Yeah, officially starting Mortals over! And it took me forever because I can't make up my mind over this or that. I'm working on the seventh chapter right now, so let's see if I can get these threads of fate untangled and get everyone together. I know some of you liked the original, and there's a lot of elements from it, but I feel this does a better job of delving into the characters and the world. Thank you, for sticking with me.

Special thanks to Senigata, SSD, Marle, and Squid for looking this over. It means a lot!

"Her name is Tifa Lockhart. Age at death, twenty-five."

She heard her name, but recognition didn't flare in her half-lidded eyes, nor did anxiety churn in her gut. Nothing much mattered to her as she stood in front of three looming, sinister beings that passed a scroll between each other as if checking a student's homework. Occasionally one of them glanced up at her, or prodded her, like looking over a piece of meat at the market.

"She is just your average mortal. No training at all," said the tall being that looked more demon than man. "But I'm sure we can make do."

"Then what good is she?" asked the towering figure right in front of her, their head tilted to the side.

The demon, who had been holding a scroll, passed it off to another being, wrapped in linens and amulets decorating their torso. "She seems to have the proper character for the station granted to her."

The being, wrapped in a dark, dust-grey robe, made a disapproving sound. The bandaged one pointed at the scroll then to argue her point. " She has the aptitude for magic, not just because of her unique soul. Verily, a diamond in the rough."

"You said that about the last one," pointed out the shrouded figure. He took back the scroll and looked at it. "He's still a bit rough."

The demon laughed, low and harsh. "He's one with a penchant for angst, but skilled. I'm sure this one will be of use, with eternity ahead of her."

"The last one had military experience, at least."

"You really must take these opportunities as they come, Lord." The bandaged creature brought all four of their hands together. "Who knows when the next one will arrive? The gods above will take them, and only rarely do we receive those in bloom."

"Twice in a short period," countered the shrouded one.

"Yes, and the one before him was aged two hundred fifty years, waiting in the grave for you."

"...Is she at least from a...strategic region?" The figure studied the top of the scroll. "Nibelheim, Nibel..." A haunting sigh came then. "Fine. We will ask her."

A sudden awareness came over her as if she had been startled out of a waking dream. Tifa looked about, finding herself in a large room with ink-black marble floors and walls and pillars covered in intricate, macabre carvings. Dim floating lights on the domed ceiling gave the impression of stars on a moonless night. Three seats stood in front of her, as well as the gloomy, terrifying figures that had been muttering about her.

She blinked, then stared at them. The demonic figure was black and red, wings tucked behind it and its claws curled inward on its spindly arms. Horns curved upwards from the front of its head like a savage crown, sharp points of ebony carved with glyphs. Its smile was cruel.

The one in linens was barely recognizable as female at first. Her smaller set of arms, the skin blue, were now crossed over her chest and under her breasts. Her left eye, a sickly green, glared down at her. Her other hands were grey and clawed, and she was draped in black leathers that were chained to her form. They rose to form a tall collar around her head and neck.

The one in front of her, that stared down at her with a face she couldn't see beyond its cowl, was the one who sent a chill down her spine. What little light the room afforded dulled in his presence. He wore a robe of dingy grey, that was wrapped about him snuggly enough to where the form of his bony frame could be made out, his hips adorned by a rusty chain decorated with keys and the symbols of long-forgotten saints.

A claw of bone and sinew was raised, lazily beckoning her.

In our final moments, gods, save us from...

Death. She knew it was him. "Tifa Lockhart."

Tifa stared at him, her mind abuzz. Her feet were like anchors.

"She isn't mute, is she?" Death turned towards the others.

"...No," she finally said, voice barely audible.

He looked back at her again, taking a step closer, or glided closer, Tifa couldn't tell; the bottom of his robe was like strands of dark mist creeping about the floor. Kissing her bare, dust-covered feet.

"You have a choice…" He was looking at the scroll again as he paused. "Mortals like you have a peculiar soul. Rare, and it's rarer to have one down here."

"Down here…" She wondered why she was here. She wondered how she got here. Tifa looked down at herself, the simple white gown of the deceased draped on her body.

She remembered dust and darkness, dust and darkness, all-encompassing, her feet evenly plotting out her course through an eternal field of bone ash. She had walked, and walked, and walked, content in her soul's instinct, never seeing another being until the powder beneath her graduated into black dirt and yellowing bones. Then there were others, she knew, but paid no heed, and they did the same.

