A/N: Prompt from Blackwing Fray the Huntress. Thank you...? (Lol, she didn't think I'd actually do it. Probably won't even read it, anyway.) Enjoy~

Note: Completely AU. Rated T for some light swearing and religious topics. I think I crossed some lines ehehheh...:/ Tread with caution? Probably. I don't think it's that bad... I had wayyy too much fun writing this.

5

Mortician

He is the soul who brings the dead to their final resting place, the undertaker of the lost, the servant of both the Devil and God themselves. He looks the part, too, with a long scar gashing over one of his dark maroon eyes. He has to look formal, according to the Big Guy in the Sky, so he wears a suit. He has to look threatening, according to the Bitch from the Underground, so his attire is completely black - including his undershirt and tall socks. And he's pretty good at acting upon the demon and the angle he has to be. He's polite to his tag-a-longs while holding a daunting air behind him.

His hair is the color of gold, like the halos above pure spirit's forms, and also the color of scarlet, like the blood that condemned criminals spill on asphalt floors.

He is simply the messenger of Heaven and Hell.

This is how it has been for many years - so many that the book called the Bible can't even record them - and it is how it will be for many to come - so many that not even the Aztecs could have dreamt up a number.

So when he shows up at the funeral with his hands buried in his pockets and one leg crossed over the other, leaned in one of the many chairs lined neatly in the room, black slouched, he knows it'll be an ordinary day.

But...he's been wrong before.

It's a tradition for the deceased individual to attend their own funeral. Whether they like it or not. The embalmer of sorts folds his arms across his chest as the ghost takes a seat beside him in the empty space to his right. It's a girl, like his last client, who had been a fifty-year-old. But this one, she's about sixteen, and he cringes.

The emissary hates getting young people.

He is in a million places at once, a demigod almost, a prophet; right now, he's sitting in about 40,000 plus other ceremonies, attentively focusing on each one like every inch of him is there. He's speaking with an elderly man about his granddaughter, playfully patting a child's head, patiently scowling as he listens to a former businessman yap about how his yacht was left behind. He keeps telling him that they can't haul a fricken boat to the afterlife, but he apparently isn't registering.

But this girl has brought forth his consciousness just a little more.

He sees hot women all the time and they usually don't leave much of an impression. After roughly 56 million people a year, they kinda blend together into one big, insignificant blur.

He racks his memory a moment. "Kamishiro Rio, right?"

"And who are you?" she snaps, straightening her spine. "Another dead guy?"

"What, already getting some grim reapers interested in your ass?"

He's not expecting her to punch him that hard, but she certainly gets her point across and he shuts up. The female named Rio sits back against the cheap cushion, frowning deeply. "It's weird," she murmurs. "Attending your own funeral."

"If you wanna make things even stranger, go and check out your body," he suggests - half joking - and taps his dress shoe against the polished floor absentmindedly.

"You never answered my question," she sighs.

He lifts a thick brow at her. "Call me your own personal mortician."

Rio apparently isn't amused but he smirks anyway, reclining a little more. Just because his bosses say he should be professional doesn't mean he has to be every second of every day of every decade. After a moment, Rio turns away, and at first he thinks she's talking to herself. "My brother is here. I hope he'll be alright."

"I can answer that if you like."

She jerks her head to stare at him, gaze intent and admittedly intimidating. "You can really do that?"

"Why not?" he shrugs, uninterested as he stifles a yawn. "God and Satan are good buddies of mine, I can pull a few strings." At that thought, he sits forward, balancing his elbows on his knees and allowing a long, wire thread materialize in between his fingers. Rio purses her lips at him while he fiddles with the strand.

"Odd hobby."

"You tend to obtain them after a few centuries." He peers over at her and smiles. "Your brother's going to be fine, by the way. It'll take a while, but he'll figure things out."

She pauses, considering his words carefully, searching for signs of him lying. "...Thank you."

