Chapter Text
Dammit. Not again.
Waking up after a brownout drunken binge is never a great experience, but this time it’s especially bad. Sunlight hurts like a stab wound. His eyes drill into his head like ice picks. One or both of them vomited, because Lupin smells and tastes it everywhere. And his muscles snap like tree bark, shit, they’re getting way too old to spend the night on a hardwood floor in ragdoll positions like this.
Jigen still snores away, lucky dog. From experience, it’s best to leave before he wakes up. It’s terrible manners to ditch your metaphorical bedfellow the morning-after, but, uh, Lupin can walk into town to pick up breakfast or something, like those little salami slices Jigen likes, to make it up to him.
Sitting up is a chore. Standing’s like trying to move around in a vat of melted lead. He shuffles to the bathroom, stares at the toilet, and debates whether he wants to throw up or not, then decides it wouldn’t help him feel any better.
He brushes his teeth, combs his hair, and finds a pair of aviators so the afternoon sun doesn’t bore a hole in his brain once he gets outside. He dresses in a new pair of boxers and pants and undershirt. Then he grabs a tie and shirt and jacket, but he’s feeling too malaise to put them on. He’ll shove ‘em on outside.
Lupin staggers down the wooden steps to the garage, the only way to exit their narrow little house. Blessed darkness washes over him, and he relishes in it before slipping on his shades and tugging the light chain. It takes at least a minute for his eyes to adjust, then to comprehend what he’s looking at. Or rather, isn’t looking at. He drops his clothing.
Lupin screams.
“Wughuh?” Jigen yells from the house, soon followed by crashing noises. He staggers into the garage, then topples down the stairs, gun drawn and ready for a firefight. Somehow, he lands standing, with his eyes squinted shut under the brim of his hat. “What!? What’s happening?”
“My car!” Lupin shrieks, pointing at the empty space where his sweet precious baby should be. “My 1928 Mercedes-Benz SSK! Where is my car!?”
“Is that it?” says Jigen, clearly not absorbing the gravity of the situation. He shoves his gun into his boxer briefs. “You woke me up for that?”
“How can you be so callous!? We’ve had so many memories in this car, Jigen, and it’s been stolen!”
“Jesus, man, can you turn down the volume?”
“Don’t touch anything! I need fingerprints, dead skin, DNA! This is an active crime scene!”
“What are you gonna do, call Pops? I’m going back to bed.”
Jigen manages to get his eyes open, and he pauses mid-turn, as the both of them stare at each other. Lupin’s distracted from the crisis by Jigen’s bruises, the torn shirt, the stain on his underwear.
“Say, Jigen… Why are you so… Beat up?”
Lupin knows exactly why he is beat up. Lupin remembers every impact, every thumb-print, the taste of his skin. But he wants to see what Jigen will do.
Jigen takes his time to respond. Mouth flat as a desert. He finally asks, “… Why are you so beat up?”
“We got pretty drunk last night, didn’t we?” says Lupin.
“Guess so,” says Jigen.
“Do you remember anything?”
“Not a thing,” Jigen lies.
“Me neither,” Lupin lies.
“Tch,” says Jigen, pulling his hat down. “Maybe you drove the car into a tree.”
“Maybe I did.”
And that’s the end of the conversation. Jigen walks upstairs, steps creaking louder than his joints, and raids the liquor cabinet to grab some hair of the dog. Lupin stops listening after that.
It’s the third time this happened. The sex thing. Well, more frottage stuff than sex.
It’s become a yearly occurrence, like some kind of perennial tax deadline. Before winter hits it’s like they’re compelled by a higher power to get hammered, start fighting, rub their hard dicks together, come all over each other, fall asleep, then never mention it again. First two times could have been flukes, but three times? That says something. Lupin doesn’t know what it’s saying, exactly, but it’s definitely saying something. What’s the message here, like, they need to hump each other more?
If Jigen didn’t scamper away like a frightened baby deer at the first sign of ‘having a talk,’ then maybe they could get over this blip and start jerking each other off sober. It’s really not a big deal. Honestly, it’s like Jigen’s never heard the term ‘casual sex’ before.
They probably wouldn’t kiss all that much. Or fuck, for that matter. Seems too intimate for poor Jigen; the guy’s stone-cold on the romance front. Jigen’s full to bursting with traumatic histories with sad dead ladies and psychotic jailbird dudes, so Lupin figured Jigen’s not ever going to be down with the sweet stuff.