All of them migrated towards a single destination in the gloom, that had some semblance of light, light like the distant stars. Cold and desolate and calling. Then she was in line, a headless giant with an ax watching and guarding the bridge they crossed, the river howling beneath the dead stone arch. Time was nothing here, the line moving at a snail's pace towards a domed building in a compound made of white as bone marble. A wall, taller than the building and made of huge cut stone and mortar, laid right behind it.

She was inside that building now, having been dragged out of line and through the doors by an irritable imp with skin the color of a spoiled sausage.

Inside this realm of shadow. The Underworld.

"I...I'm dead?" Tifa asked out loud.

The demon chuckled. "Of course you're dead! Don't you remember?"

Tifa shook her head. "No. No, I don't remember…"

The linen-covered woman walked up to her, putting her hand over Tifa's comparatively small forehead. "Are your memories locked away? Not that it is abnormal, for one who had such a sudden death."

"Hmm…"

"They'll return, of course. Happens all the time down here!" said the demon. "Right, Anima?"

"How?" Tifa suddenly asked as she maneuvered from behind Anima's palm. "How did I die?"

"Murder," Death said simply.

Her mouth agape, she simply blinked at him. "Murder? By who?" She shook her head. "Who am I, even?"

"We aren't omniscient, so we can't tell you who. Sorry." Death shrugged.

"I will give you what we can glean of who you are, at the very least." Anima motioned a hand for the scroll, taking it from Death and showing Tifa. The foreign symbols danced on the surface like rippling water. "An orphan, raised by the Church. If it is of interest, you had become a barkeep. You have no explicit deeds, good or evil, though your life had been sprinkled throughout with small acts."

Tifa tried thinking of what came before the ash and dust and darkness, but her mind came up blank. All she knew was what these three divulged, and that she was now being interviewed by them, one of them Death himself. "What have I done to end up here?"

"All mortals end up here. The Underworld has been open for years," said the demon. "Now, we haven't got an eternity to chat. There are other souls in line that must be judged by Anima and myself. Will you become Death's emissary?"

Tifa looked at them in turn. Monsters wanted her to join their ranks. She took a step back.

"It is an honor to be given the opportunity," Anima pointedly said.

"What if...What if I don't want to be an...emissary?" She could barely remember what the title meant, and she was sure that it would be nothing good with these three.

"Then you are assigned a place in the underworld and do that job forever," said Anima. "As Diablos has said, our time is limited. Make your choice."

Her choices were slim, it seemed. What if she chose to be...whatever it was they would have her be? Regardless, she was under his power, she realized as she looked up at Death, who merely watched her back. Her lips quivered as questions bubbled to life inside her mind. "What would you have me do?"

He shrugged again, making the bits of metal hanging off his drab shoulder pads tinkle and thump. "Reap whoever needs reaping. Return wayward souls. Things like that."

"Might you also prowl the Overworld for revenge on whomever murdered you," tempted Diablos, his tail swishing behind him. "The duties of a psychopomp takes them between both worlds."

"I…" A vision of blood and screams and betrayal suddenly overwhelmed her. Metal grinding against bone. Her bone. Her chest burned with a hot flash of rage. She shook, her fists squeezing together as a wraith's fury took her over. "I'm permitted to find who it was."

"Yes. Drag them down here if you want," answered Death.

Tifa nodded, swallowing thickly as her fists squeezed. "Then...I accept."

"Good, good! About time you made your choice." Diabolos clapped. "Lord, may you mark her with a spirit so we can be on our way?"

Death was silent, looking from Diabolos to Tifa. He raised his hand, his fingers spindly and speckled with strips of necrotized skin that barely hid the greasy luster of tendons. Tifa swallowed hard, her eyes quickly pacing between those rotting bones and his hidden face. The resolve from moments ago had withered. "Tifa Lockhart, you have joined my host of your own free will."

"Wai—"

His index finger grazed her forehead, and she felt a sensation like ice water all over her body. She tried to breathe, the act simply filling her with more ice, more numbness, pulling her down into the grave—

Then it was gone, a thrumming core of silence now left in her chest.

Tifa slowly put her hand up to her breast, her legs quaking as she regained her bearings. "What...what did you do to me?"

"What you agreed to." Death retreated a few paces from her, then nodded. "I'll hand you off to the palace now."

Again his hand crept close, and Tifa's eyes widened in dismay and horror at the thought of his touch on her skin again. Instead of touching her, grasping her shoulder, dragging her to him, she felt a puff of air, and spinning, so much spinning. It was a moment later she realized Death was no longer in front of her, and she was most certainly not in the same place she had been an instant before.

