seven left.

One tried to surrender, rising with his arms raised, but Syna sunk a syringe into his back from a distance and he slumped forward on the crates, dead.
The others were smarter – something punched through the gap between plates and sunk into Temris' shoulder. "Shit." He exclaimed, as the blood began to coat his fur.

"You fine to keep going?" Melor asked him.

"Gah…yea, just…give me a moment." He was aware of the pain in his voice, but the emerald was what mattered. "Go…go on…I'll watch the door." He sat back against the crates, mind sharpened by the pain.

Melor shrugged, snaking out from behind the crates to flank one of the remaining groups, slinking round the crates and emptying his shotgun into them. One fired two shots before dying, one of them scoring along his arm and drawing blood, but with no serious damage. Three left.

The remaining three turned to run, Syna silenced one with a syringe, but her second flew wide. A second fell to a sniper bullet. The third thought himself free, but that belief was shattered as Wesker stepped out from behind one of the tanks and swung a hefty length of wood at the fleeing smuggler. The beam cracked loudly against his face and the man fell. Syna jogged over, jabbing him with a vial of poison to make sure.

"Not bad, but I thought you were a non-combatant?"

"Can't let you have all the fun." He told the lynx. "Now, let's get the crate open. He walked over to it, relaxed now the danger was past, and began fiddling with the various locks and devices he was fixing onto it. It took him ten minutes of piss-taking, but eventually the lid opened slowly, and he lifted out a gem, slightly larger than his fist, glowing a bright red.

Syna snatched it from him and sprinted away.

"Hey! What-" Wesker stopped, and looked down, seeing a blade protruding from his chest, wet with his own blood. Then he heard a gun discharge behind him, and later a loud crack as who he assumed was Jericho, hit the ground from the gantry.

"It'sss nothing persssonal…jussst businessss." He felt the blade drawn from him and he fell to the ground, body refusing to follow orders.

"It it'sss any consssolation…Temrisss is dead too."

Those were the last words he heard, before he died, unremembered, below Mobotropolis in a water processing plant.

Present day…

"The hatch won't open, so we're, moving to light explosives."

"Make sure you clear the area around it, we don't want the stuff in this warehouse to catch fire."

"Already working on it."

"How goes the work, officer?"

"Mr Prower! I did not expect you to-"

"Does that matter? How is work proceeding?"

Officer Brumlin stiffened, suitable chastened by the sixteen year old fox that stood in front of him. Brumlin was a panther, and unused to being bossed around by anyone, especially those younger than him but a good thirty years, but it did not bode well to insult your benefactor.

"We have found very little so far- a trapdoor, rusted shut, but apart from that we are going on records over fifty years old, Mr Prower."

Miles 'Tails' Prower was a vulpine, a fox. Standing at about four foot seven inches, he was about average Mobian height in his maturity. His fur, yellow, covered his entire body except for his chest and the tips of his twin tails, his namesakes, that swished impatiently behind him. Like most Mobians, he wore only shoes and gloves, but there was also the peculiarity of the chaos emerald he had in his chest.

"Well, have you sent anyone to the substation, like I requested?"

"Yes, Mr Prower, but the team hasn't called in yet, so I assume they haven't found anything."

"Never assume anything in this line of work, Brumlin, I have never found it particularly safe."