Lupin would like the sweet stuff. Fantasizing about kissing Jigen— soft like kissing a girl on a picnic date, not like how they do it when drunk— it’s pure bliss. What a joy it would be, to swipe that experience, to steal the love from his lips. And if he was younger, he’d go for it, because Lupin the Third always got what he wanted.
But age mellowed him. And he learned brute force does not maximize his pleasure, not when it comes to people. Besides, who cares about all this stuff when his SSK’s AWOL? Don’t worry, baby, daddy will find you.
Lupin walks down the hill to the bakery and buys, like, thirty espressos and a bunch of pastries. He only remembers he was supposed to grab those little salami slices for Jigen after he’s hurling a bag of croissants at Jigen’s comatose body, laying face down on the floor like he’s trying to blend in with the wooden planks. Well, whatever, Jigen’s clearly not hungry, anyway.
Thus, the investigation begins. First clue: both trackers on the car were removed. Second clue: no obvious fingerprints after he sprays the garage down. They’re dealing with an expert thief here. Lupin is incensed by this. The thought of someone stealing from him. And getting away with it!
Then he finds the third clue: a single long hair, cast aside and forgotten in the very corner of their garage. Lupin recognizes it instantly. The rage in his body transforms to cheer, and he perks right up as he hops back up the stairs to inform Jigen of his discovery. Jigen’s exactly where Lupin left him, a bag of croissants nestled in the small of his back.
Lupin prods him with his toe. “Hey, guess what!? Fujiko stole the car!”
Jigen’s voice is a rasp. “Holy shit, how are you even standing? What happened to your hangover?”
“What hangover?” says Lupin.
Jigen looks at Lupin with complete and total despair.
“Jigen, please get out of your cummy underwear and shower or something, because we need to go steal my car back.”
Jigen stands, catches the bag of pastries as it falls off his back, and gets all up in Lupin’s face. His breath is rank, nothing but stomach acid and a fresh shot of gin.
“I am going to sit in the bedroom with the lights off for the next twenty-four hours. If, in that time period, I am disturbed by you, woken up by you, or even hear you moving, I am going to shoot you. I am actually going to fucking shoot you, Lupin. Goodnight, see you tomorrow, don’t talk to me.”
Lupin can only say, “Uh…” as Jigen grumbles down the narrow hallway to his bedroom and slams the door shut behind him. A few seconds later, he re-emerges, trudges into the kitchen, grabs the espressos Lupin didn’t drink and all the remaining pastries, then returns to his room. The door slams just as loud.
“Hey!” says Lupin, feeling emasculated. “I was going to eat those…”
There’s no response. Lupin deflates. Taking the car back will be no fun without Jigen. And also he stole Lupin’s breakfast when he knows Lupin’s got nothing in his stomach? Dick move.
Whatever. He’ll go dine at a café and think over where Fujiko could be. He heads back outside and the sun fires a superheated laser directly through his skull. Oh, yeah! He forgot he had a hangover. Back inside, sunglasses on, back outside, walk down the slope.
The hills of the small city-state of Grimadia roll like the waves crashing against its shores, the red-brick streets smooth and well-kept, the neighborhood quiet and free of cars. The trees that fill the city with a lush green— palms, cypress, cedar, and oak— dapple here and there with autumn colors, although the Mediterranean climate doesn’t lend itself to a true fall palette. Still, the wind is chill, today. Lupin should have thrown on a peacoat.
He pops into a small corner restaurant run by some Australians, specializing in those thick, delicious pancakes covered in berries and fruits and sweet syrups. He catches the owner’s attention— a lovely heavy-set blonde who he spent an hour talking to about her daughter’s university adventures— and says in English, “Katherine, darling, I’ll be outside, would you grab an ashtray for me?”
Lupin opted to hide in this neighborhood for a few reasons. It’s in the small residential district that the Princess reserves for locals, with uglier buildings and tighter rent control, and Lupin much prefers bumping elbows with grumpy residents than tourists and rich businessmen. It’s also at a higher altitude than the rest of Grimadia, so he can look down upon it like a king in his castle. And, finally, it’s just gorgeous! A little slice of heaven.
His bistro table provides a perfect view of the sea below, shimmering in the sun. Katherine takes his order of passion fruit pancakes and coffee with liqueur.
“By the way,” Lupin asks her. “Were you up early this morning? Did you happen to see a, er, distinctive yellow car pass by? Like 1920s-era distinctive?”
“What kind of yellow? Piss yellow?”
