The Meifu was truly beautiful this time of year.
If it seems odd to you that the government territory of the dead should be beautiful, fear not; the dead men and women who worked there had never lost their wonder of the place, and some of them had been employed by Ju Ou Chou for well over 50 years.
Sakura petals, windswept and torn from the trees by the same breeze in which they now danced, covered large portions of the ground, seeming to magnify the light and giving the entire property an ethereal glow. The building - large, domed, and imposing - stood as an edifice of power in the center of it all; the end of every path, its very existence stood as a testiment to Man's overwhelming desire to organize.
Even after death.
Inside the Meifu, seemingly normal people ran about busily at seemingly normal jobs, filing papers, making phone calls, and chatting across cluttered desktops. However, they were not normal. As previously stated, every one of them was dead - but the differences did not stop there.
These people were shingami; "death gods," if you wanted a literal translation, although they would likely have laughed in your face had you tried to treat any of them like deities. To be shinigami required a sense of unrest after death; such an overwhelming need for completion upon leaving the mortal plane that the person in question would do anything - literally anything at all - to make things right. To get revenge. To see justice come to those who needed it. To deal with unresolved mental, emotional, and spiritual issues.
This is where the Ju Ou Chou came in.
Those who had recently died with such a heavy burden were given the choice; simply go on to what lay ahead of them, or be willing to work for the Ju Ou Chou - which was Japan's bureau for processing the deceased - in official capacity, dealing with unusual problems, supernatural murderers and other difficulties that human law could not handle. Helping to balance out the number of accidental deaths vs. "scheduled" deaths, occasionally fighting demons, and in the process, getting a chance to go back to earth - and possibly make things right.
As a result of this, most shinigami were not, honestly, the most stable people in the world; but then, that was the reason they were required to work with a partner. The "partner" clause helped to prevent maverick shinigami incidents and keep the hired shinigami on track toward their missions. It usually didn't last too long; most put in their term of service, saw to completion whatever it was that had been bothering them, and then quit - moving on to whatever awaited them after death. But then there were those who felt more at home here and now than they ever had while living; those few who, in death, had finally found where they belonged - and naturally, never, ever intended to leave.
Tsuzuki Asato was one.
The Gushoushin, official record-keepers of the Meifu, looked grimly at the sheaf of paper before them, not seeming to mind at all that both of them looked like nothing so much as large, floating chickens with very strange fashion sense. Fortunately for all, Tsuzuki had long ago ceased to think of chickens when he looked at them, so he was able to take this intensity seriously.
"Eeeeeeh?" he said, somehow managing to look grievously put upon and guiltily red-handed at the same time.
"There is no question," said one of the chickens, its voice high and its gender undetectable. "We followed the trail to this very room. Tsuzuki-san, confess!"
"Confess, Tsuzuki-san!" the other Gushoushin echoed, and Tsuzuki's eyes seemed to grow in proportion to his attempt to shrink into his chair.
"But it wasn't me..." he insisted, tears turning his violet eyes to jewels. "What? It wasn't! I swear!"
"Tsuzuki-saaaan," one of the Gushoushin growled in high-pitched warning; but before the the interrogation could continue, the meeting room door swung open and three men entered the room.
Tatsumi Seiichirou, department secretary and rumored real head of the Shokan Division, paused in the doorway and eyed the room's three occupants with cold consideration. His eyebrows arced. "Is there something I should be aware of here?" he suggested dryly, adjusting his glasses so the lenses caught the light like knives.
Tsuzuki somehow managed to look even more guilty. "....no?"
Tatsumi sighed and walked past him to the other end of the table, taking his seat. Behind him, Watari Yutaka smiled cheerfully at Tsuzuki and the Gushoushin and sat with his back to the windows which lined the far wall, placing in front of him with tender care something that looked like a dismantled toaster.
"Hello!" he said, smiling, and began tinkering with the toaster without even looking at it.
"Hi," said Tsuzuki, drooping now because the Gushoushin were apparently still determined to be mean to him.
The third person who entered the room simply grabbed the closest chair and dropped into it immediately, neither greeting anyone in the room nor looking at anything besides the pattern on the floor. Hisoka Kurosaki was by far the youngest shinigami in the division. He'd died at 16 - an unusual age to have banked that much inner turmoil - and was still relatively new to the Meifu.
He was also Tsuzuki's partner.
"It is time to begin," Tatsumi began, but was interrupted.
"Tatsumi-san, make them stop looking at me," Tsuzuki begged, still hunched in his chair and looking miserably at the two Gushoushin, who continued to glare.
