Author's notes: Wow, it's been awhile since I've uploaded anything here! Anyway, earlier this year I became enamored with the Lupin the Third series. While Jigen is by far my favorite character, I hold a very special place in my heart for Inspector Zenigata. Zenigata is someone who is exceedingly dedicated to his work, which just happens to be trying to catch a thief he probably never will. It's a very Roadrunner and Coyote situation—only this time the Coyote is trying to do something for the benefit of society. Let's face facts; as much as we all love Lupin, he is a lawbreaker. Can we really hold anything against Zenigata for wanting to do what's right? No. At the same time however, we all hope that the thief's adventures never end, and so we can't exactly cheer one or the other. While he might be a tad too obsessive sometimes—I have to respect Zenigata. He's given up his life in pursuit of trying to make sure justice is served. We know that he's also sacrificed his family life for this cause, as it's revealed in 'Mystery of Mamo' that he has a grown daughter that he never got to spend much time with. For all these reasons, and since he simply doesn't get as much of the limelight the other characters get, I decided to write a short little fanfic for him. The title is taken from the Eagle's song of the same name, as I thought a song about a man who just can't let go of an impossible dream fit Zenigata very well.
Boring stuff: All the Lupin characters are property of Monkey Punch, but this story is all mine. Feel free to distribute it—but do not change it in any way.
Desperado
by SnowCalico
I'm tired.
Who am I kidding? I've been tired for a very long time. I can't remember how long it's been since I haven't felt absolutely exhausted.
This evening finds me in Canada. As I settle into a lonely little booth in some cheap greasy restaurant that looks like every other cheap greasy restaurant I've been frequenting for my entire career, an old familiar feeling creeps up in the pit of my stomach. The feeling that says softly "You're on a wild goose chase, old boy."
Most of the time, I push it away. I try and think of something else. Usually I think about 'the case'. I always like to put all my effort into my work. I love my job, and I want to be the best I can possibly be at all times.
Tonight though, that workaholic's voice doesn't chime in to rescue me from the awful feeling. Instead the awful feeling has center stage, making me ask myself things that I'm not sure I want to dwell upon. Like… is it really worth it?
The simple answer, the answer I always give myself and others, is yes. I'm just doing the right thing -- because, after all, stealing is wrong. Those who continue to steal with total disregard for who they're hurting when they steal, should be punished. Typically I can satisfy myself with this answer.
Not tonight.
This evening, my mind wanders to the countless times that smart ass has gotten the best of me. I can see that aggravating smile of his as he chuckles like a child and dashes off with that day's prize, frequently leaving me in a humiliating position to be laughed at by my colleagues or passers by. Despite what they'd have you believe in the movies, the good guys don't always win.
Why?
I'm trying to do what's right. Trying to uphold the law. So why is it that bastard who always gets all the glory? Always gets all the attention and affection? His name in the damn paper?
Everyone loves Lupin.
Then, I think of her. God, how long has it been since I've seen her? A memory from a very long time ago surfaces in my mind…
"Daddy, why're you always away?" she looks at me with gentle brown eyes as she tugs curiously at one corner of my coat.
"Toshiko, you know the answer to that." I sigh, trying my best to ignore her sorrowful face as I examine some newly arrived paperwork "I've got a very important job—one that protects people."
"Okay." she nodded, and I thought hopefully it would end the questioning.
She was quiet for a few moments, and just stared at me as if she barely knew me. Of course, she hardly did. Then, in a tone full of worry, she asked me one more question.
"Daddy, when is your job going to be over?"
I had no suitable reply to give her. The best I could offer at the time was that I was trying to take care of one very significant thing, and I hoped to take care of it as soon as possible.
That was a good decade ago, and I still haven't come any closer to 'finishing' my job.
By now, my daughter has given up waiting for me. I shudder to imagine what she thinks of the man she was always told to refer to as her father, even though he was more like an occasional visitor in her home. If she hated me, I couldn't honestly blame her.
Right about then, the waitress come around to my booth with an order pad in her hand, sour look plastered on her weathered and overly made-up face. "What can I getcha, hun?"
I jump a little, so immersed in my thoughts that I don't even notice her approach.
"Oh! Uh, sorry about that! Didn't even see you comin'!" I laugh nervously "Erm, what's yer soup of the day?"
"Clam chowder." she says in a perfect monotone.
"Hm. How much is that?" I tense a little, praying that it's well under five bucks.
"Two-fifty."
