Lupin The Roleplay! The Official Thread. Sometimes NSFW

[Geist_MD]

For questions, comments, and general discussion, please post in this -----------> thread.

ALSO NSFW SOMETIMES, BEWARE!

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"What is your name?" The police clerk asked.

"Cam." He replied.

"What is your full name, please?"

"Cambriole."

"...Your complete birth name, sir."

"Edgar de le Cambriole."

"And what can I help you with?"

"I'd like to see Inspector Koichi Zenigata." Lupin said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~LUPIN THE ROLEPLAY~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~ARC ONE: FOUR KILLERS AND A WEDDING~~~~~~~~

Three days ago.

"You're awfully curvy."

"Am I, Lupin?"

"You have a great pair of, uh, eyes."

"Do I, Lupin?"

"The first pair I noticed."

"Really, Lupin?"

"Honest and true."

The discotheque was loud, packed with people, bad french warbling throughout the air. The singing loomed and lingered like a thick, off-key mist. Lupin and his current interest sat in a booth on the upper plateau, her feet bare and high heels on the carpeted floor beneath the table, leaning against him. His quarry was longlimbed and lithe, fingers ten slender digits gently stroking his face.

"Tell me more, you handsome devil."

"You also have a pistol under your skirt, you followed me here, and you've been watching my pals AND my place for over a week. "

A small gasp. Her body went rigid.

"So, pretty lady, I know this place down the street. Great room service. D'ya wanna get a room?"

"You son of a bitch."

"I guess not."

She straightened, sitting up in the booth, standing, and slipping into her shoes. In the same motion she pulled the gun just mentioned, aiming for his chest.

"You dirty son of a--"

"Cutie! Just the cutest thing I ever met!"

Still sitting, he swept a wing-tipped toe into the back of her knee and shoved at her chest with one arm, forcing her to sit back down with an oomph. With his free hand, he snatched the gun from her grip, ignoring her steely grimace.

"Before you start, I know it's tempting, but please don't try to kill me again."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because you're great at following but I'm willing to bet your little charm school didn't teach you a thing about tailing a target and eluding the cops. Or, ya know, other folks."

"What? How did you know about the--"

"My partners are waiting outside, and my fan club in Police Nationale's been keeping tabs on me since you were still putting on training bras. So, about that room?"

Lupin stood from the booth, scooting around the round table, and waiting for her to follow his lead. He waited for her, bowing his head as she passed and gesturing theatrically outwards, as if to say "After you."

Passing a potted plant, he unlocked the clip from the weapon and slipped it into the false soil before she noticed. As they came to the stairways leading upstairs to the private areas, he made another arm-sweep. "Ladies first", this said. She did as such, although disgruntled about his bullshit. Before she glanced back after him and before he started up the stairs, Lupin sat the empty Makarov handgun on a passing waiter's tray, then followed her up the steps, enjoying the view of her rear.

Earlier he had plucked a key for a private room on the second floor off of a man flirting with the bartender. Lupin glanced at the key, seeing 13 in French, and slipped inside of said room, again letting her go first. She seemed unpleased that he wasn't willing to allow her an opportunity to bash his head in.

Closing the door behind him, he sat down in a chair. The room had decor like a bad acid trip, all high contrast colors and neon highlights.

He plopped into a recliner, the vintage 70's {and simulated 70's} music still blaring beneath their feet.

"So, you've been following me becauuuuuse?"

"The same reason the police are."

"Well, I've got a theory that they're just asking for my autograph, but gosh darn it, my hand cramps so easily. So unless you've got handcuffs and are feeling frisky--"

"I'm here to kill you."

"Get in line."

"It's your fault, you know."

"Ask the right people and global warming's my fault, too."

On the table she stood next to lay a bucket full of ice, and two champagne flutes. The woman snatched one off the table and flung it at him. Lupin ducked and it shattered above his head, raining down sharp, smooth shards.

He flicked his collar once or twice, brushing off his jacket.

"Oh-ho, so feisty."

"I mean it! I can't teach one class without your name being brought up! Not one! 'Lupin' this, 'Lupin' that. It's sickening."

"Wha?"

Her gaze narrowed at him.

"I thought you knew?" She asked.

"Knew what?"

"About the charm school."

Lupin cracked his knuckles loudly, more amused than irritated by both her stern attitude and her insistence on killing him. "I know you're from one. That little Makarov number's very popular among the ladies, you know. More than that, it's the preferred weapon of femme fatales world wide. "

"And you know what it is? The school, I mean."

"Of course. This is about the invite isn't it?"

One month prior, he had received a note in one of his drop boxes, an hour out of Lyon, two towns over. It read:  "We knows who this box belongs to, and whose reading this. So, you're being offered a job. The pay is what you want, the benefits exquisite. Thank you." He had been checking the drop box as a matter of course: Upon entering a new country, it was procedural, in case he should be seperated from comrades or needed word from someone.