She was in a small and high ceilinged domed room. The four wall pillars on each corner of the room intricately decorated with carvings of lilies and semi-precious stones. Cushioned benches sat on either side, and the ebony table in the middle held an incense burner that filled the room with the earthy, pungent scent of myrrh. Turning around, there were doors twice her height, solemn pictures carved with care on their surface. Candles glowed from wall sconces, fighting off little of the gloom.

With no one there, Tifa decided to sit on a bench, the embroidered cushion sinking down with her weight. She put her hands in her lap, her eyes towards the door on the other side of the antechamber. It was surprisingly peaceful here, she noted.

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

The fret of regret danced on her nerves. Revenge still flared from time to time, but she wondered if it came with too high a price in exchange. To be Death's emissary is to be his hand, she knew, and she took it just for the chance to find her killer! Tifa let out a shaky sigh. In that light, however, perhaps she would be doing the living a favor as well—

"Hello, madam!"

Tifa snapped her eyes open and looked towards the now open door. Out of the shadows of the doorway was a hunched old man wearing the pallor of death on his face; his thin and tall body was bony, and his narrow green eyes were glassy and dull. The very top of his head was bald, and his limp, silvery grey hair hung behind his large ears, ending behind the back of his shoulders. Still, he greeted her with a jolly smile and a small bow. His clothing reminded her of a funeral director.

He gave her a short, polite bow. "I am Death's majordomo, Rapha. I apologize for the long wait."

"O-oh." She swallowed, staring at this old man that had broken her train of thought with a puzzled look. "Has...it been? A long wait, I mean."

"Time is a strange thing here, as you'll know eventually." Raphas still smiled at her, closing the door and walking across the antechamber, his black dress pants grazing the center table. "I understand you may be in a bit of shock, after being interviewed by my master. Not to worry, He has told me that you are to reside in the palace as a new emissary. I congratulate you!"

Tifa licked her lips and hesitantly nodded. "I — thank you."

Raphas clapped his hands together, fully facing her again. "Now, Madam Lockhart, I was instructed to guide you to the baths."

Slowly rising, Tifa let out a small huff. "The baths? The dead bathe?"

He chuckled as he opened the door for her. "Even we, the unclean, enjoy the waters that wash away filth and soothe the mind."

Tifa glanced at her dusty arm. "I'm not gonna complain."

She was led into a long, arched hallway that led into a large room. Three other paths branched out, the one directly in front of them short and leading to what Tifa assumed was the front entrance. Raphas went to their left, and she followed.

"So, my lady, I hear you have no memory of the living world?"

Tifa shrugged, not wanting to divulge. "Not really."

She heard a wistful sigh. "A pity. I enjoy tales of it, though I've never beheld its splendor myself."

She raised a brow at the back of his head. "...No? You aren't dead then?"

Raphas chuckled, then stopped and looked back at her. "Oh, my lady! I am dead as the rest of us by the very nature of the underworld. But I was born into it, unlike yourself." He seemed to notice her confused frown, and continued. "Many are those of this world, and none other. The servants of our master are such."

"Hm." Tifa tucked some of her tangled hair behind her ear. "I guess if this is all you've ever known, it can't really be all that gloomy…"

His smile never wavered as he beckoned her to follow again. "It is home, as it shall be for you, my lady."

This path had several doors and arches leading to rooms great and small, and the stone floor grew mossy and moist as they headed further down. Finally, she was standing between two doors, both decorated with a hanging sigil. They were similar to a spiderweb in design, with tiny glowing orbs of light haphazardly dancing within. The center orb glowed blue-violet on the sigil to the right, and red-violet on the left.

"Here we are!" He stretched out a bony hand, his spindly, blue-tipped index finger pointing at the sigil with the red-violet light. "This door here is for your entry."

Tifa's eyes looked at both doors, then Raphas. "What about the other door?"

"That would be for the men," he responded, motioning with his hand.

"Oh."

"Well, off you go, then! Our master will have a dinner in your honor to commemorate your decision. We will meet again soon." Raphas bowed and began to walk back the way he came.

"Bye, then…" Tifa watched him disappear, leaving her alone again, her feet scrunching on the black moss beneath them. Eyeing the door, she hesitated. She wasn't sure what would lay beyond. Showers, or bathtubs, or maybe a swirling ocean, she wondered. Shrugging, she pushed down the lever and opened it up.

The room itself seemed rather busy looking, despite no one being there. There were walls sectioning off spaces that had a stool in their center and a wooden tub in a corner. A small table held soap and neatly folded cloths and towels. She looked around, still not finding anyone in the room with her. Tifa walked over to a cubicle, picking up an ivory brush and turning it this way and that.