After thanking all the deities I can think of, I reply that a clam chowder and some water would be fine. The waitress then robotically takes my menu and leaves me alone once more with my thoughts. This time however, I'm determined not to let them pull me back into depression. My eyes glance around hopefully for a distraction, until I spot the tiny old black and white television set propped up nearby on the front counter. It's the evening news.
"Security personnel at The Montreal Museum of Fine Arts are certainly on edge tonight, after receiving a letter from none other than the world famous thief Lupin the Third!"
My eyes widen as the scene turns from the gray-haired old anchorman to live feed from the aforementioned arts museum.
"We're taking you live now to where our reporter, Henri Bordeaux, has just gotten the latest information on the letter! What have you discovered, Henri?"
A sandy-haired twenty-something reporter is shown now, face about as serious as he can muster "Good evening! Well, it's just been revealed what Lupin is after! It seems as if the thief has his eyes on Picasso's Étreinte! We're going to try and get a word with the museum's curator, Monsieur Frederique Vignes!"
A very worried looking pudgy little man is wiping his bald head with a handkerchief as he's bombarded by microphones from various television stations.
"Monsieur Vignes, Monsieur Vignes!" the reporters battle to get the frightened little museum curator to look their way "What do you plan to do to protect the Picasso?"
"W-we will not let ourselves be made fools of by some common criminal!" the curator stuttered, clearly scared despite his words "We have state of the art security! Monsieur Lupin has met his match!"
I frowned at the man's idiocy. Didn't he read the damn daily paper? High tech didn't mean anything when you were dealing with Lupin. He could trick those stupid systems as well as he could trick any human being. I didn't realize my hand had balled into a fist on the table until it started to ache from the pressure I was putting on my palm.
"So there you have it, Monsieur Vignes has faith that the latest in technology will be enough to protect one of Picasso's masterpieces from the hands of Arsenne Lupin! Back to you, Phil—"
However the screen did not switch back to the anchorman in the newsroom. Instead, there was a few moments of static, followed shortly after by an annoying screeching sound. Then, surrounded by nothing but blackness, was the face I'd come to loathe more than anything in the world.
"Lupin!" I yelled so loudly that the cook and waitress both gave me evil looks—but at that moment I didn't give a damn.
"Greetings wonderful people of Montreal!" Lupin grinned "Let me just say, you have a lovely city! I've actually been here about a week sightseeing, and I must say I've fallen madly in love!"
I growled like a rabid dog at that television screen. More than anything I wanted to be able to leap through it and strangle that cocky smile off that rascally bastard's dumb face. I knew he was just taunting me. It may have seemed to the world as if he was trying to scare the museum folk, but I knew exactly whom the message was intended for.
"Alas," he put a hand to his head in mock drama "All good things must come to an end. I must leave your fair city! Hence why I'll be taking that enchanting little Picasso painting in your fine arts museum at precisely midnight tonight!"
His expression changed back into a smile of pure haughtiness as he placed his hands in his pockets and winked at the camera "After all, who doesn't want a little souvenir to remember their vacations by?"
By now, the entire booth was shaking along with my body. There was a vein throbbing like mad on my forehead, the same one that always throbbed whenever that conceited little prick did this to me. At this point the cook and waitress were whispering to each other and pointing at me, probably thinking I was an escaped lunatic or something of that nature. Then came the kicker.
"Oh, and I just want to send a little 'Bonne Nuit!' to a very special friend of mine whom I know is out on his lonesome this evening— heya Pops!" he waves giddily to the camera like a child who knows he's going to get away with something "I know you've got a busy schedule of moping and obsessing to take care of—but I'm sure you'll find time to come and visit, right?"
I couldn't control myself any longer. I stood up at the booth and slammed my fists down on the table "You're damn right I will, you little asshole! Embarrasing me on live TV! This time, you're not gonna get the best of me!"
I don't even wait for his little broadcast to finish before rushing towards the door of the restaurant, one hand going for the door as the other fumbles in my coat pocket for my car keys.
"Hey, you gonna eat this chowder or what?" the waitress sneers moments before I'm out the door, clutching a steaming bowl of soup in one hand.
"Save it for me!" I call over my shoulder, only really half thinking about what I'm saying.
My formerly somber expression has turned into one mixed with anger and determination. Faster then most can blink I'm in my car, driving like a man possessed down the streets of Montreal in the direction of the museum. One hand is on the wheel, while the other gently strokes at the pair of handcuffs in my pocket.
I'm still tired.
But that'll just have to wait.
The End