Chapter 6: "The Path of Sincerity"
notes: chapter title from the calligraphy I noticed in Zenigata's apartment, in the Tokyo Burning movie.
I got a little weird with the POV towards the end, you'll have to forgive me.
As per usual, Zenigata Koichi ran to work. He spent the morning in kendo practice, bleary from too little sleep, until finally enough whacks from the practice swords woke him up. Then he ran.
He'd always been good for long distance, although not much of a sprinter. Like a train, he built up a head of steam as he went, until the ups and downs of the city flew by all the same to him. When he'd worked in construction, before finally joining the police, he always used to be the one sent out on errands. He'd been the fastest, and it never winded him.
The temperature had dropped overnight, and his breath clouded the air as he ran. A few familiar faces waved, but he wasn't paying attention.
How could he have been so reckless! Why didn't he ever think before jumping?
He'd slept fitfully last night, tormented by the phantom touch of hands against his cheeks—the sound of Inspector Mori's voice, the way he laughed, the memory of his body pressed against Zenigata's back.
He'd dreamed about his future, and in the dream he'd ruined it all—in the dream, the Inspector led him out in front of the entire force and revealed Zenigata's stupid mistake, and just like that, the world had closed off for him. Now everyone knew that he was the wrong kind of man. He wouldn't be considered for promotions. That idiot two desks over would get to sergeant before him, because he already had a wife and a child with another one on the way. In his dream, Zenigata watched someone else accept the medal of honor, while he stood in the corner fetching coffee.
He'd come awake in a sweat, furiously reminding himself that the Inspector hadn't turned him in. Or—hadn't yet …
What had he meant about regrets? What did he mean—and what did he want? Ever since the Inspector arrived, Zenigata had been confused and fascinated and wrong-footed, unable to stop wondering: Is this it? Does he mean it? What do I do?
It occurred to him, as the cold air puffed out of his mouth under a cold autumn sky, that maybe Jirokichi had sent Zenigata away last night because he was worried about Zenigata reporting on him. But that didn't make any sense. It would look just as bad for Zenigata, if not worse, considering he had no reputation and no accolades and no rank of his own…
Zenigata clocked into work, after changing out of his running shirt into the uniform shirt he kept in his small personal locker. He checked in with his supervisor. He studied the bulletin, looking for new notes and posters from last night. He fumbled his answer as per usual when Mariya asked him how he was doing.
It would be another uninspired day of directing traffic and patrolling—no secret missions or firefights today. Of course, traffic and patrolling had to be done! But somewhere in the bottom of his heart, he already longed for the thrill he'd gotten a taste of. The way you longed for a cigarette, sometimes, even though you promised your mother you wouldn't smoke anymore.
He'd come home from that train ride smelling like Jirokichi—like Inspector Mori. Just like the man had said.
"Wake up, Zenigata-kun," said one of the lieutenants, prodding him as he passed. "You need some more coffee or something?"
Zenigata shook himself. "No, I'm fine," he said. He needed to get it together. If he'd been walking around like this at the construction job, he'd probably have fallen in a pit and killed himself.
"You gotta look alive," the lieutenant said. "Some kind of fed just showed up before you got here. He's in the Commissioner's office, talking about who knows what."
Hairs lifted at the back of Zenigata's neck. "What kind of a fed?"
"PSIA, I think," the lieutenant said. "Commish's been on the phone with them all week, or so I hear."
Oh. Oh wow. Was it about the Guanyin? It had to be, didn't it?
Maybe they were here to check that everything was correct and ready to go.
Maybe—he imagined for a moment—they were here to congratulate him on the important work he'd done with Inspector Mori. He imagined himself in the Commissioner's office, shaking hands with the head of national security. Then Inspector Mori would proudly tell them how indispensable he had been, and how brave, and swear to quit the force if they didn't recommend Zenigata for a promotion…
There was a treacherous part of Zenigata's mind that wanted to consider all the other ways Inspector Mori could reward him. The man had his own office, after all, with a door that locked. Zenigata ruthlessly clamped down on that train of thought and forced himself to be practical. Inspector Mori wasn't interested. He'd made that clear last night. Or, not exactly clear … In fact, rather ambiguous. But he hadn't—he wouldn't—
Anyway, the PSIA wouldn't really have come all this way just to talk to some rookie. Almost certainly, they were here to check in with the inspector, and arrange the trap he'd alluded to last night.
"…Hey," Zenigata said. "Have you seen Inspector Mori anywhere around today?"
The lieutenant looked up. "The auditor? Uh, no. Now that you mention it. Not a bit. Why? You need him for something?"
"It's nothing," Zenigata said. "Have a good shift."
Inspector Mori's office was empty. Had been all morning, according to Tanaka, who glared at the door the whole time while clutching the folders and office supplies he'd been forced to vacate from the room when Inspector Mori showed up.
A strange, unformed dread began welling at the back of Zenigata's throat.
Lupin the Third approached the building he'd destroyed only a few days earlier with a bright whistle, neatly fixed up in his stolen coat and hat and face. The stoop was cordoned off with enough yellow rope to strangle a horse, and a caution notice was pasted over the frame of the door.
Based on the rough timeline implied by the Commissioner, Lupin sensed there was a limited amount of time before the investigation changed hands, and then this place would be crawling with feds. Who knew how fast they'd be able to haul the machine out of there, once they put their weight behind it. No, better go now, while the going was good. No time, as they say, like the present!
Anyway, at some point they were going to open up that evidence locker, and then all hell would break loose.