"It was signed by the Headmaster of the Prague School of Perception. I'm not a big vocabulary guy, but perception's a fancy way of saying Intelligence. And Intelligence is a fancy way of saying Espionage."

She was silent, glaring daggers.

"Quiet? Okay, I'll keep going. So a school that essentially operates as a temp service of spies offers me a job teaching their 'employees' on how to kill in cold blood. That's what a charm school is, right? Or am I off the mark guessing half of you don't know where you were born before you got snatched and put in this Hogwarts from Hell?"

She remained silent.

"Talkative, I like that. Anyway, after I douse your drawers and respectfully decline, you guys get all huffy and put a hit out on me. Yeah?"

"Wrong."

"...what."

For the first time, Lupin was off guard, and his cool demeanor faltered.

"You're an idiot, and not even worth my time."

"Then enlighten me, princess."

He drew his weapon.

"For someone who turned down a job teaching spies and assassins, you're awfully cold blooded, Mister Lupin."

"Oh, this? Pfft, peashooter, really. Besides, I don't shoot women. Personal policy."

"Then wha--"

"Remember when I said I had french cops tailing me? What do you think's going to happen if I fire off a shot out that window? How fast do you think they'll be in this room, pounding at the door?"

"You'd sacrifice yourself to hand me to the police?"

"Sacrifice? Hahaha, like a pair of rookie cops could catch a cold. Oh, no, see, my partners are outside, so I'm not worried about a getaway. You, on the other hand, I'm pretty sure would get burned by your agency-slash-school and be left to dry in a French prison. Or am I wrong?"

She paused, meeting his cocky gaze with one of bottled rage. Then, she began.

"I'm not a student at the school. I'm an instructor."

Lupin laughed, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "Oh so one detail's off the mark. I'm handsome, clever, but not perfect. That's a good two out of three, you kn--"

"And they didn't put a hit out on you."

"That's a relief."

"They put a hit out on your partners, and an inspector at Interpol."

"What?!"

"I'm here to kill you so we can get some order back at the university."

"What do you mean?"

"You declined, and our board doesn't like having their noses snubbed. They've put out a contract amongst faculty and students: Kill one of Lupin's gang, and you get a promotion."

"I don't get it, what's the point?"

"On promotion to agent, students get a 8 million annual account, American. This is to cover living and work-related expenses for a year, and is received on graduation from the school directly into field work. On promotion to instructor, the annual is 20 million American. The Board has an unknown amount of resources, monetary or otherwise. This serves two purposes, aside from the personal benefits. It removes competition off the market for people in our profession--"

"I'm not in your profession, I'm no killer." Lupin remarked, slowly losing interest in being debonair. He felt anger rising like a tide.

She continued, disinterested in how the thief saw himself. "-- and furthermore it's great word-of-mouth advertisement. As an added bonus, it teaches you to never turn them down again. What's worse, dying or getting the people around you killed?" At this, the woman seemed quietly satisfied.

"You people would kill your own grandmothers if it brought in a profit, wouldn't you?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Why not just kill me, if they're so pissed," he asked, "why go after my partners?"

"People will pay top dollar on assassination contracts to kill you, as I'm sure you know. They can't very well hire and pay themselves to do it. If they kill you, they lose millions in assassination bids. Killing your partners achieves the same effect of telling you never to spite them, while keeping both the possibility of future contracts and the much slimmer chance you working for us open. " She was leaning against the table now, and Lupin disliked the smug look her face had taken on.

Lupin sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. The room had gotten hotter, his head feeling swollen and thick. "This is why I don't accept unsolicited job offers."

"Maybe you should start," She said. "I'm just here to get things back to normal. This is a stunt that's going to cost us credibility, it's a waste of resources, and gimmickry isn't what this is about. The board's forgotten that."

Lupin had lost all interest in the conversation. If she could track him down, if Interpol could keep tabs on him, then so could would-be assassins trying to earn a merit badge. His partners could be a driving a bomb on wheels. Zenigata could be getting up to take a shower in battery acid.

And then in a world of her own, there was Fujiko.

Lupin stood up, holstering his weapon, and turning to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To warn my friends." He sighed a moment, then smiled to himself. "And warn a guy who needs a new hobby. You got a car?"

"Aren't your partners waiting outside?"

"Huh? Oh, that? I was bluffing, no one's outside."

"YOU SON A--"

Before she could finish, Lupin was out the door.

------------------------------

Since then, Lupin had stayed low and with an ear to the ground, listening for word among criminal circles about hitmen {and women} in town, or about any "unique" individuals who might have caused a rucus. He hadn't contacted his allies, preferring to check up on them covertly. It was safer than drawing them all to Lyon, and making them each a much brighter target. Nor had he consulted his next move with any of them, preferring to do it on his own.

The large briefing room was wide and high-ceilinged, cramped with desks and sweating men in suits, ears pressed to phones and hands shuffling sticky papers. The heater was obviously broken in the department, and with every window cracked, and every electrical socket crammed with power plugs to motorized fans sitting on desks, the humidity was suffocating.