Tatsumi sighed again. "Gushoushin, please - "
"He stole all the cookies from the library!" one of them began, and Tsuzuki somehow managed to shrink a little more.
"Enough. Not. Now." Tatsumi didn't need to shout. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then the Gushoushin sighed as one.
"All right, Tsuzuki-san," said the one in teal. "If you say you didn't - "
"I didn't!" Tsuzuki insisted, perking up.
" - then I suppose you didn't." Another moment of silence. "Will you be needing us, Tatsumi-san?"
"No."
And they left.
Tsuzuki seemed to have dropped a huge burden from his shoulders; leaning forward onto the table, he sighed, smiled brightly at the other shinigami, and happily turned his attention back to Tatsumi. "Thank you!"
"You're welcome. Now. This is the incident which has come through to our department." Tatsumi stood, handing out neat, shiny black folders to each man at the table. "Inside you will find what little information we could gather. The police cannot handle this case; therefore, we must."
Tsuzuki, like the others, opened his folder once he received it, prepared to leaf through the information inside; but what rested on top stopped him cold.
Paper-clipped to the top documents in the folder was a set of photographs. And in these photos was a collection of spatters and oddly shaped pieces of flesh that clearly used to be people. Each photo, upon inspection, was of a different person; although the only way Tsuzuki could tell that was because the torn pieces of clothing were different patterns.
"There have been three murders in all," Tatsumi said, his own folder opened and his manner apparently unaffected by the photographed carnage. "All of them occured in the Kurasaki building, on the thirty-third floor, around four thirty in the afternoon."
There was silence for a moment as each person perused the information and the photos, each thinking their own private thoughts. Hisoka finally voiced his.
"So why did this come to us? It says here investigation has only just begun; it's not out of their hands yet."
Tatsumi adjusted his glasses. "Because of this," he said, and slid one more photo across the table. This one was different. Not taken on Kodak paper or that of any of its competitors, this photograph had clearly been taken by one of the cameras Watari had developed - which was able to capture the spiritual happenings of a scene as well as the physical.
"What..." Hisoka said, his attention riveted for the first time in the meeting. "It... that can't be the soul..."
"It is the soul," Tatsumi affirmed. "It has been torn to pieces."
There was silence.
"Hm," Watari said finally, still tinkering with his toaster. "I know of no demon in our database that can do that. So it's either something very, very new - or very, very old that took a really long vacation."
"Correct," Tatsumi affirmed. "This was the case with each soul; the damage done is irreparable. The Earl has been forced to send each one beyond the House of Candles and allow them to fade."
Silence.
"How many, again?" Tsuzuki asked, leaning on the table with one hand, no longer looking at the photograph.
"Three," answered Tatsumi.
Tsuzuki's eyes closed tightly, eyelashes trembling for a moment as he grieved for these people he did not know; to be "allowed to fade" was normally something reserved for the most horrible of beings - for those who could not be reformed, could not be resurrected or reincarnated, for whom nothing remained but blackness. It meant banishment beyond the House of Candles - into Nothing.
His voice was thick. "Clues."
Tatsumi did not look at him. "None, Tsuzuki-san," he said, almost apologetically. A moment later, he continued. "Now, Tsuzuki-san," Tatsumi said, adjusting his glasses and putting his notepad down. "This is, technically, in your jurisdiction. However, the Earl feels this poses such a level of danger that you and your partner will not be able to handle it on your own." He paused for effect. "It damages souls directly; which means that, if it attacked you as a shinigami, you would likely be destroyed."
"I understand," Tsuzuki replied quietly, face down and eyes in shadow.
"Therefore," Tatsumi continued. "Should you and Hisoka wish to either garner extra help - or, conversely, simply not go at all - the Earl has sanctioned a complete changeover of personel for this case."
"No."
Silence thickened between them. Tsuzuki looked up, his eyes gone dark purple in his determination. "And I should let somebody ELSE go in there to get hurt? Forget it. I'm going."
"You mean you're BOTH going," Tatsumi gently reminded, and indicated Hisoka with a nod of his head.
Tsuzuki blinked. "Hisoka?"
"Bon?" Watari asked, using his pet name for the boy.
Hisoka grunted.
"Hisoka?" Tsuzuki asked again, and kicked him under the table.
Hisoka turned and glared malevolently.
"That's better," Tatsumi said, pleased that Hisoka was paying attention again. "We will start by infiltrating the building itself," he explained, but was once more interrupted.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about THAT," Watari said, apparently speaking to his toaster. "Everyone appreciates you for what you are - now trust me. This spring DOES go into that slot..."