He cut the papering over the door with a pocket knife, slicing down like he was unwrapping a package. He paused only once to give a suspicious neighbor his most authoritative smile and flash his stolen badge. Other than that, citizens gave the cordon a wide berth whenever they passed, already used to it.
It immediately struck Lupin as too quiet on the inside of the collapsed timber two-story. He half expected to find demolition workers sorting out the rubble or something—at least a rough sleeper making camp, someone . But even so, it wasn't that strange for the place to be empty. He wasn't sure why the silence unsettled him.
He crept through the dusty darkness, the only daylight filtering in through windows wherever the gaze of those touched the hall. There was water on the floor, ruining the remaining unbroken wood wherever it sat. There must have been a broken pipe or something—maybe someone left a sink running when they evacuated. On second thought, he could see why maybe no one was inside.
Picking his way down to the rear of the building where the Time Capsule had broken through the fabric of space-time and also the ceiling, Lupin found himself on edge all the same. He hugged the statue under his jacket a little closer to his body.
The final room, when he eased into it, was a little better lit than the hall had been. Light poured down through the broken floorboards above, illuminating the detritus that had rolled down and shattered during the initial chaos. There was a neat chalk outline where the late Jirokichi had been discovered, Amitabha, etc., and next to it the peace lily hanging on to its remaining dirt for dear life.
The Time Capsule almost glowed, it was so white against the dinge. The door lay open and waiting, ramp down. Lupin climbed it, feeling exposed with every step. Up, up, and nothing happened. He stepped inside, and still nothing happened.
Okay. He set the Guanyin in her paper bag down on the floor and examined the console. If he'd understood the younger Mamoh's lecture on linguistic algorithms—which he had, of course, he was a genius—then the trick was to use the command line like this…
Receipt tape spat out with each command line he entered. He double checked his spelling as he went.
October 5th 1975, the same day he'd left… but the temporal target… should he use the pre-set target? He glanced at the machine mounted at the edge of the console, where a bit of dried blood was flecked on the tip of a needle. He already suspected that Zenigata had accidentally locked the targeting program onto himself somehow in the initial struggle. Was that his blood? It wasn't Lupin's…
Every nerve in his body revolted as an arm came out of nowhere and caught him around the throat, hooking him in a clumsy sort of chokehold. Another arm thrust him by the wrist into the needle of that nasty little machine, ripping a line of blood along the back of his hand. The machine lit up green as he tore his stinging hand away.
There was a rough, manic laugh in his ear, but Lupin threw himself backwards and toppled the man behind him, twisting free of the elbow around his throat. Hands snatched at his clothing, but with another shove Mamoh Kyosuke came loose, staggering back into his own databanks, still laughing.
"Finally!" he crowed, one visible eye wide and wild with triumph. "I have you now, you wretched worm! Nowhere on Earth is safe for you now, Lupin the Third!"
Lupin's hand went to his shoulder holster, and paused.
"Looking for this?" Mamoh asked. He lifted his arm, waving the Walther like a toy.
A cold chill dripped down the back of Lupin's neck. He stepped back, falling into a casual stance, and smiled. "Aw man, you're faster than I thought you were, Kyosuke!"
They were enclosed in the tightest space imaginable. There was only one way out, which took him directly past Mamoh. Even the worst shot in the world wouldn't need eight rounds at this range. Would he fire in here? Normally Lupin would bet against it, but that light in the man's eye… he wasn't so confident.
"How's your double doing, Kyosuke?" Lupin asked. "I suppose you're still here, so he must be fine!"
Mamoh's mouth twisted into a grimace of hatred. "You thought you'd be rid of me a couple decades early, did you Lupin? I should have known you'd pull something so low, you craven bastard."
"Hey," Lupin said, wrinkling his nose. "You're the one who started this—"
"I spent the last day desperately trying to keep my own younger self alive, despite the damage you did! Well, you'll never get to him now. I've put him somewhere safe to recover." The grimace became an equally hateful smile. "He'll spend the rest of his life hunting you, just like I've done—ever since I woke up in that horrible little morgue with your name in my mouth, Lupin the third!"
"Oh." Lupin spared a precious moment to consider this information, then smacked an open palm with his fist. " Oh, I see! Mamoh, have you ever stopped to consider that—"
Lupin dove while Mamoh was waiting for the next word. Under the man's raised arm, hands first, tucking himself into a roll down the ramp, pushing up on all fours as a gunshot split the air and threw up splinters to the left of him.
That asshole had his gun! And what was worse, Lupin had left Momoh's shitty old pistol in his bedside table at the hotel. He wasn't the type to hoard weapons for no reason, and it wasn't even a particularly nice make, so he'd thought...
Lupin twisted right and scrambled towards the wall, behind the blindside of the capsule door. What did he have to work with? No gun, no particular gadgets, there was a knife in his sock but he'd have to get pretty damn close to use it—
"Lupin, come out here and die with some dignity, you rat!"
Meanwhile, Mamoh still had seven rounds in that thing…
He could just make out the toe of a brown shoe on the ramp, maybe the tip of the Walther. Mamoh wasn't taking any chances that Lupin might have kept his gun, staying safely in the entrance of his machine. Lupin pressed himself to the crumbling brick and inched closer to the machine.
"If you think you're getting back inside my time machine alive, Lupin, you're a fool!"
Pressing his body to the gleaming white metal, Lupin followed the curve of the capsule until he reached the shadow beneath the ramp. Metal creaked above him as Mamoh dared to step out a fraction further into the light.
He took a deep, slow breath. Then he reached up and snatched Mamoh's ankle, throwing his whole weight into dragging it down. Another gunshot, blind, into the ceiling this time, and Mamoh staggered enough that Lupin was able to catch him by the cloak and haul him over the side of the ramp.