An officer led him down the tiled hallway, bypassing the briefing room entirely and past wood-panelled offices and large glass windows looking in on detectives's offices. Most of the offices were empty, looking haphazard with papers sitting on desks and in cubbies. The occupied ones were easy enough to spot. They were the only ones with the shades drawn closed.

Coming to the end of the line, the man leading Lupin stopped and knocked on the door.

"Inspector, we're sorry to trouble you, especially since Interpol informed us to cooperate with your wishes as best we could, but there's a man here to see you and he says it's about the Lupin case."

There was something from inside that may or may not have been an affirmative, so Lupin went inside, while the officer retreated back down the hall.

"Hi, Pops. I'd like to turn myself in."

[Ishikawa Goemon]

The unrelenting midday heat did nothing to dissuade tourists and French-natives from ambling through the peaceful retreat of Vieux-Lyon's narrow, cobblestoned streets. Pausing for a moment, he tilted up his sedge hat with his thumb and saw a couple pass, laughing as they shared an ice-cream cone that was melting in their hands. Sweat clung heavily to his chest.

Having long since given up his search for a Japanese-style establishment in a country largely foreign to him, he could better appreciate the warm, rustic smell of fluffy croissants, tarts, and sandwiches artfully arranged behind glass cases, and the headiness of strong black coffee wafting from open cafes. This was different from the hustle and bustle of Paris as he remembered it, reeking of cigarettes and car exhaust; even the language somehow seemed softer and more melodic from the guttural gagging that tended to sound confrontational to him.

He was glad he could get around without having to speak much, knowing there was little hope of wrapping his foreign tongue around sounds that didn't exist in Japanese without coming off as a fool. English had been complicated enough. The language barrier, at least, didn't detract from his appraisal and appreciation of grandiose medieval architecture so different from Buddhist and Shinto temples; there was a level of cultural richness here that made his stomach churn with a sense of homesickness.

In the end, all he needed in the ways of communication were the essential 'Ou est la toilette?', 'Je parle seulement anglais', 'Merci' and 'Je vais acheter du/de la/ des____ (point at what you want here, Goemon-chan)...' phrases he had Lupin write on a little square of paper. He had kept it folded in his keikogi - though he could only wonder now, a bit worriedly, if the ink had begin to run. Reaching inside, he peeled it off his sweaty skin and brought it before his frowning eyes. He was still mouthing the written words he stepped into a cafe for a drink.

[LadyLupin]

The proprietor of a cafe greeted a short man upon his entrance into one of the many cafes that lined the market square. A few of the locality would have gazed briefly at the sight such an unusual foreigner had the owner herself not been Chinese herself. Ms. Ming Yue Zhao had resided in France for fifteen years and quite comfortably adapted to French culture. She opened the Cafe Des Rose a few short years after acquiring her French citizenship. The man she welcomed upon this occasion was Fu Cheung, an old acquaintance from Hong Kong.

"Welcome Master," Zhao spoke in Mandarin, "I am pleased you had a relatively safe trip in getting here considering the circumstances."

Cheung bowed slightly and extracted a fan from inside the sleeve of his changshan to cool himself. "Considering the circumstances, yes. I am mutually pleased that you will be able to accommodate the young girl. It has been increasingly difficult to smuggle Falung Gong practitioners into Hong Kong from the mainland these days"

"It is a travesty what our native country has become. That is why I left..."

"My heart will forever be with China, but we cannot forget who we were and who we are. The government might be able to suppress the people, but it cannot silence them."

Zhao pulled out a chair for her guest. "Forgive me for getting up in politics. Allow me to bring you some gunpowder tea. I managed to come by some during my recent holiday to Paris. It would be more suitable for you than the coffee I serve here."

The elder man's eyes twinkled with delight. "I thank you for remembering. I never could stomach coffee much. But I am interested in trying one of those galettes you told me about. Anything with egg or fish will do, but no red meat please."

"Of course, Master! Whatever you like is on me. Please rest yourself and enjoy yourself. I will meet with you concerning the girl tonight."

"Splendid. Huojin will bring her here."

Cheing sat down upon a lacquered iron chair and adjusted his robes. He increasingly anticipated his beloved zhū chá. It would be one of the few memories of home he would cherish with him during his stay.

[mizducky]

[Edited to add: These events happen the night before the current point in time of the RP]

When Jigen first spotted the tail, reflected in his glass of pastis as he lifted it to his lips, his first inclination was to smile inwardly. A young punk, trying but failing to hide his nervousness, the telltale tremor in his hand making his cigarette's smoke ripple ever so slightly. Oh, these stupid kids, always trying to make a name for themselves by taking a potshot at the man in the black hat. You'd think their mentors would slap a little more sense into 'em. But, what the hell, might as well give the punk a little lesson of his own.

