Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji
He saw Madam Red slowly bring herself to stand up, only her thin ankles were in view. His eyes traveled around the floor until they fell upon the bottom of a full length, ornate mirror; it was tilted, thus giving him a clear sight of the pair's visages, at the most he only saw their chests and above.
As he had correctly deduced from the boots, it was truly Undertaker. The man, whose silver bangs now tucked back to reveal those mischievous eyes, had that Cheshire grin that stretched from ear to ear; he was scrutinizing the dead woman's features, a hand caressed her thin cheek with a long, raven nails. He was touching her in an affectionate manner, his other hand was out of the mirror's limits.
Undertaker hummed to himself, causing the creature before him to croon in response. Over time, as he continued that loving song, the once aggressive Madam Red was mollified into a submissive demeanor. Her jaw snapped open and closed but she stood obediently through his support.
Chains scraped against the floor, some gently clinked against one another; her hands were being manipulated to go elsewhere on Undertaker's body, Grell knew that she wasn't embracing him nor was he doing so to her.
"You were quite restless when I got here," Undertaker murmured huskily, his neck craning downwards to have their lips so close that they could breathe the air of one another. "Would you care to explain, m'dear?"
But the Madam could only response with high croaks from her throat. He nodded as if he understood the noise.
"I see," he replied, but then he inhaled sharply,"careful there, Madam Red..."
Grell's eyelid twitched in disgust. It didn't take an idiot to know he was getting the revived woman to perform fellatio, God forbid if he even forces her mouth to his genitals. He felt his stomach flip somersaults when he saw Undertaker's lips meet the woman's. Tongues lazily slid over one another, a grunt came from him as she grew aggressive with her mouth.
A mix of saliva and blood leaking from the small gaps between their conjoined lips stained both their chins before dripping off to the floor; their lips were visible every so often to exchange such bodily fluids. Undertaker pressed his chest against hers, the hand that once stroked her cheek was now behind her head, grasping her hair and keeping her in place. It didn't stop her movements with those accursed lips.
Those lips, ones that Grell had the pleasure to taste and enjoy before, began to fight for dominance, or for a decent meal. The hand that was entangled in her hair grasped it harshly while the other hand pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to disappear from the mirror. Undertaker's expression changed, his eyes closed and his teeth bit on his bottom lip, but that smug smile was still plastered there.
Grell understood why her teeth were pulled, and he was mortified that her body would be desecrated in such a way that defiled the laws of any man with a straight mind. But Undertaker was definitely not one to hold his sanity. The man groaned softly in pleasure, grunting only when the woman did something he loved.
The man's face, slowly contorting in twisted pleasure, was rather intriguing to Grell. In fact, he leaned a little to the right to see the details much more carefully. His silver hair, which strangely made him much more appealing than he let on, fit rather nicely with his pale complexion. He was old, Grell could only guess him to be a thousand years old or so just by his hair color alone. He heard of stories of Deserters who grew tired of working and simply wanted to leave the Dispatch Society.
That nasty scar that stretched from his left eye down to his right cheek added to his portrayal of one word that placed him above any other Deserter: insane.
Where he received it would be a tale for another day. For now, it only shrunk or extended with the movement of the man's jaw as he clenched and unclenched itself. His breathing became ragged, hinting that he was getting close.
Grell had his fair share of walk-ins and stumbles into sexual activities throughout of the offices, if he was lucky to find any action, and normally would have seen this arousing. If it were with a human, man or woman, that would be alive, he would have asked to join. His morals, however shattered they are, had somehow reached a limit from this.
His stomach, already whirling about, threatened him with emptying itself through his mouth. His hand went to his lips to cover them, he grimaced at this violating act.
He saw Undertaker throw his head back with a jolting breath. He then released it in the form of a low, feral moan; he reached his completion at long last. His head fell forward and he let out a satisfied sigh. From where he lain, Grell saw a bit of that white cream dripping to the floor.
"Good Doll," he heard Undertaker praised her. There was a sinister chuckle that followed as he effortlessly forced the living corpse away from his body, he took a step back though he was still within sight of the mirror. His hand went to his face to brush away the bangs that had suddenly fell over his eyes. Upon tucking those thin locks behind his ear, Grell swore that the man's eyes flickered towards the mirror, towards Grell himself. A smug smirk fell on those pale lips.
His heart skipped a beat when those calculating eyes sought for his.
It was only a brief moment, he wasn't able to tell if he was imagining it or if it had been for real. He then walked off, only pausing to zip up his pants.