They went down in a pandemonium of knees and scratching nails and fluttering hemlines, and hit the ground hard. Lupin took the brunt of the fall on his back, despite his best efforts. The breath punched out of him where his shoulder slammed into unforgiving floorboards. He'd barely had a chance to get his arms under him when Mamoh hit him like a trebuchet, more rage than good sense, and they went rolling.
He wished for a smoke bomb, a poisoned lapel flower, any of the sorts of tricks he could have whipped up for himself at home with his usual toolkit. All this kicking and clawing and straining with shaking muscles to restrain a gun in someone else's hand was really not his style, you know? Not very gentlemanly. It seemed unlikely to end well for him, too. Sweat beaded around his false face as his arms started to buckle.
A sudden third shot rang out, shocking in the dark little world of their hissing struggle, but there was no kick against the arm Lupin held at bay, no smell of powder, no muzzle flash.
"Drop the gun! Next round I fire goes through your spine!"
Zenigata. Lupin's heart thumped; a strange fizzy lightness filled him.
Mamoh reared back and twisted, lining up the sights of Lupin's Walther on the figure in the door—Lupin drew up and jabbed him in the stomach. Another shot went off from the pistol— Zenigata's pistol, fortunately, and not the Walther—and Mamoh didn't drop anything but he did pull away from Lupin at last.
They both retreated warily, panting and clutching their various wounds. Lupin finally got the knife into his hand, and Mamoh raised the Walther. But Mamoh couldn't seem to decide which target he ought to shoot first. The unsteady barrel pointed at where Zenigata stood in the doorframe, while his eyes kept jumping to Lupin.
"I thought your wretched little goon was going to shoot me?" Mamoh remarked. "What, getting cold feet?"
Lupin took a glance at Zenigata, then risked a longer look. At first the younger man had looked as solid as a rock in his crisp uniform and powerful fighting stance. But a more careful study revealed the slight pinched quality to his expression, the awkward placement of his hands on the pistol grip. Like he'd be more comfortable holding just about anything else…
Oh crap. The truth dawned on Lupin. He doesn't know how to aim that thing.
In the next half second that Mamoh's attention was turned towards Zenigata, Lupin took a hail-mary and rushed the man, knife in hand. The blade made contact with Mamoh's thumb on the hammer of the pistol, and the momentum of Lupin's swing knocked it loose from the flinching hands. Mamoh howled. There was no use in Lupin trying to dive after his Walther, though; Mamoh caught him by the back of the collar and threw him down again.
"Hhgk!" Lupin glared through one watering eye at the man pinning him. "If this jacket was actually mine, I'd make you pay the dry-cleaning bill."
That didn't seem to have much impact on Mamoh, so Lupin tipped his head back and shouted at Zenigata while doing his best not to get throttled. "You can't shoot? You brought a gun but you can't shoot?"
"I haven't done the training courses yet!" Zenigata shouted back. "You can't practice until you've done the training courses!"
"Where did you even get a gun, then!"
"It's from your hotel room," Zenigata snarled, "I figured you'd have lied about turning it in, just like you lied about everything else."
Lupin considered this. "Yeah," he said, "that's fair."
Then Mamoh tried to elbow him in the face, and they were back to grappling on the floor.
"Good grief," Lupin thought he heard Zenigata say, although he wasn't paying much attention to anything but the newly reduced capacity of his windpipe at the moment. His vision started to fuzz.
There was a sudden hollow-sounding thock from the back of the skull above him, and then Mamoh keeled over sideways, releasing the grip he'd gotten on Lupin's throat. Lupin wheezed, blinking up at the unhappy face of the young man who had just coldcocked his assailant.
"You could have just shot him," Lupin rasped, "at this range even you'd have had a hard time missing."
"Oh?" Zenigata demanded, "You want me to shoot a man for you, Inspector Mori? Is that what you want?" He lifted the gun, training it directly on Lupin's forehead. "At this rate I ought to just shoot you, you—you—bastard!"
Lupin blinked at the barrel. He'd heard that before, but it was the first time he'd gotten it from someone he hadn't banged.
"How could you do that!" Zenigata shouted, "Do you think I'm an idiot? It's not enough you lied to me, now you made me complicit in whatever the hell this is. Theft? Treason? How could you leave me to hang like this!"
Lupin stared up at him. There was an uneasy knot growing in his throat that had nothing to do with almost being strangled.
"Zeni-chan, it's not like that," he said, in his sweetest voice. "You've never been in any real danger, I wouldn't do that to you—"
"I stole that thing for you!" Zenigata said, swiping the air with the barrel of the pistol. "When this comes out, even if they don't arrest me, my career is trash!"
"Zeni-chan—"
"Shut up!" Zenigata shouted. "Don't call me that!" He grimaced, and then he un-chambered the pistol, tossing the magazine across the room before shoving the gun into his pocket. "I'm not gonna shoot you, because that's not the kind of man I want to be. But we're going back to the station, and I'm turning us both in."
The lump in Lupin's throat solidified. If Zenigata did that now, there would never be a Zenigata on the force to chase him. For all the years he'd complained about it, the prospect now filled him with a kind of hollow ache. He'd have no trouble escaping prison here, but he could only save himself if Zenigata refused to be saved.
Zenigata gritted his teeth and stomped over to where Mamoh was moaning on the floor. Out came the familiar handcuffs. Zenigata avoided even looking at Lupin the whole time.
