Disclaimer: I, Ego, do not own Yami no Matsuei. If I did, Hijiri would not just be around for the Devil's Trill.

Quick Note: I promised myself not to make serious religious, choice beef cut, or manga references in this fic, since most people have at least seen the anime. See, I care about my readers. The only catch is you must accept the idea Watari doesn't have a partner and wouldn't mind someone helping him with the sixth block. Easy, right? Oh, and it might help you be a bit open to, er, my strange and interesting pairing plans for this fic which is probably not Hijiri/Tsuzuki or Hijiri/Hisoka. I know, I just chased away my audience. All three of you.

Other than that, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. Get me a Bible and I will swear to you this fic is going to have fluff. (Though not very good fluff, and not right away.) Just trust me here, I'm writing for all of you. And maybe a little for cute little Hii-chan. And, of course, me.

Dead Beat

Prologue

Now for the pathetic, tear jerking details, without which this story cannot progress. In many words:

Hijiri Minase was an aspiring young violinist who displayed amazing knack and discipline when confronted with the complexities of rosined bow and gut strings. He was sought out as prized prodigy and a likely virtuoso by many prodigious conservatories willing to overlook the lack of parents and brusquely replacing "orphan" with "unclaimed genius minus irritating parents". Hijiri didn't have a soul in the world and was left completely at the hands of the country's educational system. His only guide that originally should have narrowed down the choices was his obsession with music. Ironically, though a tremendous complement, so great was his skill with the violin that his selection had been, for the most part, expanded beyond human consideration. Even Europe was calling, and Hijiri was listening frantically to all.

When he wasn't trying to convince long lost relatives he was doing perfectly all right on his own, Hijiri was planning for his moment to take the music world by storm with his original work. He was already nearing the status of legend in the local music education branch, and was only a few school years away from a carefully planned attempt at national success. His musical tinkering had expanded far from his cherished violin to cello, piano, and even a bit of interesting work with several wind instruments. Hijiri was clearly determined to be an accomplished musician and nothing less of perfect.

It was a pity what had happened instead. He really did have the makings of greatness. Hijiri Minase could have been just the breath of life the classical music world needed. Or he could have been an outstanding concert performer to inspire greatness in others.

Regrettably, the dead aren't able to breath life into much of anything, much less themselves, and while they may still inspire greatness in others, first something needs to be left behind that is inspirational. Hijiri breathed and left nothing.

The tragic end of our dear Hijiri began with a peaceful Wednesday evening outside his apartment. He was having a pleasant and productive day and had narrowed his higher education choices down to three out of the thirteen worth noting which had accepted him. This had considerably brightened the boy's mood, and it had him humming a cheerful melody of no apparent origin as he entered the foyer and placed his school violin down away from the detuning draft of the door. Hijiri was then in the possession of the before unbelievable equivalent of two violins. One was used for his classes and was anything but premium quality. The second he dedicated to his compositions—the very violin he had received from the shinigami years before to compensate for the permissible removal of Otonashi's. It was on this instrument he practiced his most difficult pieces, from Tartini's tones and bowing to his innovative attempt at col legno.

Col legno, translated, was basically "with wood" or "playing with the wood (bow-stick)", as opposed to col arco (playing "with bow"). Hijiri had found when done incorrectly it produced a very interesting, faintly scratching sound. The unnecessary overbearing scratch could be easily lessened or increased with just the proper force. It was this he was making an effort to accomplish, though with his abuse-able school bow and not the shinigami one. A violin virtuoso should not only achieve the harmonics and bowing for one composition. The Devil's Trill had been a grand triumph, he wasn't trying to demean that, but there was still much more to learn. That was the duty of the artist, was it not? To grow and perfect one's skill so that through the sea of techniques there could be derived one's own voice and ever maturing style? Expression was basically the same, no matter what medium one chose. It was a sophisticated representation of self, be it through music, writing, painting, or even numbers.

To Hijiri the violin was more than just a necessity to pass the western music centred high school. He needed the music to be himself. The violin, closer to him than any other instrument, was like an appendage of his body. That was one of his favourite ways to describe it. Violin was just as important as his lungs to breath and his wrist to bow. In fact, Hijiri's greatest fear, his understandable phobia, was the lost of so much as a finger. To be unable to play would kill him.

Rest assured, however, that it didn't. Something else entirely ended his life that ill-fated Wednesday.

Hijiri was leaving his apartment one more time that evening after a challenging three hours of violin experimentation, which had left him in a cordial mood. He had previously arranged to meet a few friends downtown to study musical history, a required subject he was not too fond of. Hijiri needed all the help possible and could not afford to miss his ride.

He didn't. In fact, he made it across town without a problem. The car wasn't what killed him, either.

Hijiri entered his friend's house not knowing what type of experimentation was going on in the kitchen. If he had, then he wouldn't have eaten anything that night. Unfortunately, having never before seen fugu or ventured to sample it (the motto being, "Fugu wa kuitashii, inochi wa oshishii"—I would like to eat fugu, but I would also like to live), Hijiri was completely clueless on what sauce-dipped deadly was entering his mouth over dinner. The illegal chef was inexperienced and had been lethally incorrect on his judgment between the blowfish's liver and testicles.

When he started to die, Hijiri did finally realise something had poisoned him. His friends watched in horror as chopsticks clattered to their owner's plate from the paralyzed hands of a soon very dead Minase.

Lawsuits followed that evening from parents furious at the idea their children had been served such an unskilfully prepared meal. Sadly, no-one truly wanted compensation for Hijiri's death; he didn't belong to anyone. They were merely appalled at how close their own joys of life had come to the same fate and used the young violinist's death to justify their complaints. It was understandable. Hijiri had never completely presented himself as a universal genius, preferring to have the proper education first. He died without a title past prodigy, slightly disappointing a few hopeful conservatories for the next year. He had left no truly lasting impressions except to the arrest of the uneducated chef. Half the parents with court issues couldn't bother to remember how to properly spell the characters to his name.

This, too, was understandable. It wasn't as if their own children had died, just an unfortunate musician (what did he play—the viola or something like that, right? Cello?).

Still, amidst the attacks at the murderous household, Hijiri's funeral was held with an appreciative crowd of teachers and the friends whom his death had saved from a like fate. The Minase was not forgotten, but he had never achieved the musical remembrance he felt capable of earning. He knew no-one to go to in the afterlife except his parents, and they were merely haunts of memory. Therefore, when offered a position as a shinigami, he strongly considered, standing on the edge of uncertainty and not willing to pass on. He remembered the shinigamis' support and decided he didn't want to officially die. He was frightened of that anonymous future and preferred to stay where he wasn't alone.

So, he agreed.

And that was how Hijiri Minase became partner shinigami of the sixth block and where our story begins.

Well, we know Hijiri did not die over the summer. According to this old cookbook I found, fugu (meat from a poisonous blowfish) is only available October through March. A lethal misconception can be made when preparing it, since the liver and the testicles can apparently be easily confused by the untrained. (There's a crucial difference though: one has poison. That doesn't help.) I'm not 100-percent sure what that Japanese says, since I got it out of a cookbook. I'm not even going to pretend to speak that language.

Also, don't judge me too badly on my knowledge when it comes to violins. I can honestly swear to you that I have never touched an actual violin in my entire life. I have friends who play violin, but I don't ask them about it.

End Note: Erm, and that's my lovely prologue.

Stay tuned. Comment. Have a Sandwich. Do whatever you wish. I have no control over you.