Tatsumi simply continued; no need to press a lost cause, after all. "Roles have been assigned; Tsuzuki, you and Hisoka will enter the work force tomorrow morning, as analyst and maintenance, respectively."
"Um...Hisoka," Tsuzuki said, trying not to look worried. "You don't have to go."
"Of course I'm going," Hisoka interrupted, and without another word, stood up and marched out, slamming the door.
Everyone stared. "Well," Tatsumi said, adjusting his glasses again.
"Hm," Watari beamed. "You'd better hurry after him!"
"Yeah," Tsuzuki said, rising from the table.
"Tsuzuki-san," interpolated Tatsumi, and a hint of something almost... warm.. shone in his eyes. "Be careful."
Tsuzuki nodded; and shut the door. Tasumi gathered his papers and left to make his report to Konoe, his boss; and Watari remained for a short while, working on his toaster and talking to it when he thought it was lonely.
The dreams always started the same way, and try as he might, Hisoka couldn't make them go away.
Hands. Hands would come to his body, touching with cool flesh and smooth skin all the secret parts of him he wanted so much to keep hidden, touching - gently, as if trying to convince him there would be no pain to come. But there was pain; there was always pain, and that was the part that played endlessly in his soul.
Fortunately, Tsuzuki woke him up this morning before he could start screaming.
"Good morning, Hisoka!"
The voice pierced through the fabric of Hisoka's dream the way his murderer's knife had pierced his skin, and Hisoka jumped awake. Making a noise suspiciously like a growl, he threw one arm over his face to block the light and registered where he was.
Tsuzuki stood in front of the 12 foot high latticed windows, drapery fisted in each outstretched arm as sunlight poured into the room. Clearly, he was fascinated with this Western-style hotel the two of them were staying in. "It's a fabulous day, Hisoka!"
"Ugh," Hisoka said in response - not really at Tsuzuki per se, but certainly in his general direction - and pulled the covers over his head.
"Awww, come on, Hisoka," Tsuzuki said, tugging gently at the top of the bundle that was his partner. "I'm sorry we didn't get more sleep last night - "
"It took you FOUR HOURS to find the hotel," Hisoka accused, muffled beneath blankets.
" - but we have to settle into the routine here, and there's nothing to worry about. This place is GREAT!"
Hisoka sighed. "You found a bakery, didn't you," Hisoka muttered, not releasing his blankets.
"Cake shop!" Tsuzuki exclaimed, and all but clapped his hands. "Now come on - we have to report to work in twenty minutes. Get dressed, Hisoka!" And Tsuzuki bounded out of the room, on a sugar high and ready to break this case wide open.
Once the door had been closed and silence took Tsuzuki's place, Hisoka sat up slowly, the sheets sliding from his chest to pool in his lap. Tsuzuki could be annoying sometimes; Hisoka, however, could forgive him because he was finally beginning to understand just how Tsuzuki worked.
The forced cheerfullness and optimism Tsuzuki often wore was sometimes actually self-defense from the accusing voices in his mind - a usual shinigami trait. Everyone had their own techniques for dealing with the morbid reality that came with this job; if he and Hisoka were unable to break open the mystery, the killings would continue.
And Tsuzuki would blame himself for absolutely every one.
"Idiot," Hisoka muttered to himself, sliding off the high Western-style matress onto the floor. Tsuzuki was really something else altogether. Tsuzuki, who irritated and endeared in the same breath; Tsuzuki - who had not one, but TWELVE shinigami at his beck and call. That was baffling; as of yet, Hisoka hadn't even managed to get one.
Except for the cactus. But that really didn't count.
Tsuzuki straightened his coat and tie, looking in the mirrored walls of the elevator and trying to look professional. He'd never really been the businessman type; dying young and without a job had left him without much of the discipline most shinigami had, which meant that this suit felt a little like a cage.
Hisoka, on the other hand, looked too young to fake the role of an adult bussiness man; so instead, he had taken the job of a part time janitor. As Tsuzuki straightened his tie, Hisoka straightened his work coveralls and scowled. The elevator stopped, and both men stepped into the hallway.
"Ah - Mr. Asato - no, wait, Tsuzuki!" greeted an effusive blonde man who was standing in the office door, abruptly leaping at them both and grabbing Tsuzuki's hand. "I'm Charles Olford, and on behalf of everyone here, welcome to the Kurasaki Hydraulics corporation!" He shook Tsuzuki's hand very hard.