Some flutter of frustration or anxiety hatched Lupin's throat. This wasn't how their little capers were supposed to go! Zenigata got a couple good shots in, Lupin played him for a fool, and they both went home satisfied. Zenigata didn't get hurt. He bounced back like some kind of deranged rubber, ready for the next round, invigorated by it, even. Failure never mattered. Everyone knew he was the best—or at least, everyone would know—
"You musta thought I was such an idiot," Zenigata muttered, and with a neat click, he locked Mamoh's wrists together. "A real sucker. Stupid me, for thinking…"
Lupin eased himself back across the floor, since Zenigata wasn't looking at him anyway. The Walther had slid underneath a bit of broken ceramic, and it was easy enough to reach.
"Zenigata-kun," he said, not unkindly, "you really shouldn't have thrown those bullets away."
The younger man whirled. Lupin held his Walther out, not pointed at anyone in particular, but clearly ready to be.
Lupin tipped his head towards the Time Capsule. "Bring that jerk up the ramp for me, would you? I'm not in my best shape right now."
Zenigata looked down at the gun. His lip curled. "Coward," he said. "I should have known. You'd rather kill me than face justice, is that it? What happened to never regretting? Was that all a lie too?"
"No, Zenigata-kun. It wasn't." He nodded at the capsule again. "Up the ramp please, chop-chop."
He thought for a moment that Zenigata might actually refuse. If it came to shooting him… Well, Lupin could aim somewhere non-vital. He didn't want to think past that. Luckily Zenigata's shoulders slumped and he bent down to pull the still unconscious Mamoh up from the floor. It was lucky, nevermind the weird pang Lupin got from seeing Zenigata's expression go flat.
Lupin went up the ramp first, carefully keeping Zenigata in his sights. Zenigata hauled Mamoh over his shoulder to carry him, stopping only at the entrance of the capsule when Lupin gestured for him to.
The usually bright and determined face was drawn, colorless, the expressive mouth pinched. Lupin felt a wild urge to reach out his hand and smooth all of it away, to grab him and make him be himself again. If only he could. If only he knew how.
Zenigata set the lump that was Mamoh down on the threshold, and then paused as his eye caught the paper bag containing the yellow sheen of carved jade. Lupin followed his gaze.
"Ah," Lupin sighed, and deftly plucked her out of her wrapping. "Her. All this for such a creepy thing."
"For that?" Zenigata demanded. "That's what all this was about?"
"You say that like you have any idea what she's worth," Lupin replied. "But this wouldn't be the first time I made a real mess of things for a lady." Her cold weight balanced on his palm, with her small hand thrust out like it was warding Zenigata away, but her grimace faced Lupin. Her angry hollow eyes, her mocking mouth.
His brows began to draw together. He turned her in the faint light, considering her with new eyes.
He looked up. Zenigata stared at him, furious and defiant, chin up.
Lupin waved him back, gesturing for him to step back down the ramp. Reluctantly, the younger man retreated.
"I do need the capsule," Lupin said, rapping the metal beside his head with his knuckles. "It's actually not supposed to be here, and I couldn't leave it if I wanted to. Sorry."
"Don't waste your apologies," Zenigata said. "I don't care."
"Oh Zeni-chan, I really wish you understood…" Lupin looked down at the statue one last time. All this for such a thing…
Then he smiled, wound back his shoulder, and called out: "Catch!"
Zenigata's eyes widened. The Guanyin glittered in a shaft of broken sunlight, arcing through the air, perfect and impossible, tumbling.
Lupin hit the button that retrieved the ramp. Pistons hissed. Green lights flashed. Down below, Zenigata staggered as he caught the Guanyin against his chest, wrapping her tight in his arms without a second thought.
As the ramp slowly rose, he looked up and met Lupin's gaze with wide eyes.
He was so young—so young, and strangely beautiful, and already gone. The sentimental part of Lupin the Third ached with pleasant longing at the realization. There was nothing sweeter than the dream you couldn't catch.
"Tell them you stole it back from me!" he called. "Tell them it's important!"
Zenigata jolted. "Wait—!"
Lupin leaned forward and waved. "Arrivederci! Don't worry about paying me back for the tavern the other day! Au revoir, à la prochaine!"
He hit the enter button on the console, and felt the air begin to shake.
His hand fell as the ramp snapped shut between them. "See you soon," he said, and then grabbed on for dear life.
The first time Zenigata met Lupin the Third, he didn't think much of him.
A criminal. Cocky bastard, all flash and guile, nothing underneath. But also: Sergeant Zenigata's ticket to the big time, the landmark case to propel him to the top of the heap, the collar to make him the youngest Inspector working in Tokyo. He'd had visions of handcuffs dancing in his eyes like dollar signs since the notice on the bulletin the week before.
When the news started to get around that there was a phantom thief prowling the estates of Japan's wealthiest citizens—and some wealthy expat types who just lived there—Zenigata had felt a tingle on the back of his neck. He was twenty-eight, impatient, freshly divorced, and reckless. It had to be his case. It was going to be his case.
Back then, nobody had known much. Local police departments didn't communicate with each other often, let alone nation to nation. The work was newspaper clippings from the world news section, translated from French to English to Japanese. Hours of unpaid overtime, studying the surviving case files of Lupin the First's exploits in Japan. Witness interviews. Scene investigation. Bit by bit, he'd started to put together his profile.
This was his only chance. He had to hit it big with this one, he had to show the chief and all his seniors that he was too good at this job not to be promoted. They'd have to plug their noses and let him have the badge even though he wasn't a family man, even though he was only supporting himself, even though he was too demanding and too disrespectful and too arrogant. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life being told how to do his job.