He drained his drink, slapped some Euros down on the time-worn wooden bar, and stepped out of the longshoreman's cafe into the warm Marseille night. He took his time, lighting up a fresh cig before he headed off into the rabbit-warren of narrow streets backing the portside warehouses. A glance in the reflection of a parked car showed him that his tail was following at a not-quite-discreet-enough distance. Kids these days ...

But it was only as he moved into a quieter, darker street that he heard it: a second pair of footsteps, matching those of the kid so well that a lot of guys in the biz would never have heard him coming. A second tail? Tailing the first tail? Okay, that was weird. Time to disappear--temporarily. When he came to a corner, he suddenly went fast and silent around it and melted into the shadows, flicking his cig several feet ahead into the middle of the street as he did so.

Hurried footsteps--that was the kid, hustling around the corner to keep up with his would-be prey. That pair of footsteps stopping, and a muttered expletive: the kid again, probably standing stupidly over the abandoned cigarette, for lack of any other clue as to where his pigeon had flown to.

Much quieter footsteps: that was the second tail. Those footsteps halting, followed by the clack of a cocked gun: that was gonna be the kid's death ...

Except before that second tail could pull the trigger, there came the roar of two rapid-fire Magnum blasts, followed by two dull thuds as two unconscious bodies slumped to the ground: that was Jigen deciding to be merciful.

He stepped back out of the shadows to examine his hits--not really the right term, as he had merely stunned them with grazing shots across their scalps; he shared his partners' disdain for taking lives unnecessarily. The first thing that struck him was how young they both were: first tail must have been 18 or he wouldn't have made it into the cafe, but he looked like he hadn't even started shaving. Second tail didn't look a helluva lot older.

But then his attention was completely diverted to their guns.

Makarovs and their many clones are pretty damn common, especially in the European underworld which was awash in military/police surplus from defunct Eastern bloc countries. But what were the odds of two kids playing silly-ass Spy vs. Spy games on his ass, both carrying nearly identical Maks from the same damn manufacturer? Hell--on close inspection, he found that their serial numbers were just a few digits apart. What the f**k?

A contract competition. From one of those friggin' underworld training schools. First to hit gets the prize, and devil take the hindmost. He'd seen this kind of shit before too.

He hadn't pissed off anyone recently, let alone one of these damfool schools; and if it was Goemon who'd gotten on someone's bad side, he'd be up to his ass in ninjas, not these pistol punks. Hadda be Lupin. The f**k had the Boss-man gotten himself into now?

First things first, though--go to ground, collect some intell from trustworthy sources. And then ... time for a little road trip to Lyon ...

[Ishikawa Goemon]

A car tore past him, and then another, a rush of air and sulfurous exhaust tugging at his clothes and tossing his hair around; he didn't look up, shuffling along the roadside with one hand clamped around a cup beaded with condensation and the other held out to one side. His uplifted thumb trembled helplessly; it was ringed, as the other, with a smooth band of scar tissue. Between having been strung up by them for hours and later having his joints forced back into place with with a wet pop, they had lost some of their function. He could always sense the imminent gathering of storm clouds from the tingling ache that no amount of massaging could relieve.

Passing the back of his wrist across his forehead for a moment - his sleeve spotting darkly – Goemon sipped at his drink from the straw. Put off by the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, he hadn't lingered long in the cafe, having also reconsidered enjoying an expresso in a cup barely larger than a thimble. The tang of freshly squeezed citrus fruit was much more refreshing.

He took a swipe at his brow again, exhaling in a huff.

While dazedly entertaining the possibility of being able to fry an egg over the top of his hat, he nearly overlooked a car that was slowly pulling to a stop beside him, wheels crunching over gravel. The driver rolled down his window and curiously poked his head out; Goemon thought to lift the brim of his hat and show his face in response.

“Hé, ou allez-vous, m'sieur?” The man asked, not entirely sure what to make of someone who looked as though he had stepped out of a different age and world altogether.

Goemon blinked blankly, increasingly embarrassed. “I'm sorry...” He said automatically and inwardly kicked himself; he fumbled in his keikogi for the blessed piece of paper on which the crucial phrases were written and found the map Lupin had given him instead. It was a magnification of an area around Lyon, with the general whereabouts of the safehouse marked with a red circle. Unfolding it, he handed this to the Frenchman, who had been craning his neck in an effort to make out the details.

“Ah-ha...” He pointed to the specified destination after a moment's perusal, at which the ronin nodded an assent. “Bien, je... euh... pardon. I forget, you speak Angl... English.” He gave a sheepish chuckle, which surprised Goemon, and the passenger door opened.

[LadyLupin]

Heat beat down upon Cheung, although the slight breeze from a paper fan was enough to suffice him. Years of conditioning had prepared his body to withstand all but the extremities. He contented himself with watching the hustle and bustle of the narrow roads while supping the last of his gunpowder tea. The galette he decided was interesting, but not something that would satisfy his pallet. He would pass over a buckwheat flour pastry for a steaming bowl of rice if he had the opportunity.