A sudden force pushed her down, her bottom almost missing the stool.

"Hey!"

"Good day, m'Lady! Here for a spell?"

Tifa's head spun around, looking for the source of the voice. It was when she faced the entrance she met eyes with a woman, her skin a pale, moonlight blue, perhaps from the cool candlelight. She wore a simple white tunic that reached her knees.

"I-I'm supposed to get ready for ah...dinner?" Tifa stuttered, wringing her hands.

"Oh, I see I see." The woman examined Tifa, eyes roaming her body. "Fresh as they come, too…"

Tifa frowned, defensively holding her arms over her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The wash-woman lifted up a piece of what looked like pumice. "Nothing to worry about! Now, let's scrub away all that dirt and get rid of those knots!"

It was, in Tifa's opinion, a rather taxing activity. She was stripped of her funeral tunic, and every last inch of her pallid skin was scrubbed clean despite her protests, held in place by some invisible power. The soreness took away from the attendant's war with Tifa's hair, tugging on the unkempt locks. The soap smelled of lilies and amber, she noted, and so did the oil brushed into her hair.

"Such lovely locks, after they've been tamed," said the attendant.

"Are you done?" Tifa asked tersely. At this rate, she would rather not bathe for the rest of eternity.

"Oh, don't be like that!" she wagged the brush at Tifa before putting it away, then took a small towel and quickly covered Tifa's long hair with it. "The first wash is always rough." She picked up a long towel and handed it to her. "The baths are straight ahead."

Tifa quickly wrapped it around herself, giving the woman a glare. "Thanks."

The power holding her released completely, and she quickly made her way out of what had to be a torture room.

Through the simple door, she gawked at what she saw.

It was like a cavern with a giant, polished pool in the center. A hot spring rushed down the side of a wall, collecting in colorful, steaming rock basins and into the main pool. Stalagmites, drizzled with shifting lights, pointed down at her like a dragon's fangs. The main pool had steps leading into its obsidian waters, and a few attendants quietly watched her, holding towels and what looked like a wine bottle.

Tifa carefully walked up to the pool, feeling the slippery smooth sensation of moist, polished stone with every footfall. At least she wouldn't die if she slipped and fell, she supposed.

The water was hot on her toes as they skimmed the surface, then her ankles, all the way to her still-covered breasts. It didn't take long for her to acclimate to the temperature, though the faint stench of sulfur made her furrow her brow. The attendants didn't look alarmed, so, she figured it was a normal thing.

Finding that there were underwater ledges, she sat on one, letting her feet dangle over warm, black oblivion. The heat was beginning to soothe her body, and she let out a sigh, closing her eyes. If this was the Underworld, then this must be its own little slice of Heaven, she decided.

Though her body was at peace, her mind soon returned to matters outside her temporary refuge. There was going to be a meal of some sort(the dead ate?), and she was going to be Death's emissary, and she still did not know who she was.

What am I going to do?

After what felt like forever, she opened her eyes again and stared at the water, her body barely visible beneath the surface. There was a large scar over her chest, between her breasts. The memory of her death returned with a fury, and Tifa grit her teeth.

I can do this, she thought, squeezing her fists, feeling the water squirt out from between her palms like blood in a beating heart. She would regain her memories, and from there find her murderer. Anything after that she would figure out later.

"...Lady…"

Tifa turned to see one of the attendants, her hair hidden under a silk shaw and her face a mask with only a straight line for a mouth and unblinking, wide, almond eyes staring at her. "...It is time…"

She was ushered out with a fresh, dry towel to replace the one she bathed in. Then, she was at the mercy of the tailoress. She was measured every which way, and asked this or that; what her favorite color was, whether she liked modern styles or something more rustic, if she preferred pants or skirts or even a humble temple robe. Little things. Things Tifa didn't know if she was remembering or deciding on the fly. But after litanies of inquiries and trying on outfits, she was fitted into a fine, garnet red dress that nearly trailed the cold floor.

Tifa liked it, but it felt a little high class for her tastes as she studied the embroidery on a shoulder. She didn't have much time to protest before she was shooed out and told to go down the hall, into the Great Hall. She found it soon enough, having passed by it so recently with the slightest of glances. It was impossibly large and filled with long wooden tables, where shadowy forms shuffled about. A large fireplace in the back and the strong scent of cooking food wafting from the kitchens created an aura of welcome unlike anything she had felt since coming here.