And, maybe, there was a bit of that old familiar yearning. The midnight duels, the rooftop chases—the dreams he'd cherished of daring-do, long ago.
He thought of Jirokichi there, as he sometimes did. Time had worn the memory smooth. And yet, sometimes, he remembered the way it had felt. Not the actual words, not the specific sounds. That night when he'd confessed his ambition, the cold way Jirokichi had rebuked him, and the mysterious, bittersweet way that Jirokichi had accepted him. The excitement. The dread. The feeling—lingering, even now. And remembering this, he would allow himself to smoke a second cigarette in the dusty police archives. Why not? There was nobody left to tell him to stop.
(There had been an investigation, of course.)
(In the end, for the sake of the Mori family, he'd testified to most of the truth. He had arrived on the scene. There had been a fight in progress. Mori Jirokichi threw the item in question to him just before the machine detonated. No, he didn't know when the suspect had obtained it. No, he didn't know what the suspect had wanted with it. Yes, he believed Mori Jirokichi to be dead.)
No, the first time he met Lupin the Third, he hadn't thought much of him.
It was a party at a mansion—a bunch of college nonsense, Zenigata didn't bother with any of it—and he'd tracked Lupin there on a hunch. It matched the pattern. A rich man with government connections, a scientist whose work was deliberately hush-hush: just the kind of target a spy would jump for. Oh, back then they hadn't known what Lupin was after, yet.
It wasn't all jewelry and oil paintings, back then. There had been weapons. Deadly techniques. State secrets. Even if he was only selling them, Lupin had been interested enough to invest.
In the end, Zenigata had managed to catch an actual spy at that party, and the brass had liked that a lot better than some phantom thief. He'd gotten the promotion.
But it galled him that he'd missed the target he aimed at, regardless of what else he'd hit. The tail of that jacket, slipping through his fingers like water; the laughter rattling sourceless in the night. How dare that little creep skip out on him? Who did he think he was? Inspector Zenigata was the descendant of a genius!
The second time they met, however, the little rat slipped through his fingers just as easily.
And the third.
And… so on.
Each time he came closer. It drew him in like a whirlpool, that maddening feeling that he was so close, that this time—that the next time—
He was haunted by Lupin's laughter. The memory of him in the rain, in the dark, standing just inches away from Zenigata's grasping hand. The way that the wretched man shoved his hands in his pockets, bent forward, and smiled, knowing that Zenigata's leg was pinned and relishing the opportunity to watch him thrash. The curl of his lips, the gleam in his eyes, his dull leather boots shining with rainwater just inches from Zenigata's fingertips.
In that moment, Zenigata understood that what he wanted wasn't to arrest Lupin the Third. It was to tear him open, consume him, crack his bones open and suck out the marrow. And Lupin looked down at him, grinning, and understood. It was like they were seeing each other for the first time. It was like they had always known each other.
Then he was gone, leaving only the lashing rain, and the cold that burned along Zenigata's back like fire.
Zenigata went back to the usual bathhouse in Tokyo, but neither the water nor the knowing hands of other men washed the fire off him.
Lupin disappeared for random periods of time, which corresponded suspiciously to certain headlines in the world news section of the paper. Slowly, Zenigata's desk began to fill up with the clippings. When Lupin was back in Japan, there would be a moment of quiet in the daily news, and then a splash. Every time the pulse of his heart in his throat was a little stronger.
And then one day, he realized he had started to look forwards to the sound of groaning in the office, because it meant the case was live again.
They raced across rooftops under howling wind, raindrops stinging bare skin, tiles breaking and shooting away under their feet. They met in vaults, in smoke and flashes of demolition, in webs of burning light. Inspector Zenigata was alive with it, electrified, invulnerable while he ran.
He thought less often of Jirokichi. Little by little. Still, sometimes, when the light of a streetlamp caught the dark the right way, or when the smell of old coffee struck him off guard, he remembered. He thought, at times like those, that he hated the man. Hated him for running, for dying, for being a traitor when Zenigata had trusted him and acting like a hero when Zenigata hadn't. For never explaining.
In the most perilous hours of the night, Zenigata wondered: could he still be alive? We never found the body. If I saw him again, would I know him?
Would I want to?
It had been youthful infatuation, that was all—three days in the whirl, caught despite himself, lucky to escape. No one had ever believed in Zenigata before that, not the way he wanted to be believed in. Someone who thought he could do it, who saw the pure and brilliant vision, someone who lived in that high, adventurous world and thought Zenigata belonged there too. It had been the way the man danced out of reach, dragging Zenigata along in his wake and drawing him down. Like a whirlpool.
Three years into Lupin the Third, and Zenigata had begun to style himself nemesis. At the sound of Lupin's voice, all other thoughts dropped away. Each heist, a little closer. Each quiet period, a little more insufferable.
When Jigen came along, he watched Jigen too. You can learn a lot about a man by the company he keeps. By watching the things he says to others, but never to you. Noticing the moments of restraint, the absence of motion, the minute stutters in the well-oiled machine. You can learn a lot about a man.
Six dead boring months he watched the jail cell where they put Lupin the Third. With a commendation on his shoulder, cup noodles in his hand, and an empty future stretching before him, he'd begun to think… alright, that was fun, but when's the next one?
It's hard to crack marrow from the other side of steel bars. The predictability of the days left his palms itching.
When the last hand was revealed, when the nasty trick was laid out in a flourish like cards before the dealer's seat, he couldn't even be angry. Not even ashamed to have lost, as they hauled the body-double out of the electric chair, scrambling before someone flipped the switch. Zenigata could only be thrilled.