A few visitors to the cafe would stare briefly. The sight of a short Asian man in robes must have stuck out to them like s sore thumb. He did not mind much if people wondered about his attire. Even in his native homeland, such costume was adorned primarily now for formal occasions.

Zhao returned briefly to check up on him. "How is everything?"

"Good enough," sighed Cheung, "But it never ceases to amaze me the stark differences between cultures. Though it is slightly less noisy here I must admit."

"Indeed. But honestly, I don't miss it at all. My heart belongs here."

Cheung rose from his chair. "At least you are happy. I hope the girl will be able to adjust here. Come, let's go to discuss the arrangements..."

[angelidollinda]

It was a good day for a heatwave, but a bad day for the air conditioning to be on the fritz. Almost everyone at the Metropolitan station were sweating geysers, due to both the humidity and how many people were working in the offices that day. Inspector Zenigata was glad that his office had a portable fan, even though it was blowing the hot air back into his face and the wire plugged into the wall for it was mostly constructed of electrical and duct tape. Yet, Zenigata didn't let the heat get to him; back in Tokyo the humidity was much more intense, especially during the typhoon seasons.

He was currently going over the paperwork from his last run-in with the green jacket thief Lupin III, when he managed to lift all the jewelry from a famous department store while in the guise of an elderly woman trying to return a sweater. The inspector's brow furrowed as he thought back to greeting the sweet old lady without a second thought that it could have been the Eurasian thief in makeup and a walker; he was embarrassed that he assumed Lupin would follow the plans he "accidentally" dropped as he was chasing him the night before the robbery took place. As it turned out, they were merely just a decoy to throw him and his men off while the thief operated the theft with a different set of instructions. While he occasional had the upper-hand against him, Lupin III was an unpredictable beast for Zenigata to handle, even after chasing after him for god knows how many years.

The door opened, letting in some warmer air as one of the officers from the department next door poked his head in. "Inspector, we're sorry to trouble you, especially since Interpol informed us to cooperate with your wishes as best we could, but there's a man here to see you and he says it's about the Lupin case." Zenigata looked up, after biting down on one of his Shinseis to draw out of the pack. "Hrn? Well, let him in." He said (or tried to, with his teeth clenched around his cigarette). Before he could light it, however, he spat it back out in surprise as a familiar monkey-like grin greeted him as the officer allowed him into the inspector's office and closed the door behind him. He stood up in anger. "W-Wh... w-wha... W-WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE!?" He growled, reminded of the stunt Lupin pulled back at the department store (as well as the numerous other times he had been duped).

[Geist_MD]

The air was an unruly stench, heat blasted into his face like someone stuck a dead mouse in a blow dryer.

It was coming out of Zenigata's mouth.

Clear across the room, he could feel it pelt his skin and water his eyes, if only for a moment.

"Hey, I'm giving you your just reward, here. You chase me, I'm too good, I run off, and now after years of hard work, I've seen the error of my ways."

Suddenly, this seemed like a bad idea. Aside from Zenigata's initial outburst, he was quiet, awaiting a reply, maybe.

The world around them had gotten a lot smaller.

The conference room Lupin had passed earlier was dead silent.

"Uh, Pops, listen..."

Increasingly nervous, Lupin rubbed the back of his head.

Yes.

This was a bad idea.

Steeling himself and taking in a deep breath, Lupin let fly every detail in case Zenigata decided to smash his head in before tossing him, comatose, into the lockup.

"Okay I was just coming off our last job and I enter the country and I check a dropbox and there's this school-slash-agency for spies that offers me a job and I blow them off and that's not the problem but since I decided not to help them out one broad decides to kill me but she's got a great ass so I don't mind so much and we're in this club with some awful music but that's not the point, so she's actually got an ass AND a gun and I take a shave a little too close and then she tells me that she's only trying to kill me cause of the school I snubbed and then suddenly I don't care about her butt no seriously you've got to have seen it for yourself and I leave  but I'm thinking over what she said and she said that since I told her pals to bug off that they were going to kill all my close associates and you out of spite and now I need you to not use your phone or start your car or drink that coffee because they're probably rigged-slash-poisoned-slash-bombed and YOU'VE GOT TO BELI-E-HE-EVE ME!"

Lupin, finishing his plea, realized he had, in the literal sense, backed into a corner.

And that he presented his story like a kid trying to say his hand wasn't in the cookie jar.

Oh, cool, He thought.

I'm screwed.

[DrFurball]

Ah, iced tea.  Sure, it was semi-sweet and pretty tasteless, but on a hot day like this it--SPPPPFT!
Tiny droplets of semi-sweet, pretty tasteless spewed from the mouth of Melon Cop upon seeing the scene inside Zenigata's office.

Lupin the Third was standing there.  In Zenigata's office.  Talking to Zenigata.  Neither of them were in handcuffs.