Madam Red began to shuffle about on her knees, as if unknowing why Undertaker parted from her. If these corpses consumed flesh, surely removing their teeth would turn them into harmless beings or, for Undertaker's entertainment, pleasure seeking toys.
"Oh, now, now, my lady, don't get restless. I'll be back before you know it," Undertaker told her, he suddenly stalled his steps when the tip of his boot hit a metal object. It was an oil lamp, the same one Grell dropped. The man's hand reached for it and took it. "Hm...? Must have fallen off the bureau when she threw a fit..."
He heard the oil lamp being placed on a wooden surface. A whistle came from him as he went to the nightstand to douse one of the candles, leaving only a single one to heavily dim the room with its tiny flame. He left the room, his tune matching the beat of every step. Eventually, the steps and light ebbed away, though the whistling was still audible.
A few minutes passed, soon the bells from upstairs rung, Undertaker had left the establishment altogether.
He knew better than to linger in one place. He scuttled out from under the bed and stood up, his hand taking out the lighter to see where the oil lamp was. It was, as where Undertaker had stopped, perched on the bureau. He lit the small wick and brought his attention to Madam Red.
She was still on her knees, but unmoving. Her mouth was agape with whiteness leaking from her lips. He set the lamp on the bureau and then went to the bed; he sat upon the worn mattress and stared at her. The initial shock of seeing her had slowly ebbed away, he began to accept she was simply just another one of those freaks Undertaker created.
There must have been a reason why she would be housed here. She had some form of importance to Undertaker. Killing her would alert the Deserter that Grell was, in fact, here and, if he were clever enough, know exactly who was pursuing him. Grell didn't want to risk losing track of Undertaker. Grell had learned that corpses housed only Cinematic Records, or at least botched ones that Undertaker had tampered with.
He wondered if she had Records within her body that required her to be placed in this room.
As she groaned and shifted about, Grell reached out to her. His gloved hands went to her chin and tipped it up so that she may face him. Unlike earlier, she was calm about physical contact.
"What has the madman done to you, darling?" He uttered quietly, eyelids heavy. He tried to imagine her alive and much more healthier, even clothed, but all he saw was a pitiful creature. He buried his face in the palm of his hands.
Killing her once more would bring her to peace but would alert her captor that he was the subject of a pursuit.
Keeping her alive would accomplish nothing except remind him that she was up and out of her coffin.
A hand went to his knee, he looked down at it but didn't flinch. He only felt a sickening tug at his stomach. Those nails had been pulled out, leaving only pink flesh exposed to him at her fingertips. He brought himself to see Madam Red once more.
"Why keep their eyes covered...?" Grell curiously reached out to her face knowing that if she bit at him, he wouldn't feel any pain. She stayed in place at the touch of his gloved hand, he brought his fingers under the straps of the night mask. He swallowed and slipped the mask up to see her eyes.
However, there were no eyes.
There were two empty sockets in the fair lady's head, two holes that were set upon her face. They were empty, black, not even the sign of flesh or blood can be see. Grell's jaw dropped, stunned. Those ruby eyes that he once stared into so adoringly long ago were gone, they were just pits of nothing. Undertaker was truly the disturbed man; Grell was no stranger to missing organs, but he never thought to aim for the eyes.
Tongues, extremities, ears, even genitals were something he was familiar and comfortable with, but a missing pair most important features to a human beings was so foreign to him. How Undertaker had extracted those precious orbs from the corpse was something Grell could oddly applaud for.
He was about to cover her face until he saw a slight glow appear from her right eye. He squinted at it as it became brighter, the whiteness illuminated that socket and began to rise up from the black depths. It was a white strand of a tangible substance that snaked out from one hole and into her left. More came out from her right socket, only briefly showing itself before hiding once again like a snake.
It was a Cinematic Record.
Typically, as memories upon reaping, Cinematic Records would reveal themselves when the corporeal form (the body) would be sliced open by a death scythe; the action would be at the heart where the soul resides. The soul and its memories would be exposed for the judgement of a Shinigami who, after an evaluation of the individual's life, would slice apart and "END" the Cinematic Record. This prevents the soul from creating more memories and allow for a proper collection.
The soul would automatically be reaped by the death scythe and later be recorded into the Book of Life, the final stage for a soul. The memories, however, were left behind in the body, a single flaw that Grell had realized that Shinigami have done. With the addition of rigged memories, especially false ones Undertaker had created, bodies were able to reanimate themselves among the living; they would lack their souls, hence be driven to consume others to fill in the void.