That was the end of him. When he looks back on himself, he realizes that's the moment he lost. Forever after that, when he thinks of Lupin the Third, he is laughing with his hat clutched against his head, watching the wings of escape rise into the sky. He is grasping an ankle mid-flight, leaping from a balcony, alight and alive with the chase. He is Inspector Zenigata, no first name, the man who chases madness.
Everyone knows that worldly passions lead to pain. Wanting is the source of suffering; a turbulent heart is never at rest. But if you accept the pain—if you take it into yourself and let it fill you to the brim, wash through you in a crash—at the other end you may find…
Yeah, he's crazy, Jigen said, but ain't it kinda our fault we made him that way?
…Whatever it is that puts his heart in his mouth, at the sound of Lupin's voice.
Four years. He collected witness statements, rescued-damsels, and grateful fathers. There was a change in the wind, or maybe only some change in himself. He felt ashamed, now, when he pushed too far and accidentally put some civilian in the line of fire. What kind of man was Zenigata, if he cared less than a criminal about such things? Isn't he supposed to be the good one, the noble one, the face of justice?
He struggled to understand. He is still struggling.
How dare you make me the bad one. How dare you be so good, when I need you to be evil. How dare you be so wicked, when I want you to be good.
Five years into Lupin the Third, and Zenigata was beginning to realize with a horrible pit in his stomach that he had… a type.
Sometimes, Zenigata envied Jigen. To be that close to the fire, but rarely burned; to be smiled at in that secret way, to be relied upon by brilliance. Even to be strung along sometimes, knowing that your faith would be rewarded. To see the towels in the sink, to smell the sharp burn of old coffee—
But the years are changing him, and as he changes, his place in Lupin's story is changing too. Lupin knows him, too, now. It's terrible to be known. It's wonderful. He hates it. He is grateful. Now sometimes he too sees the shape of the master plan when all the fallen pawns and castles lay behind him. There is a place where he fits, a place laid for his arrival. There's his own face, through the window, winking at him.
Eight years. Cagliostro. They sleep in a catacomb.
He's heard of old French romances. He knows the word chivalry. He understands that sometimes you love something so much you will die for it gladly, with your white panache on your sleeve, and you will be grateful to have been given the chance. That you can love something so much and never touch it, is the greatest pleasure and torment known to history.
Nine years into Lupin the Third, and he discovers to his dismay that he doesn't have a type. It's just Lupin.
It's always been just Lupin.
There was no remaining molecule of air that did not rattle like the teeth nearly coming loose in Lupin's jaw. In the darkness the ship's green lights multiplied, like sickly stars, and the edges of the walls seemed to double and pull apart.
"Wh-at's goo-ooing oo-on?" Lupin demanded, as the turbulence shook him like popped corn in a kettle.
On the floor, cuffed, shaken into consciousness, and probably having a worse time of it (though Lupin wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic right then), Mamoh hissed at him. "It's still tracking your blood, idiot! What day did you set it for?"
"The day we left!"
"Idiot!" Mamoh said again, "the last moment you were in that timestream was the moment you left in this machine! It's fighting to occupy the same space as itself because that's the last place you were!"
Something popped ominously in the depths of the machine above them.
"So what happens now?" Lupin shouted over the turbulence.
"I don't know!" Mamoh said. "I've never been stupid enough to try this!"
Another pop, and then a cascade of them, each sounding more important than the last. Pressurized air hissed somewhere in the cabin. The outlines of Lupin's fingers began to double and separate. The air smelled like Tuesday, but he could taste Wednesday on the back of his tongue.
And then, like a bottle of champagne shooting off its own cork, the sound and texture of the world broke around them, and the machine stopped shaking.
Unfortunately, it also had caught fire.
"Yee-ikes!" Lupin said, snatching his sleeve back from the toasted console and beating out the smolder with his free hand. "I didn't come all this way just to be boiled egg yolk. Come on."
He slammed the button for the ramp and hauled Mamoh up by the cuffs, tossing him out with little fanfare. Smoke was billowing over the doorway, black and acrid. It didn't look like a great sign. But he couldn't leave without—
In the heart of the machine, the bloody needle gleamed in a sticky, ominous way. There were half a dozen clever things he could do with it, if he had the time. He could dissemble it, he could remove it and throw it in a trash compactor, he could even stab someone else with it and see what happened. But seeing as he was short on time, he simply drew his Walther and shot it twice at close range.
A panel blew loose in the wall of the cabin, and scorching air blew past him with a shower of sparks. Disoriented, he staggered back, tripped on the lip of the ramp, and tumbled.
For a moment he was in free fall. His eyes registered a smear of smoke and fire and grimy ceiling, for a heart beat length that felt like it lasted a year, and then all his weight suddenly swung from a wrist caught still in mid-air.
"Lupin!" thundered the familiar voice of Zenigata, "I've got you now, you little weasel!"
Lupin looked up at the broad tanned hand that had caught him mid-fall and was now holding him, apparently with ease, quite a way off the floor.
Ah. Normalcy. Be careful what you wish for.
Apparently Zenigata had been running up to the door when Lupin tumbled out of it, because Zenigata was standing nice and secure on the ramp while Lupin was currently dangling off the edge. He supposed being rescued by Inspector Zenigata was better than getting a concussion. Marginally.
Zenigata brought his arm in, so that they were face to face, and squinted. His eyes roved over the changes Lupin had worked in latex and spirit gum. He had the look of someone who couldn't quite put his finger on a memory.