“I guess if you’re really dehydrated, and maybe radioactive, then yeah?”
She shrugs. “No, it was probably those Halloween party dicks joyriding through our neighbourhood. Shifty fucking cunts.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard all about the rich weirdos that come in for this. House Grimadia blocks off the shorefront for a few days, right?”
“Every year,” she says. She eyes him up. “Hey, you look bad. You’re still with that scary hat fucker? Is he beating you?”
“Oh, uh,” Lupin says, scrambling for a lie. He can’t think of one that covers both the beating and the hickeys. Should have put on makeup. “Yes. But! I’m into it. Sexually. It’s a sex thing.”
“… If you need a homosexual couples therapist, I know someone.”
Lupin sinks into his seat. “Yeah, sure. Give me their card, Kathy.”
She heads inside to attend to other customers. Lupin smacks his head on the iron table. If they eat here again, Jigen is going to murder him.
Perfect pink pancakes topped with beautiful fruits and a creamy coffee get delivered, along with a note listing a name and a number. Lupin crumples it up and tosses it in a street bin when no one is looking. He puts all this drama with Jigen out of mind.
He takes a map for a future heist out of his jacket. He knows he can use drones and satellites to scope things out nowadays, but he’s weak to some good old hand-drawn charm. Besides, nothing scratches the relaxation itch like hanging out on a beach all day and doodling the city!
Jigen and Lupin are here to scope out if “The Votive” is worth stealing. Or if it even exists at all.
Grimadia, as an independent city-state, attracts a whole smorgasbord of money laundering, arms smuggling, and underworld businesses that other countries crack down on. A bunch of shady, expensive, evil items turn up here. Like The Votive.
It’s supposed to be a telepathic communicator. Beaming thoughts directly to someone’s brain would be a lot of fun, so Lupin wanted to check out the rumors, and steal it if it’s real. But they haven’t gotten very far with investigations. They’ve mostly just been lazing around, drinking, and napping on the beach for an entire month.
Maybe Fujiko’s after it too? But then why would she need Lupin’s car? To bait him? No. If she needed Lupin’s help, and wanted to play coy about it, she’d have left a note. She needs his extremely rare and expensive Mercedes for a particular reason.
Dear precious Katherine might have been onto something vis a vis the Halloween party. That party is a plush, elite, old money crime lord kind of party. Secret society kind of party. Panama Papers kind of party. Lupin could see Fujiko trying to nab an invitation with his car as a prop, showing it off as a status symbol of her fake identity.
The party starts the 31st of October, and goes ‘til the 2nd. But guests begin arriving the night of the 30th for a pre-game. He’ll do more investigation in the meantime, but he’s got a good feeling about his hypothesis. He pops a large bite of pancake and whipped cream into his mouth, then holds his map upside-down so it aligns with his current view of the shore.
The sea crashes into the rocky, dilapidated peninsula hosting a crumbling medieval fortification. A nineteenth century palace sits on top of it, surrounded by immaculate gardens. Lupin could probably peep through the windows, if he borrowed Jigen’s heavy-duty sniper scope…
Jigen really does try to shoot him when Lupin bugs him to go out for dinner. He misses. As per usual, Jigen caves to Lupin’s whining, and they go eat fancy-ass pizza and then drink fancier-ass wine and then go see whatever superhero movie’s playing at the fancy dancy mall in the business district. They don’t get shitfaced, and spend a peaceful night in their own bedrooms.
Any other ideas about Fujiko’s theft go nowhere. On the 30th, when the sun dips beneath the rolling sea, Lupin and Jigen lie together on the flat roof of their hideout with a few beers, a blanket, and a whole lot of cigarettes. They don’t assemble Jigen’s rifle, but they set up his scope on a workbench clamp and jerry-rigged platform, so they can make small adjustments to the view by tightening screws— kind of like a microscope.
Jigen configures the lenses to focus on the palace. “I don’t see her in there.”
“Of course Fujiko’s not there yet, dear. It’s gauche to arrive on time.”
Jigen scoots aside to let Lupin use the scope. The palace is painted light green, like aged copper, with three stories of gilded gold windows recently restored to their full luster. The purple-orange glimmer of twilight makes the whole place glow like hellfire.
Lupin focuses on the enormous cobblestone courtyard with a big fountain in the middle. Cars drive through the roundabout, dropping off guests at the entrance, and attendants in suits escort the guests in and do other valet duties. The setup is grand and fanciful, like something from a fairy tale.