He understood how Undertaker would be able to incorporate the false Cinematic Records into the bodies. The eyes were removed to create an opening, like removing glass to a window so that nothing can block the flow of air coming into a hollow room. The blackness would explain that the soul had been reaped and no longer resided in the body.
His hand reached out for that small, translucent strand and extended it outwards to view it.
His eyes watched as scenes flashed before him.
It wasn't a replay of her life but of her life with Grell.
He saw only various scenes from murdering whores to playing the piano with her. There were a myriad of miscellaneous activities events, all of them contained Grell himself. It was like Undertaker purposefully focused on the man in those memories. He expected to see himself fade out but, instead, was only met with more.
"Grell, be a dear and wash these."
"Yes, Madam."
She handed him a bloodied blouse and skirt.
"Grell, can you fetch me my coat?"
"Yes, Madam."
He gave her that famous red coat.
"Grell...she's our target."
"Of course, Madam. At once."
She pointed at a whore that stood at the corner.
"Grell, please satisfy my curiosity," her voice told him lazily as he watched himself gag a woman on the street.
And then the scene shifted to match her dialogue. It was of him lying in bed with her after an hour or so of extraneous activities. Her body was laying upon his as he was propped against pillows. He was running his hand through her hair. He had that smile, he softly replied,"Yes, love?"
"As a Shinigami...you have the powers to alternate your appearance."
"True."
"Why not have the ability to change your gender?"
Grell gave a mournful sigh,"Simply due to the fact I was born this way. The body you see before you is the full extent that I can physically change my features to that of a woman. Our bodies are immortal, as is our organs which are, unfortunately, a part of our bodies. I can do this-" His hair went from that blazing red to mousy brown. "-or this-" It changed to black only briefly but then returned to being crimson. "-but our gender differentiates us completely."
"Then your face..."
"That stays generally the same, sadly. Bone structure only shifts when we damage it, something I wish to never have done. I'm as beautiful enough now, I only want to enhance that if I ever see the chance to bear children. I lack the vital organs for that though-"
END.
Undertaker had managed to edit everything else, even her birth and death were removed.
After the END., a scene of the mad man dancing with a bowler hat and square mustache, along with a cane at hand, played itself in a loop. A jolly piano resounded in the background. Grell ripped his attention away from the scene, eyes wide at seeing his wish, a deep desire, being shared to the woman.
His hand, still at her forehead, slid the face mask back over her eye sockets and forced the Cinematic Record return into the void.
He got up and left her kneeling on the floor. He observed her a bit longer, and she began to move as if upset by the lack of contact. The chains rattled and she groaned loudly, but when he didn't respond; she began to quiet down and turn around to face the wall. She sat down and returned to the original position in which he found her.
He took the oil lamp from the bureau and began to leave. His heel kicked at a fallen tooth, he ignored that and quietly went down the hallway. He was back into the larger chamber of where the wood and cloths were stored for Undertaker's crafting. He went towards the East hallway.
It split off with a door to the left and another to the right. He tried to enter the left one but it was locked. He used the key he found, which he nearly forgot he clung to, and unlocked the door; apparently, it wasn't meant for the shackles. His lamp showered the room with light. A stench of alcohol and formaldehyde reached his nostrils, prompting him to cover his nose.
The room was decently spacious as it was the embalming room. There were a row of tables where bodies would be individually cleaned up; the foot of the tables faced the door and were about four feet apart from one another. Shelves held jars where organs were stored. There was a small scale for the organs and a large scale for bodies situated in the center of the room.
At one corner was the bath and sink. Both had a significant amount of bloodstains lining the walls, porcelain rims, and floor.
At another corner was a large hole in the wall that acted as a lift into the upper floor, a convenient way to transport readied bodies. He stepped over to the lift to see if anything was hidden there. Shining his light into the dark hole, he only saw a nest of rats that scattered away from the brightness, all squeaking in agitation. A white skull was left behind, he dismissed it as it was nothing of importance. He glanced upward and saw that the shaft was blacked by the panel that carried the body.
He stepped away from the lift and and made his way out of the embalming room, closing it and making sure it was locked. He took several breaths and turned for the other door. It was wooden, seemingly harmless as well. He opened it, as it was unlocked, and found a room empty of everything except for a gramophone that sat upon a table with several records scattered on the wooden surface.
He approached the table and examined every large, black disc. His attention shifted to the gramophone, he placed the oil lamp on the table so that he may turn the crank. He brought the needle at the edge of the spinning disc already loaded and all he heard was the familiar, jolly tune of the piano. It was steady but skipped a beat every once in a while.