"What's up with all this?" he asked. And then before Lupin could even think of answering, he demanded, "And where's that little statue you pilfered, you fiend?"
"The–?"
They stared at each other.
"Oh that! " And suddenly Lupin grinned so wide he probably had teeth coming out of his ears. "Obviously I gave it to you, Zeni-chan."
For a moment, Zenigata looked at him uncomprehendingly. And then two decades of memory seemed to hit him like a truck, rage and disbelief turning him the color of a red-hot stove.
"YOU!"
Lupin leaned away from the shout with a helpless little aw shucks smile. "Me," he agreed.
"You—You—!"
Although it was pretty fun to watch the journey Zenigata was going on, Lupin really did want to get down. He swung his other hand up and caught Zenigata's arm, then quick as a flash used the leverage to swing his legs forward, wrapping around the man's waist a bit like certain animals he had been compared to in the past.
"What—hey!"
Zenigata staggered back down the ramp, as if he could put some distance between them again just by moving back. Lupin didn't let go, however. Now that all his weight was off his wrist, this was kind of a fun ride.
"Zeni-chan, Zeni-chan," Lupin said with relish, nose to nose with the inspector now, "who would have thought you had a hidden amorous backstory! A forbidden first love, even! You're secretly a romantic, aren't you, Pops?"
"Get off!" Zenigata demanded. He wedged an arm between them and tried to pop Lupin off like a barnacle, to little effect.
Lupin let him push for a minute, and then suddenly let go, jumping back a step to land neatly on his feet. Zenigata, of course, fell on his ass.
Lupin bowed over him, grinning. "How did that escapade work out for you, anyway? Did you get a commendation? Oh, don't tell me you confessed everything, after all I did for you."
Zenigata stared up at him, palms on the floor, eyes widening. "What the hell is going on?" he said, almost frightened. "How can you possibly be him too?"
"Time machine," Lupin jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the capsule. "Told you I needed it. Didn't you wonder where a big thing like that went?"
"I saw that thing catch fire," Zenigata said. "You're—he was—I thought he was dead. I watched that hunk of junk shake apart and dissolve. The whole building came down. I went to the funeral –" Zenigata clapped his hand over his mouth.
Behind him, as if to punctuate the point, the broken machine spat a plume of greasy smoke.
"I testified about it," Zenigata muttered, not looking at anything.
"Huh. Yeah I guess that would do it." Lupin tapped his mouth, considered it, and then shrugged. "Well, great news, I lived! So let's pick up where we left off."
Lupin swung a leg over the bigger man's middle and straddled him, shoving his shoulders back against the floor. Too startled to resist, Zenigata let him. With the ubiquitous hat squashed underneath him, Zenigata's face was much more exposed than Lupin was used to seeing on this older version of the man. It was almost like being back in 1954, with that pliable and eager young officer pinned at his mercy.
"I can't wait to get my hands full of you," Lupin said brightly. "You were so cute back then, I almost couldn't help myself! I've been suffering, you know, thinking about it."
"You—you have?" Zenigata said, dazed.
"Oh, definitely," Lupin leered. "What, you haven't thought about Jirokichi on the odd lonely night, have you, Zeni-chan?"
"Ab-absolutely not!" Zenigata retorted. His face was rapidly turning that shade of red Lupin was now so very familiar with.
"Aw, why are you so shy? You weren't shy with me in that hotel room," Lupin said. "So bold, Pops! You were a little spitfire!"
"I was—" Zenigata started, and then scowled in embarrassment. "I'm not discussing this with you!"
"I can leave the face on, if that's what you're into," Lupin said, very graciously. "Although I really do prefer to do it with as little latex as possible, if you catch my drift—"
"That Mamoh guy is right there!" Zenigata yelped.
"Don't worry about him, he's not gonna bother you," Lupin said. He leaned in, nuzzling the hot, prickly flesh along Zenigata's jaw.
Zenigata went stiff as a board underneath Lupin, but Lupin paid it no mind. He'd warm up soon enough, and anyway Lupin was busy fiddling with the buttons under Zenigata's tie, flicking them open so he could wiggle a hand underneath the fabric. The world was a beautiful place full of new possibilities, such as the impending reality of nipples he could get his hands on.
"I hope you don't mind catching," he giggled, "because I'm really more of a pitcher—"
His vision exploded in painful starbursts. Zenigata's forehead slammed into his face, with as much power as he could probably get from down in that position. Lupin reeled back, clutching his eye with one hand, and quickly found himself shoved over in a heap as Zenigata wriggled free.
Owww. His face throbbed. It took him a second to recover enough to even focus his vision again. When he did, he found Zenigata staring at him from where he'd scrambled back by his hands and heels. The man's chest was heaving, but his expression was one of terror, not desire.
Lupin slowly lowered his hand from his cheek.
Shit. Had he fucked it up again? Shit. He'd fucked it up again.
The years roll back. Zenigata is standing under the blue and yellow lights of Tokyo. He is in his mother's kitchen, smiling at the stove. He is pedaling that bicycle and feeling like a fool; he is at the door to that tavern bowing and prideful and so stupid, so stupid, helpless against the future.
His heart is on his sleeve. Everything there is to know about Zenigata Koichi, Lupin knows now. Everything there is to know about Lupin the Third, Zenigata always, already knew. The carelessness. The kindness. The impossible contradiction, the good and the bad, all of it.
He's still reeling with the knowledge that Jirokichi is alive, that he wasted all those years refusing to let himself mourn, when it finally registers that Lupin is trying to fuck him.
As in- right here? Right now?
He tears himself free, scrambles, regards Lupin over there in a heap on the floor the way that men regard wildfire coming down the mountain.