"I'm... uh..." Tsuzuki tried, but Olford opted not to let go of his hand; instead, he dragged the surprised Tsuzuki after him into the office and begin a forced tour of the current layout of operations.
"We're all SO glad to have you here," Olford was saying. "And your resume is IS very impressive, so our office manager made sure you got a cubicle near the windows - you have a GREAT view! Now, I don't know how much you know about American-Japanese merged corporations, but basically it means we have an exchange program of sorts going, and that's why I'm here. Hail from Detroit! Eh heh. Anyway, over here we have the schematics for the Titellar cruise line's- "
Hisoka stared after them for a moment, marveling that anyone in this world could be effusive enough to make Tsuzuki quiet. Shaking his head and resigning Tsuzuki to his fate, Hisoka began to explore. One benefit he'd learned long ago to being a hired hand: no one actually sees you.
Hisoka began walking around the perimiter of the office, matching what he saw with the diagrams the Gushoushin had provided, and noting with irritation that the ebullient Olford could be heard no matter where he went.
"Ah, and that's Carol - say hello, Carol, this is Tsuzuki-san from Tokyo, and - no, don't you make those eyes at HIM! Ha ha, isn't she great! She's just hoping you're single, Mr. Tsuzuki, and by the way, ARE you single? 'Cause if you ARE then I know just the right places to go around here, and - oh no, sorry to hear that. Well, over here we have the plans laid out for the latest version of Splash Mountain, located in - "
Tsuzuki's replies - if there were any - were lost in the low, white noise of a busy office. Hisoka deliberately blocked the American idiot out and kept walking.
By his second time around, he'd noted all the entrances and exits; scoped out which offices were enclosed, and considered what extra doors they might have inside; checked out all the fire alarms; noted the distinct absence of any religious symbolism at all in any of the visible cubicles; and found the place where the second to last person had died.
There were no signs of murder. No evidence of the splattered guts, shredded tendons and burst blood vessels that had so decorated the photographs he had the folder back in his room. Hisoka had to admit that whomever had cleaned had been very thorough.
Hisoka suddenly stopped, surpised to find Olford right in front of him, reading his nametag and making as if they'd known one another for months.
"And THIS is our maintenance man! Hee-soh-ka. Good kid, very good kid - always thorough, you should've SEEN what he did with this place a week ago. And over HERE - "
Well, there went HIS credibility, Hisoka thought to himself, mentally drawing a red "x" next to Charles's name. Tsuzuki - already appearing harried - looked helplessly at Hisoka as he trotted by, tethered invisibly to his tour guide and pleading silently for a rescue. Hisoka sighed.
"Mr. Tsuzuki," Hisoka said, walking after the two and holding an envelope in his hand. "You dropped this, sir."
Visibly grateful, Tsuzuki grabbed the envelope. "Oh - oh, THANK you! I'm sorry, Olford-san, but this is something I have to take care of RIGHT away and your tour was wonderful but I forgot all about this and I have to go now bye!" Casting adoringly grateful looks in Hisoka's direction, Tsuzuki hurried past toward his window-side cubicle, hopeing Olford wouldn't follow him.
Hisoka sighed. "Idiot," he muttered under his breath, and then realized Olford was still there. Hisoka began to turn away - and then he saw the look on Olford's face.
Charles Olford, CEO in training and stockholder of the Kurasaki Hydraulics coroporation, stared after Tsuzuki with absolutely no expression on his face whatsoever. His eyes were dead. His jaw set, his easily smiling lips set in a straight line, he had frozen to such an extent that for a moment, Hisoka wondered if he'd died. Then suddenly, he perked up and turned to see Hisoka watching him. He smiled.
"Hey, kid, smooth move there, thanks a lot for that I just couldn't get that guy to shut UP, you know? Boy do I owe you! Dinner some time, 'kay? On me! Say, next time though - just a little advice, kid," he said, leaning closer as if to say something personal and filling Hisoka's air with his aftershave. "Try to be a little less obvious, okay? You walking around here dressed like that, it's not good for business." He flicked a speck off Hisoka's coveralls. "Kapeesh? Allrighty, then. You're a good kid, I like you. Ciao." And with that, he grabbed Hisoka's hand, thrust a 500 yen note into it, and spun off.
Hisoka stared after him, visibly disgusted; how he'd kept from hitting this man, he would never know. Mentally sending himself a memo to avoid Mr. Olford-From-Detroit any time in the future, Hisoka shook hi shead and continued his reconnoissance.
It didn't even occur to him until afterward that Charles had touched his skin - and he'd felt nothing at all.