Grell took a chance to glance at the wall, it was gray, just like everything else in the room. He felt that going to the Undertaker's parlor was useless, he regretted not choosing to follow him out of the establishment. He sat there, quiet, but eventually began to hum in time with the piano, he even tapped his foot to the beat. He sighed and removed the needle after a minute or so of the rancorous, lively tune.
He stepped up from the table and began to leave the room with the oil lamp.
It had been ten minutes since Undertaker left. Grell had wasted his time here. He entered the hallway and went into the supply chamber for the last time. Madam Red's chains and her noises were heard as he began to make his ascent to the ground floor. His lamp showed the way, his steps were going faster. He was planning on checking through the back door where Undertaker most likely loaded his clients into the funeral carriages or wagons for travel.
As he neared the ground floor, he took out his pocket watch to see the time. It was half passed four in the afternoon-
His train of thought was abruptly halted, silver was all he saw flash before him. It came from above, but his eyes were trained on the watch's face to see anything come at him. The next thing he knew, he had dropped all that he carried; the breaking of glass echoed through his ears but it faded away when he was pinned to the overhanging wall above the staircase.
In front of him was a white, wooden pole, his eyes followed it down to a set of ribs encircling it, the end was topped with a skull that wore a crown of thorns. The sharp blade, oh so sharp, had pierced through his abdomen but exited through his middle back. He moved his legs and was thankful that there was no penetration of his spine. His mouth immediately coughed up blood, he looked up to see a grinning man staring back at him with calculating eyes; he was perched in the rafters with the handle of his death scythe in one hand.
"Strange that they sent you here but highly amusing, yes?" Undertaker inquired mockingly.
Grell couldn't move, but he knew his weight was being pulled down to gravity. He could deal with the scythe piercing his body, however, he couldn't afford to let it touch his soul. Both his hands slammed on the wall and desperately pressed against the smooth surface for some form of friction to hold him up. There was no anvil. He felt the bandages under his shirt go undone, he knew that he wouldn't be able to regenerate quickly enough to fight back.
His vision began to dim as the pain grew, it was too much for him to handle. Surely the blade had burst an organ or two. He felt himself getting weaker by the second. He couldn't make a Transition for the life of him, he couldn't even focus his powers to summon his death scythe. As if by miracle, Undertaker dislodged the scythe from Grell, causing him to fall down to the stairs.
Seizing his freedom, Grell's legs kicked, his hands clawed at the steps. He scrambled to reach the middle of the parlor. Throwing a glance back over his shoulder, Grell saw Undertaker falling through the rafters and landing on his feet. That intimidating death scythe was slung over his shoulder as he approached Grell.
He coughed up more blood upon the floor. If he could get as far as he could from him, maybe he could send for help through one of the pigeons outside. He gagged when blood flowed through his throat once more, he paused to spew out another pint of it.
Internal bleeding, he thought. His bleeding wound left a trail, his legs sloshed in it as he crawled pathetically for the door.
"It's suicide to send you alone," Undertaker snickered as he leaped over Grell's form. He stood in front of him, Grell could see his boots. One of them tapped his shoulder then it gently rolled him onto his back. Grell let out shout at the pain. "Very unwise."
"I...wasn't fond...of their decision either," he spluttered. His breathing became labored. So much pain. Just too much. His eyes were wide as he stared up at Undertaker, he glared threateningly at him.
His smile fell into a frown. "No one is, m'dear. Pray tell...had you ever considered leaving?"
Grell was slightly confused, Undertaker caught on to it and added,"I meant leaving the Dispatch Society altogether."
"W-what choice do I have? I'm...fucked in the end either way," he spat,"and don't...get any ideas of...of me ever joining you."
"Oh? A shame, but I wasn't even asking you. Well, I ought to clean up my mess, don't want my customers coming in thinking I run a slaughterhouse rather than a funeral home. Humans tend to be revolted at the sight of blood yet they have no problems holding the dead," he said, that smile came back. He tapped the tip of his boot to Grell's cheek. "Hm..."
He looked thoughtful, as if contemplating what he would do. Perhaps he already knew what his devious plans were. Whatever he was thinking, Grell didn't like the expression he was giving him at all.
He gasped out,"You...are...insane..."
Undertaker laughed under his breathe. "Heh, I get that a lot!"
Grell felt himself slip away into darkness so quickly. Undertaker's form disappeared into the world that was slowly being inked away. All he could remember were those piercing, green eyes brilliantly gleaming down at him.
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