They both seemed to be a bit annoyed at being sprayed with the contents of a spit-take, but Melon decided that their momentary surprise would be a good time as any to ask that all-important question: W-Wh... w-wha... W-WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING HERE!?"

[Ishikawa Goemon]

((Whoops, had a pretty big mistake where I posted a few sections twice in the same post. This happens because I write in Notepad and then transfer it over. All better, now, though. ))

At a stoplight, Joseph fumbled with a creased pack of Gauloises stuffed into one pocket, fitting a cigarette between his teeth. He hadn't the chance to light it before he grasped at the wheel again, his jaw clenched and his knuckles whitening as if he were under duress to participate in his first drag race. Trying not to think on the look of nervous preoccupation on his driver's gaunt face, Goemon turned his attention to the passing scenery. With Lyon's cityscape behind them, the sharp, hard angles of man-made structures had been replaced by rolling hills on either side, and layered, distant mountains with a picturesque blue gradation. His chest ached tightly with longing.

At loss at how to respond, he had stood ramrod-straight by the chain-link fence as she threw open the door and rushed forward to greet him in her apron, drawing the attention of idle neighbours. She had stopped a few feet short of him, her knees wobbling dangerously – and he had rushed to loop his arms around her waist to keep her from falling. Her head bumped clumsily into his chest.

“Saiyuri-dono...” He made no effort to hide his concern as he helped her straighten to her feet, carefully leaving reproach out of his voice; she seemed frailer than he remembered.

Her face had puckered like a baby's, her eyes shining sharply.

The gentleness of her hands settling over his back belied the desperate anxiety that made them rattle, her caress soothing and maternal. He let her have her way – and little by little, his body had began to thaw and loosen, self-consciousness abandoned as easily as an unshouldered furoshiki dumped over the grass.

"It has been a long time..." He mused apologetically, heaving a sigh. He had tersely told Lupin and Jigen that he would leave to attend to some business - - and pushing the thought of them aside, he buried his nose into the curve of her neck and shoulder, his nerves calming as he breathed in the warm, delicate fruity tones of her scent. The smell of her yuzu shampoo was comforting in its familiarity; he wanted to believe that nothing had changed since he had last returned to Shimagahara.

“Two months, Goemon-kun... Please, promise me that you'll call... I never know what to think when you're away...”

“I'm sorry...”

“...Tout le monde parle anglais...” The Frenchman muttered suddenly to himself; he had, at some point, flicked his saliva-soggy cigarette out the window.

Goemon recognized little more than the word 'anglais'; whether Joseph's tone had been one of ruefulness or of disappointment, he wasn't sure, simply glad not to have been met with an air of haughty condescension.

“...Is this, euh, your first time in France?”

Goemon reluctantly tore himself away from the window, sensing the awkwardness in the attempt at conversation.

“Not really...” His own English sounded rusty to his ears, though not as heavily accented; he struggled for a moment to find something else to say, if only for the sake of politesse. “Your country is beautiful;” He said at last, honestly, after thoughtful deliberation. He had barely left his native country and homesickness bubbled inside him like nausea. “...Some places remind me much of home.”

“...Sorry, are you Chinese?”

“Japanese.”

From that point, they resigned themselves to their social ineptitude and discomfort, the rest of the trip made in silence.

It wasn't long before Goemon was dropped off a few minutes from the safe-house. He made the rest of the way on foot, through brambles and patches of wild strawberries until a quaint, two-story countryhouse came into view, all stucco and stone. Out of habit, he left his sandals by the potted plants surrounding the entrance before showing himself in with a key.

[mizducky]

"... friggin' Lyon traffic."

Jigen eased on the brakes as he saw the sea of red tail-lights choking the highway ahead of him. He wasn't too surprised; the traffic jams around this city were legendary. Not only was it a huge metropolitan area, but its position at the only break in the mountains between Paris and the South of France made it a natural funnel for commercial traffic, not to mention summer tourists. He figured there must have been traffic jams in this area as far back as when it had been an outpost of the Roman Empire.

The drive from Marseille to Lyon had been blessedly smooth sailing up to this point, giving him plenty of time to mull over the events of the previous night. After his little run-in with the two gun-punks, he had made a beeline to a certain after-hours joint where he knew a lot of the old-guard Marseille underworld liked to take its leisure. There, as usual, he found his old buddy the Tomcat holding forth, flirting with the filles de joie and regaling younger punks with a pack of lies. The Tomcat was purportedly "retired," but as he never seemed to lack for funds and connections, "retired" was probably as much a euphemism as "fille de joie." In any case, Jigen knew this guy would be clean of any connection to any silly-ass assassin school--he had always been as much of an indie maverick as Jigen was. Plus the Cat owed him for at least one of his nine lives.

"Euh, yes, these young upstarts," he had sympathized, after greeting Jigen warmly and buying him a drink. "I had heard there was a little more activity on that front, yes. But these schools tend to be very jealous of their turf, very, how you say, stuck up--they do not lower themselves to associate with our kind." He emitted a Gallic snort of disdain. "I know there is at least one with activity in Lyon, but I cannot even tell if they are headquartered in France or over the border in Italy. Sorry, old chum--if I find out more, I will surely tell you."