"Oooh, this IS fascinating!" Watari exclaimed with contagious joy; unfortunately, he was talking about his toaster, so his ebullience failed to infect.
"Hisoka, Watari," Tatsumi reminded not quite gently, adjusting his glasses and watching Hisoka closely. Watari put the toaster - newly sentient, he'd named it Bob - down and looked at Hisoka, smiling as he leaned on the table.
"All right now, Bon," he said, his manner disarming. "Tell us exactly what happened, and we'll see if something is wrong."
Hisoka glowered. "I touched him. And I felt nothing. All right? Case closed."
Tatsumi frowned. "Hisoka-kun, the issue is not that simple. You're an empath; you channel other people's emotions through physical touch. If you've lost any of your spiritual ability - "
"I have NOT lost ANYTHING," Hisoka proclaimed, glaring. "I'm beginning to regret that I even reported this nonsense. Now if you want to test it, hold out your damned hand, and I'll tell you whatever you're thinking and that will solve THAT!"
Watari clucked. "Now, Bon, there's no need to get upset - " he started, and then Tsuzuki burst into the room.
"Save me, Tatsumi," he pleaded, falling at Tatsumi's feet and grabbing the knees of Tatsumi's slacks.
"Tsuzuki!"
"They're after me again, they don't BELIEVE I didn't take their cookies, I don't know what to DO..." Tsuzuki said, and then he burst into tears.
"...Tsuzuki," Tatsumi said softly, unexpected tenderness filling his gaze.
"Toast?" offered Watari, and then suddenly, the alarms went off.
"RED ALERT... RED ALERT..." The four shinigami froze, then bolted as one for the door, heading for the main meeting room, where their boss Konoe would be waiting for them with news.
Konoe stood as they entered, his face grim with ill news.
"Another," he said, and held up a photograph.
In the picture - passing beyond the borders of the lens, so condensed in the center that it looked like a spill instead of a splatter - was what remained of a young, pretty woman in a spotted dress. They could tell she was young and pretty because her severed head gaped at them from the upright chair in the background.
"What... when did THIS happen?" Tsuzuki demanded, trying to recall if he'd met this person during his tour of the downtown highrise.
"Just now," Konoe said, and looked behind them. "Gushoushin!"
The Gushoushin appeared, looking less than well. "It... the same thing happened," one of them tried to say while the other waved its arms in warning, "but this woman had some kind of protection on her soul and it did a - "
A deafening roar suddenly shook the room, drowning out whatever the Gushoushin had to say and shaking plaster dust down from the ceiling.
"What the hell - " Hisoka started, and another roar - closer, and accompanied with a rotting, fetid smell - sounded outside the conference room. The building began to shake, in the wake of these sounds or because of the footsteps of the thing that made them, Hisoka could not tell. There was a third roar - and sudden chaos broke out.
The row of windows facing the west side shattered completely, spraying the shinigami with glass and admitting more of that horrible odor; the floor was suddenly shaking so badly that Hisoka could not keep his feet. Stumbling backwards, he lost his grip on the table, missed Tsuzuki's outstretched fingers, and fell helplessly toward the door -
- where IT was waiting, he KNEW IT was waiting, and there was nothing he could do, he was falling, he was dying, he was -
"Good morning, Hisoka!"
Hisoka jumped awake and stared. The ceiling above him stared back, apparently unaffected.
...a... dream?
"It's a fabulous day, Hisoka!"
All of that had been a DREAM?
Well, apparently not all of it; Tsuzuki's jacket still had a small coffee stain on it Hisoka had seen him acquire the day before on lunch break.
"Rrm... where?" he managed, and Tsuzuki smiled at him.
"We have 30 minutes this time! We're early. Come on - if we get moving in time, we can stop at the cake shop on the way!"
Hisoka glared blearily.
"I'll buy you something frosted," Tsuzuki promised, winking outrageously, and Hisoka relented.
"Fine, fine," he said, he said, flopping back onto the bed. . "Just lemme get dressed, okay?" Tsuzuki beamed and left, all but skipping into the hall. Hisoka could hear him humming.
...what had happened here?
It was true that Hisoka suffered from bad dreams; but they were never like this. His always had to do with the past, and he knew for certain nothing like that had ever happened to him. Then what had....
"Come ON, Hisoka!" Tsuzuki called from the hall, and Hisoka sighed and zipped up his coveralls. Muttering a little, he resigned to deal with today and analyze things later. Today would bring whatever it would bring, regardless of what he thought of it.
They had a job to do.