He guesses that tonight’s theme is Roaring Twenties. Lots of women in straight cut bejeweled dresses that cost more than a small country’s GDP, and men in those boxy cut suits. Lupin’s not an expert on historical fashion or anything, but it seems about half of these people wear more ‘pop culture’ 1920s outfits than actual vintage recreations.
“Ah, there’s the Prince and Princess,” says Lupin, focusing on a droll middle-aged man and his elegant wife emerging from an antique Rolls-Royce. “Did you know the Princess is American? She used to be a famous film director.”
“Huh, really? What’d she make?”
“Horror films. The type of horror that’s all atmosphere, stuff like Suspiria.”
“Sounds fun, why’d she quit?”
“Fell in love,” Lupin says, smiling to himself. Grimadia might be a corrupt den of international money laundering, but getting swept away by true love into a royal family is so wonderfully romantic.
Jigen’s content with smoking through the chill autumn night as the full moon rises high above the sea. Lupin stays focused on the grand entrance for an hour or two, but guests trickle off and there’s no sign of Fujiko. He begins to peer in the windows.
It’s standard party-fare. Lots of drinking and eating, people out in the garden, dancing in a grand ballroom he doesn’t have a good view of. Tons of empty, dark rooms.
One of these dark rooms, on the third floor, glows with the whisper of a few candles. Lupin screws a hefty night vision lens onto the end of the scope. Refocusing, the lumpy shapes of a writhing, cloaked group of about ten people come into view. It takes a stupid amount of time to realize they’re all having sex. Doesn’t look like anybody’s very good at it, that’s for sure. There’s a Leviathan Cross, probably drawn with sheep’s blood, on the wall. They undulate while splashing around in some kind of dark puddle.
“Little early for satanic orgies. It’s only 11:00,” says Lupin.
“You’re serious? What is this, the Bohemian Club? Some kinda Eyes Wide Shut party?”
“Honestly, you’re probably not far off.”
“Look man, I can let a lot of shit slide, but if they start fucking kids or something…”
“I promise we’ll rescue any human trafficking victims if we see them,” Lupin moves away, to let Jigen look. “But it seems pretty tame. I think they’re just into run-of-the-mill secret society rich people decadence, you know: bondage, drugs, and fake rituals that make them feel extra special.”
“Oh yeah, real run-of-the-mill. Yuck. Is that a pool of blood?” says Jigen, adjusting the view to look in other windows. He flicks a switch on the night vision lens to turn it off. “Hey. I found her. Goemon’s there too. Must have missed ‘em arrive.”
“Really? Let me see!”
Lupin tries to shove Jigen aside, but Jigen’s rock solid, and takes a million years to finish peering at Fujiko.
“Something’s off,” he grumbles, letting Lupin move in to take a peek. “It’s real subtle. Can’t describe it.”
There they are, crystal clear through a wide, ground floor window. Fujiko and Goemon, lounging on a fainting couch, playing cards with a gaggle of costumed women who fawn over the both of them. Fujiko’s doing the social engineering trick where she has her ‘bodyguard’ pick the cards for her, confident in her hand, trying to throw off the other players.
After spending a perfectly appropriate amount of time zooming in and out of her beautiful breasts and legs, he notes that Jigen is right. They look odd.
Not the costumes, or how they’re sitting. Or even Goemon staying calm when surrounded by hot babes. He can do it if he’s focused, if he’s playing a character. The way they talk to each other, the way they lean into or away from the conversation, the way Fujiko’s trying to throw off the women around her… All of it in combination is just off.
“See what I mean?” says Jigen. “It’s like they’re too close, or something.”
“Maybe they’re drunk?” says Lupin, unsure. “No, maybe they slept together?”
“No friggin’ way. Last time she seduced him it took an entire month to wrangle Goemon into the same room as her.”
“Maybe they had that Fujiko-brand dom/sub sex where it’s mostly just name-calling and nobody comes, you know what I’m talking about?”
“No. And don’t explain it. I don’t want to know.”
“Well, let’s crash the party and ask them,” says Lupin. “Our white tie ensembles won’t match the time period, but we’re bespoke guys, so we won’t stand out.”
“Can’t we just figure out where they parked the car? I hate these kinds of parties.”
“I mean, me too. But you’re curious. Admit it.”
Jigen does not admit it, but he does stop complaining. They pack up the scope, finish their last cigarettes, and head downstairs to change. This’ll be fun.