Author: Manda
Category: General
Pairing/Warning: canon I/E (where she is the way she is and he's oblivious)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: None.
Notes: It has a mangaish feel and Elgara, so I declare it manga!fic.
Good Morning
The sun climbs up over the clouds and Ilpalazzo watches it outside the hotel that bares his name. It's been so long since he's been called by his real name that he almost doesn't remember it now and believes that they named the hotel after him. The hotel predates his birth by several years.
He's not underground like usual, he's walking along the city streets among those ignorant masses in school uniforms, business suits, dress clothes. The green wig and the military uniform are stored in a room that the girls don't know about, and he is nothing more than an unusually tall man with a normal Japanese businessman's suit, tie, and short haircut.
There's a 7-11 across the street from the Ilpalazzo hotel. He strides into it casually, pours some coffee and picks up a pre-packaged rice ball off the shelves. The cashier's nametag says "Hiroyuki"; this Hiroyuki pushes the bagged rice at what he thinks is just a normal salaryman, mumbles "Thank you". Ilpalazzo can't help but think that the poor man is underpaid and underutilized and that in the future this sort of person will be placed in the right sort of job. When ACROSS takes over-but no, he tells himself, shaking his head, it's not time to dream yet. He dreams into his speeches to the girls, who don't know the half of the real battle. It doesn't matter what he says to them; they're just pawns in a game that's too large and complicated for them to comprehend.
Something in him nags that Excel knows what he's doing and what happened in the past, but he kicks the thought away in his carefully metered step, briefcase swinging beside him.
The day's events are fairly normal: a meeting with someone he does not know by name but who has promised to provide him with more technology cheaply. A daily report from the girls at two where he can relax and not pay attention. Another meeting with a gentleman who will pay for certain research. But first, he thinks as he swings his briefcase alongside him, it's time for that daily ritual. It's what keeps him going from day to day; keeps him focused on the task ahead of him. It also takes care of the bills.
He walks up the stairs of the building that shoots up higher than most of the rest, not in the slightest winded by the steep climb. The receptionist doesn't bother to look up as he takes an elevator up to the fifth floor. A spare office with a desk, a chair, and some office supplies awaits him as it does every day. He swivels the chair around and sits down in it slowly. He gently sits the briefcase on the desk. The phone rings.
"Good morning, this is the Department of City Security."
Good Night
Another day, another failed mission.
Another trip down that pit, another new species met. Today's had bunny ears and a long snout. And claws.
Excel won the battle against it, of course. She swam through the sewers of Fukuoka, ended up in a lake in the middle of a shopping district somewhere. The ignorant masses with their brand name-emblazoned bags pointed when a young, perky blonde-haired girl emerged from the depths, gasping for air. She found her way back home after wandering through the fish market at least twice. Menchi won't come near her now since she smells like something fresh out of the Pacific. She had to kick cats away from her all the way home, so she has cat fur mottled to her clothes too. But now she's had a shower, and doesn't regret any of the ordeal (of course), even the scratches on her neck. Ot was a fitting punishment for failure. The papers of the ignorant masses speak of the freedom organizations in other countries (they call them "terrorist"! Excel knows better) and the heavy punishments other operatives face when they fail. Her Lord Ilpalazzo is merciful, and ACROSS's punishments for failure are nowhere near death or torture. It proves to her that someday, when Fukuoka and probably Japan after that is his, he will truly make this country a better and happier place.
The moonlight slides through the open window and she's standing next to it, thrift-store terrycloth bathrobe blocking out the light in an Excel-shaped silhouette. Swimming for such a long time is exhausting, and she's exhausted, but in a sweet sort of way that makes her dreamy and not at all wanting to go to bed. Hyatt is sleeping, or dead (maybe both?) and Elgara drank herself to sleep, murmuring about Ilpalazzo and a few other names that Excel didn't recognize. It's wretched, Excel thinks, the emphasis that woman places on sex.
Even Menchi is asleep, dreaming of dog biscuits or death or whatever it is emergency food supplies dream about.
"There's nothing prettier than moonlight over the city I and Lord Ilpalazzo love so much," she murmurs to herself. She leans out over the gilded metal railing and wonders if somewhere, across the city, maybe even underground still, a green-haired man gazes out beyond the physical constructions around him and thinks toward the same glorious future that she does.
She looks at the moon again.
He must, she thinks, and closes the doors out to the balcony. Goodnight, Fukuoka.