But the Tomcat did do him the big favor of providing him with a "clean" car--not only devoid of any history that would alert either authorities or the underworld, but carefully scanned to be safe of any booby traps. To all outward appearances a dowdy-looking Renault four-door sedan, it had a decidedly undowdy supercharged V6 under the hood, bullet-proofing under the skin, bulletproof dark-tinted glass in the windows, plus a nice collection of armament under the rear seat. Good job too, because Jigen had no intention of returning to his cheap pensione room to pick up his spare ammo and few other belongings--no longer a safe idea. He tended to travel fairly light anyway, and keep most of the tools of his trade on his person at all times.

He grabbed some grub and a couple of hours' sleep at the Tomcat's safehouse, then set out shortly after dawn. While en route, he'd tried phoning both Lupin and Goemon just for form's sake, but he had already figured it was a lost cause. If Lupin had not contacted him yet, he was probably already lying doggo and might not return his call for some time; and as for Goemon, hell, the ol' Luddite might not even have remembered to keep his cell charged up. He left coded voicemails for the both of them in any case, and motored on ...

... until this moment, when the Lyon traffic was threatening to trap him in a way he did not like. No point in making himself a sitting duck so easily; he took the first available exit and slid off the highway into the city streets.

He knew Lyon like the back of his hand, so the irony immediately struck him: fate and the traffic jam had placed him within blocks of the office building housing the Lyon Police Headquarters. The thought strayed into his head that, the last time he'd checked up on their favorite pain-in-the-ass, Zenigata, he'd been hanging out at this exact same cop-shop. Heh. Maybe he should drop in and give ol' Pops a scare ... and then the penny dropped. "Damn," the gunman thought. "How much you wanna bet ... ?"

Gunslingers and gamblers are kissin' cousins, and equally prone to hunches; he'd learned long ago to pay attention to them. Feeling this particular hunch coming on strong, he decided to take advantage of his nice clean dark-windowed car and pull a little stakeout on this here Hog Heaven.

[LadyLupin]

The heat of the day had lessened slightly when a black Volkawagen Jetta parked outside the Cafe Des Rose. A young Asian man wearing a grey pinstripe suit emerged from the driver's side and opened the passenger door for a girl approximately in her late teens. He escorted her through an alley to and up a small flight of stairs. It was not unusual for many merchants and shopkeepers to live above their establishments just as they had done for centuries. Both the man and woman were greeted by Cheung.

"Ah Miss Yun Xu."

The girl bowed low. "Master Cheung, I am indebted to you."

Cheung returned a simple nod. "Please do not thank me. Come. Your aunt will be glad to see you. It has been a long time since you have seen her?"

"Since I was a child."

"Come then. A family reunion awaits you."

The young man decided to step outside. His name was Huojin Cheung, and nonother than the eldest Fu's eldest son. Like his father, he was potent in both martial arts and medicine, but preferred modern practice over traditional remedies. Huojin also lacked the patience and calm-mindedness of the Fu. However, he was practical and quick to defend. And right now his instinct told him to wait in the car and keep an eye out for anything suspicious.   

[Ishikawa Goemon]

While undoing the knot of his takuhatsu-gasa under his chin, he had a moment to look about and reacquaint himself with their temporary settlement; it had a different brand of simple elegance than the zen-cleanliness of a ryokan, a wholesome, rustic charm that soothed the pangs of culture shock. The rooms were softly, sensually lit, sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains; sometimes, he liked to spend his mornings stand barefoot over sun-warmed floorboards, glancing out the window overlooking the rugged countryside.

Sliding the hat off his head, Goemon hung it on a coat rack near the door, mussing his damp, flattened hair. The woolly mustiness and spiciness of wood in the air suffused him with a drowsiness that encouraged a slow, sedate, carefree life; as much as he felt tempted to doze on the couch, though, he knew he couldn't with a niggling something at the back of his mind urging him onwards. He had made a promise, and couldn't back down on his word.

He moved across the hall, the crisp slap of his feet seeming to carry throughout the house. It was unfortunate, he thought, that there was little room for him to relish in the luxury of being alone; nearly as soon as he sat himself down at the kitchen table, he reached for the corded phone mounted on the wall, his eyes settling over a scrap of paper he had snatched from 'his' room and taken with him. A number and area code had been written down, daintily penned by the same fine-boned hand that had lovingly drawn abstract patterns over his chest...

Goemon cleared his throat and blushed guiltily, shifting in his chair. Though he disliked the impersonality of phone conversations, he could make an exception.