When the service comes to a close, Rio wanders around the crowd of people come to see her off. Her mortician trails along behind her, giving her enough space. The last time he'd crowded someone at an event like this, they'd strangled him. Not a process to be repeated.

Therefore, he bids her a wide berth as she listens to a conversation between her mother and best friend (so affirmed his information provided). Stays a few meters away as she grins at her father's story about the time she'd first ridden a bike. Turns his back as she cups her brother's cheek tenderly and tells him to stay safe while she's gone.

"What now?" Rio asks quietly.

They're outside of the building at this point, leaned against a rusty railing off to the side of the parking lot. He twists the string that wraps around his fingers and palms - it's a habit that he finds clears his mind when he's feeling a little overwhelmed. It happens when you're carrying on thousands of conversations all at once. He's twirling the twine around his thumb right here, in Amsterdam, in New York, over in Guinea, Ust'-Kan, Lenzburg. Many places, even Pagonérion and somewhere in Quebec.

He blinks slowly. "I check up on your sin list and ship you off somewhere."

"Che," she shakes her head. "And how does that work?"

"Actually," he stands up in a better posture and allows the string to fade, "I just finished."

"...And?"

He peeks at her questioningly. "What are you worried about?"

"Well, wouldn't you be a little on edge if an intruder was searching through all your secrets?" Rio retorts, moving so her attention is directed away from him.

"I only look at what I have to," he promises, dipping his chin and placing his fists in his pockets again. "Nothing more, nothing less." She knits her eyebrows, concerned, and gazes at the grass. Her mortician breathes out heavily. "You're clean. Looks like He gets a new resident."

Rio muses at that. "Then you'll be taking me there?"

He frowns thoughtfully. "It's a one-way trip. You won't even remember the travel; just open your eyes and find yourself there. Hell, I don't even have the privilege of mingling up there or down below, so you may not even recall meeting me for all I know."

"That's...very sad," she whispers, pity lacing her tone. Her blue hair buffets in the breeze and the stars illuminate her pink eyes in a way that makes her rather attractive. In another universe, maybe they could have been friends. But she's dead, a phantom, an essence of life without a solid anatomy. He's the creep who drags those who are no longer living to an eternity of either bliss or damnation. It doesn't work to have relationships with anybody.

"I've been like this for as long as I can think backwards," he laughs bitterly. "I'm used to it."

Rio appears angered by that. "It's not fair."

"Perhaps," her mortician lifts his shoulders, not wanting to argue. He's already bickering with a cranky lady with too much makeup in Moscow and having a dispute with a teenage gang member over in Phoenix. He's just done. "Hey," he starts. "If I can...I'll try and ask the Almighty if I can visit you once or twice. Sound good?"

At that, she beams at him through the sorrow evident in her face. "I'd like that."

It might be because - even though he's in the presence of so many humans at the moment - he's lacked so much personal contact for far too long. He may be desperate or whatever, sick of being deprived of the touch of skin, the taste of tears, the feeling of love. She's no different from the others, he keeps telling himself this, but contrary to his better judgement, the servant of two sides reaches and presses his fingers against her exposed collarbone.

Rio raises her eyes to stare at him, a bit surprised.

"My name's Thomas," he tells her in a soft voice, avoiding her line of vision. "Haven't told anyone that for, like, a millennium... But to you, I'll always just be your own personal mortician."

Rio can't help but giggle at that as she leans forward and pecks him on the cheek affectionately. "Thanks for everything, Thomas."

When she's gone, out of his grasp forever, he sits back, thinking about how he outta get the heck over to Austria. He replays the vow he'd made to her over and over - the one he'll never be able to fulfill. Then he groans and brushes off his tux, checking his appearance in the funeral home's window briefly, and makes his way down the tar of the street while cars pass right through him, neglecting to honk their horns at the invisible obstacle.

He'll be back tomorrow for the next scheduled commemoration.

~Finish~