He can't do that! Who does he think he is? Inspector Zenigata can't fuck men who know him, that would be crazy! And definitely not dickheads who think they can just have whatever they want, any time, just because they're brilliant and ruthless and captivating and they torment Zenigata in the dark hours of the morning like a ghost in one of those gothic novels, begging to eat his heart. Just because he finally noticed Zenigata exists, just because he can.
"Okay," Lupin said, "clearly something about that was a bad idea."
Zenigata just watched him, not even moving, like a cornered animal waiting to see if a predator was going to lunge.
"Damn," Lupin said. "You okay?"
"Fine," Zenigata said hoarsely.
Lupin sighed. He pushed himself up, pausing when Zenigata flinched, and then deliberately set himself down on his knees. Slowly. He looked away. He patted his knees in an aimless, nervous fidget.
Zenigata thought: There's his stupid... his stupid watery-eyed face. His confusing, infuriating latex. The lie that Zenigata always falls for.
Seriously, how dare he!
"Alright," Lupin said, "I guess I'm being a jerk. Sorry."
Lupin risked a glance at Zenigata, who relaxed marginally, although he remained wary.
"I guess you've lived with this backstory for a couple decades. You've known Lupin for ten of those... went to a funeral, at some point? This must seem real fast to you. Personally I don't see why anyone wouldn't jump on the chance to get sweaty and nostalgic with a long-lost hot-for-teacher crush, but, well..."
Nearly twenty years ago, Zenigata stood in the street, priceless object in his arms, watching the building come down on the first man he'd ever wanted. Whether he lived or died, in every way that mattered, Jirokichi was gone. And the last thing he'd done, the very last thing, was to buy Zenigata back the future he'd wanted so badly.
A bruise was forming over Lupin's cheekbone.
"You know you're my favorite, right?" Lupin said.
Zenigata crinkled his nose. He kind of doubts that. He is, not to put too fine a point on it, a huge pain in the ass. And he knows it. He's dedicated his life to it. He's made himself someone that Lupin the Third can't ignore, even when he'd like to.
"Of all the bastards who ever chased me, you're my favorite," Lupin went on. "I got excited, what can I say. I didn't know you could think of me like that. Why wouldn't I get excited?"
He inched a little closer.
I wanted to eat you, Zenigata thought. Why are you the one eating me?
"There's nobody who can keep up with me like you," Lupin said.
Nearly twenty years ago... Lupin knew exactly what that future would be. And he'd given it back to Zenigata anyway. A thief looked at him, once upon a time, considered the years of thwarted plans and rain-lashed nights and inconvenience still ahead of him, and agreed: this version of you is the best I can imagine.
Zenigata wondered: How many people can say that?
"Can you blame me for wanting a taste?" Lupin went on. "You're a mean son of a bitch, and a real sweetheart, and my fated rival. Right?"
The world overturned. Zenigata thought: Oh hell, he's never said it before.
Lupin eased across the floor, until he was kneeling in front of Zenigata, between his splayed legs. The familiar coat was open, the cotton shirt rumpled, the hat forgotten on the floor. Mournfully, he said, "You look like a half-unwrapped chocolate ganache. Sometimes life is so unfair."
But Lupin was capable of being delicate. Patient too, and plenty charming. He'd stolen necklaces from duchesses' throats while they danced. He reached out and lifted Zenigata's chin with one finger.
"You were a cute kid, then," Lupin said, "but you're a hell of a man now."
I'm in trouble, Zenigata thought in a daze. Oh, I'm in trouble.
It was dawning on him, as if through fog, that whatever Zenigata was, Lupin wanted it to exist. Whoever he is, Lupin wants him here. There was nowhere else to go. And the worst part was, Zenigata wouldn't go even if he could.
This time there was no stiffness, no shock. Zenigata took his kiss. He was touching the fire, burned, boiled, on the other side of pain, and on the other side of pain there is this thing a brave man might dare to call love.
Against Lupin's mouth, he began to smile.
If the bastard wanted to have Zenigata... if he wanted to own Zenigata soul and body... well. Zenigata will give that to him. With all the teeth a thing like that entails.
The warm lips opened for Lupin, sweet and willing, with hints of still sweeter depths. The taste of something forbidden and coveted left Lupin hazy, all a-rush in the warm glow of satisfaction. This, he wanted this. Any time, any place, in any way. He was a man of myriad addictions, and always happy to add one more.
The heady wash of fantasies was interrupted by a sudden clink and jingle of metal. Lupin paused, mid-kiss, and opened his eyes. As he pulled back, Zenigata's mouth split into a huge, smug, insufferable grin. And then the inspector started giggling.
Lupin looked down. There were handcuffs around his wrists.
Zenigata's giggles broke into full blown guffaws of delighted laughter, and then he leapt to his feet, carrying Lupin with him. He did a little twirl. It was horrifyingly endearing.
"I've got you!" he cried, "finally, I've got you! You're under arrest, Lupin, and I'm taking you to jail!"
He tossed Lupin over his shoulder like a sack of flour and made for the door, only pausing to scoop up his hat as he passed. Manic pleasure radiated off him like its own contained supernova, beams practically visible to the eye. Was he beautiful? Lupin thought he might have been beautiful.
Lupin slumped, propping up his elbow on Zenigata's back and his chin on his hand. "If only Jigen could see me now," he sighed. He knew just what the bastard would say. 'Are you kidding me? Now there's two of them?'
All in all, though, Lupin couldn't help but grin. "Ah well," he said. "C'est la vie."
"Wait! What about Mamoh?!"