[angelidollinda]

As Zenigata sat back down, the thief grinned back at him as he explained how he had seen the error of his ways and wanted to turn himself in. The inspector glared at him. "Like I'll believe that bullshit..." He thought, wondering how many times Lupin had played the guilt card whenever he did manage to catch him. Lupin must have sensed he wasn't buying it this time, as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Before Zenigata could even ask what his real intentions were at the Metropolitan station, the green jacket thief broke into a long-winded confession about what sounded like a school of spies going after him for refusing a job they had assigned for him, adding that his companions were being targeted by said-students and that a certain obsessed cop was also added to the hit list.

The Inspector raised an eyebrow as Lupin gasped for air. While the frantic outburst could have been another one of the red jacket thief's sob stories, what caught his attention was when his nemesis mentioned that his posse was being threatened by the supposed spy school, including him. Zenigata did not take being threatened lightly, and he especially hated when other people get involved in something potentially dangerous. If this story were true, then anyone who would get in the way of this group of lunatics would get hurt... or worse. He looked at Lupin. As he was about to speak however, the inspector found himself being doused in the face with a spray of someone's drink. Dripping, he glanced over angrily at the direction the "fountain drink fountain" when he discovered Melon glaring at Lupin. He felt himself bristle. "How the hell did he get here?" He thought. "Did he just hear what Lupin shouted at me...?"

Thankfully it appeared he didn't, as Melon pointed at the thief and demanded what the hell was going on. Zenigata stood up from his desk, trying to keep a level head. He gave Lupin a quick glance, signaling him not to get Melon involved, then turned toward the bad cop. "Well, the French prick was just getting to that before you burst in here and turned yourself into a sprinkler." He answered.

[Geist_MD]

"This is a good cigarette".

"The best France has to offer, I assure you! Would you like another pack?"

"You know what? Yeah, I would".

The man inhaled deeply and slipped the clerk another bill, rounding it up and walking off despite protests that he left change. In this difficult workaday world, who cared about a little tip on excellent smokes?

Gavin plopped down on a bench across from the police station, and waited. It was a beautiful day. It was about to get better.

-----------------

Lupin took a motion back from the spray, moving sideways with a small sidestep. Jesus, Melon's here. Yeah, me, screwed? Not that farfetched right now.

His leg was shaking out of fear. He smelled backwashed tea.

Okay, maybe if I have a time machine, I can take back this awful, awful pl--

His leg wasn't shaking, it was his cell. Flashing a smile, he plucked it out of his pants pocket.

"You guys can work this out, I've really gotta take this. You know how busy the office can be. It's probably my secretary."

He moved to the corner of the room and flipped it open. Jigen. Why hadn't he caught the message earlier? It had been maybe an hour or two ago, the vibration was only a reminder he had an unread message. Checking his voicemail, he glanced over his shoulder, meeting death glares from Zenigata and Melon. It was clear he wasn't going anywhere, or else they'd probably have snatched him by now.

"For Christ's sake, what the fuck did you get into? A couple of thugs just tried to aerate my head, goddamn it. If you're in some kinda trouble, give me a call." Lupin could hear in Jigen's voice he had a cigarette jammed between his lips, as he spoke around it. Occasionally there was a pause in his sentence, as if preoccupied. Driving, probably. "Something's funny, and there's a lot of unsavory traffic going on. The kids who tried knocking me off had a couple nine mm's, only a few serial numbers apart. A school of assassins, or spies, or something, maybe just a plain contract group, I don't know. Watch your back,  I'm swinging into Lyon now, give me a call and we'll meet up, compare notes or something."

The message ended abruptly, but Lupin's attention had been distracted before that. He didn't like taking the message in front of them, it looked like he was plotting something. The one time the boy doesn't cry wolf...

Turning his attention back to the both of them, he  opened his mouth. Lupin remembered, much later, distinctly saying something. But he couldn't remember what. He remembered people yelling, and suddenly feeling dizzy; He remembered Zenigata's face in thick watercolors, but not what that expression said; He remembered being mildly hungry, too. A tinge in his stomach almost painful. Maybe if Lupin had seen it as intuition and not hunger pangs, he'd have reacted faster.

The floor shifted, rumbling. At first, Lupin thought it was his cell phone again. No such luck: This vibration in his legs wasn't him, or his phone: It was the building.

Somewhere below them, first floor, maybe, Lupin couldn't be sure, glass shattered.

All of it.

-----------------

Concrete exploded outwards, spraying Gavin's face with chunks of debris. It ruffled his blazer, staining the black jacket with grey soot. He watched as people flew by, cars screeching to a halt. Even from across the street, Gavin could feel that thick blast of air.  This wasn't a surprise: The blast of air alone had been enough to send people clean off their feet and sometimes flying. One woman's head smashed into a car's windshield. This did not please him, but he was quietly satisfied with his craftsmanship of the device responsible.

Throughout all of this, Gavin sat watching outside the exact extent of his labors.

Lyon's Police Headquarters was now in shambles, and just shy of collapsing.

The bomb had gone off without a hitch, and with any luck, Gavin could cross off Inspector Koichi Zenigata, originally of Japan's Tokyo Metropolitan, off his list.