Looking about, she passed by carved marble pillars and saw a set of three long tables, covered in dark fabric with silver accents. One was facing the rest of the room, while the other two were across from each other, next to the first one. The one on the left was empty, but the one on the right sat several people, one a child. She felt a slight surprise at seeing her name on a card at that table, next to a surly-looking man. His hands were folded under his chin and he was giving her a dour, appraising stare beneath his dark bangs.

Tifa returned the stare, then walked to her chair to sit down.

He was still gazing at her, side-eyeing her, and she tapped her fingers against the table. Hoping Death would show up to take the attention off her. Eventually she just slowly turned her head towards him.

"Can I help you with something?"

He leaned back in his chair, arms resting on the table, and shrugged. "I think you're the one needing any help around here."

A slight scowl marred her face. "I can find my way around just fine, thank you."

He laughed, a sound with very little humor. "First day in the Underworld, and you want me to think you won't get lost like a rat in a maze." He shook his head. "I've been ordered to teach you your new job. Congratulations, by the way."

She was sure her disdainful surprise was evident on her face because he smirked immediately after. "I won't make it easy, either."

Tifa turned her head away, propping it up with her hand. She shuddered to think what he would have her do and didn't care to ask for a name.

With a glance, she noticed the Great Hall's numbers growing, and saw a few strangely dressed beings sizing her up as they began to seat themselves at the same table she was at. A little while longer and Death appeared at the front table, holding himself much like Tifa was. She straightened, stiffly laying her forearms on the table. Two creatures, stiff and tall and veiled in white, sat on either side of him, both wearing a metal symbol on their chests.

As Death tapped the table, he watched the rest of his host settle. A few minutes later he looked at Tifa, then stood and faced everyone. "...Welcome. We have another emissary in our ranks." He motioned towards her, but she stayed in her seat, staring at the eyes and sockets looking back out at her in an eerie silence.

"Tifa will be treated with respect to her rank. And she will treat you with respect as well," he said with what seemed like a hint of a warning in his hollow voice.

One of the shrouded figures slowly turned towards him, and Death glanced its way before looking again at his audience and twirling his wrist. "...As the ranks of our emissaries grow, so too does our chance at returning to our rightful station in Creation."

Tifa swallowed at those ominous words. There was clapping and subdued yet cheerful muttering throughout the hall as Death again sat at his table, watching like a vulture. Her nails dug into the wood, her mind racing at the possibilities of what he would have her do. She heard the man next to her chuckle, and she grit her teeth.

"Welcome to the club," he said. "Enjoy dinner. We begin your training after you get some rest, Tifa."

She stared at the table, squeezing her fists now. Her stomach twisted into knots as she wondered what dark schemes she unwittingly agreed to. It felt wrong. She barely noticed as a plate of food was placed in front of her, and a large cup next to it. Tifa licked her dry lips, blinking as she did so, wondering fleetingly about the food in front of her.

"Eat," said the man. "You'll need your strength."

"We're dead," said Tifa, tentatively poking what looked like a slice of pork. "How do we…" She shook her head. "It-it doesn't make sense."

"This is the food of the dead," he explained. "It sustains us. But if the living eat it, it's a delicious poison, killing them before they realize their mistake."

"...What about using the restroom?" Tifa asked, forcing herself not to dwell on other subjects.

He laughed, then took a bite of some strange-looking pate. "We don't piss, and we don't shit. You belong to another world now."

"Hm." She rubbed the side of her ceramic cup, then held it. She wasn't hungry. A sip of what was pomegranate wine washed down her pained throat, soothing it momentarily. A few more gulps and she began to pick at the fruit on her plate. "...And what shall we be doing tomorrow, Mr. Teacher?"

"Dyne," he corrected her, then took a deep draught of his wine. "Not a lot, but something real important. We'll be returning you to your body."

"Wait, what?" Tifa looked down at her hand, looking solid if a bit pale. She gave it a poke, marking it with her nail. It quickly faded. "I-"

"You have a body here," explained Dyne. "But you must be reunited with your body up above to lurk the Overworld as an emissary of Death. The soul, spirit, and body must be reunited.

"So, eat." Dyne turned away, focusing on his plate.

Tifa stared at him a few moments longer, then she turned to her food. It wasn't anything foul, actually, it looked and smelled appetizing enough. Meat and bread, vegetables and little grapes, nothing signified it as a vile poison, though if Dyne were to be believed, it was. Just not to them.

honor. She wondered then, as food here was poison to the living, what honor meant to the damned.