Please C&C, and PLEASE be brutal.  I need it!

Please enjoy!

Raye

=======================================================

The Rainbow Connection

by Raye Johnsen
raye_j@yahoo.com

********

	Please rest assured that I do not own any of these
characters, that this fic is written solely for
non-profit entertainment, that I have no rights to
anything, that I'm not making a penny off it, and I
can't talk right now, MURAKI'S RIGHT BEHIND ME!

********
A short explanation for those unfamiliar with 'Yami No
Matsuei':

	The passage of souls from this life to their next is
monitored and controlled by Enma-Daioh and His subject
Gods.  They have a list of all the souls that are
supposed to arrive, written in the Book of the Dead,
but every so often, souls arrive who aren't scheduled
or a scheduled soul doesn't arrive.  Naturally, this
causes problems.  The problem in the mortal world must
be fixed, but the usual flow  of souls from life to
life must not be interrupted either.  So They recruit
fieldworkers, to go into the Human World and fix the
problems, from those souls who haven't gotten rid of
all their baggage from their latest lives and/or
aren't in a hurry to get to their next.  When those
fieldworkers enter the Human World and encounter
humanity, humans call them 'Shinigami' ('Gods of
Death').
	'Yami No Matsuei' is the story of Tsuzuki, a
Shinigami in one of the departments of the Japanese
branch of the afterlife.  (Yes, it's a bureaucracy. 
This explains a lot.)  He has a lot of problems, not
least of which is the fact that he's not sure he was
even *human*.

	While I try not to use gratituous Japanese in my
writing, I have chosen to use the term 'Shinigami' to
specify the characters from 'Yami No Matsuei'.  This
is because the Western idea of a God of Death is
singular, sober and nightmarish, none of which fits
the Shinigami of YnM.

********

Part One

	Tsuzuki sat at his desk, writing a report.

	Writing reports was something the purple-eyed
Shinigami was actually very good at.  He had a knack
of catching a moment with a phrase that made his
reports vibrant and alive (as opposed to his partner
Hisoka's, which were didactic in the extreme).

	Being good at it, however, didn't mean that he
*enjoyed* it.  Rehashing certain events - such as, for
example, What Happened In Kyoto - wasn't what anyone
would call 'enjoyable' - and when
the-events-to-be-recounted included Muraki, Tsuzuki's
urge to share the past, never very strong even in his
most confiding moments, packed up and took a long
holiday in Nagoya.  Mmmm.  Nagoya.  There was a
dessert shop there that had the *best* chocolate
parfait....

	"Have you finished your report yet?"  an alto voice
asked.  Tsuzuki looked up into a pair of leaf-green
eyes, set in a too-young face and framed by a
perpetually messy shock of light brown hair.  Hisoka. 
His partner.  The only one in the entire office who
could stand to be teamed with him and his
unconventional and unpredictable methods for any
length of time.  The teenaged Shinigami, though, had
his own quirks, including....

	"Or are you dreaming of dessert again?  You idiot."

	... the kind of attitude that made street punks look
like saints.

	"I don't like writing reports."  Tsuzuki may have
been ten years older, and over half a century more
experienced, but sometimes he felt as if the jaded
Hisoka was the senior Shinigami, and he the junior.

	Hisoka shrugged, and sat down at his desk, facing
Tsuzuki's own.  "Nobody does.  Just write: 'We went to
North Kyuushu, we met the serial killer, we scared the
crap out of him, he committed suicide and left a note
confessing to the crimes, we came home.'  *I* did."

	Tsuzuki blinked at him.  "I think we're supposed to
put in a little more detail than that," he ventured.

	"Nobody's said anything to me."

	"They wouldn't dare," the older Shinigami muttered.

	"What?"

	"Nothing."

	Wakaba bounced into the room, her long pigtails
dancing behind her.  "Mr. Tsuzuki, Mr. Hisoka! 
Something big is happening; we're all supposed to be
in the main conference room in five minutes!"  The
teenaged Shinigami spun out of the room, the ties of
the bows on her habitual fuku-styled dress fluttering
as she ducked her head back in and added, "And I do
mean *all*!  I think all the ten divisions are there!"
before moving on to the cafeteria.

	Tsuzuki was standing up before Hisoka had blinked
twice.  "Well?" he demanded.  "We don't have much
time!"

	Hisoka sighed and followed the suddenly-perky Tsuzuki
out of the room.  The half-written report flapped
folornly on Tsuzuki's desk in the quick gust of breeze
created by the shutting of the door.

******

	Hisoka had never had an excuse to be in the main
conference room before.  It was a huge chamber, but
somehow very like the small room where Goushou, Mr.
Kaoru and Mr. Tatsumi briefed Tsuzuki and himself on
their missions.  The conference room was crowded, with
far more people than Hisoka had ever seen gathered
together before.

	He stared in shock as a pair of tanned, white women
dressed in leather jeans and designer tops - *where*
did they get the *money*? - chatted cheerfully with an
olive-skinned boy wearing a loincloth and carrying a
blowpipe, who was sitting next to them.  Settling into
the seats behind him were a man and woman, both with
skin as black as Tsuzuki's suit, dressed in
brightly-coloured robes, patterned in geometric
designs.

	Hisoka turned around slowly and settled back into his
seat, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the empty
podium.  It was one thing knowing that Shinigami were
drawn from all the peoples of the world.  It was quite
another to be confronted with proof.

	A silver half-mask, apparently floating in midair,
moved forward onto the podium.  Immediately, everyone
fell silent.  This was the way Enma-Daioh, the Lord of
the Dead, chose to present Himself to His Shinigami;
now they would learn why he had called them all
together.

	"Greetings," Enma-Daioh's rich baritone rolled out,
seemingly coming from everywhere at once.  "I
apologise to all of you for the inconvenience of being
called in.  Those of you on active assignment will not
be put on this case, but I ask that you keep this case
in mind, keep your eyes open and that you be prepared
to render assistance if called on."

	This provoked a murmur.  Beside Hisoka, Tsuzuki ran a
hand through his thick dark-brown hair.  "What could
be so big that every single Shinigami has to go on
standby?" he wondered softly.

	"Some of our more recent employees," Enma-Daioh
continued, "may recall the works of an American
performer named Jim Henson - in particular, a group of
characters he created, known collectively as 'the
Muppets'."

	Hisoka sat forward.  The Muppets!  

	On his other side, Tsuzuki nuged him.  "What are
'Muppets'?" he asked his partner worriedly.

	"A bunch of puppets who used to put on a variety show
every week," Hisoka hissed, lost in the memories.

	Tsuzuki sat back.  "Puppets?"

	Enma-Daioh cleared his throat.  "The point, as I'm
sure you've all seen, is that the Muppets are not
living beings, any more than any other creature in
human literature."

	A general murmur of agreement rose in the chamber.

	"Today, the name 'Kermit the Frog' - the name of one
of the Muppets - appeared in the Book of the Dead."

	Everybody gasped.

	"Maybe--" Tatsumi began, only to be cut off as
Enma-Daioh continued.

	"Naturally enough, We verified the name.  It could
have been a mistake, or a coincidence." The voice
paused, and when it continued, it was clipped, as if
He were spitting out each word.  "It was not."

	Now there was dead silence.

	"We do not," Enma-Daioh continued to say, in that
clipped, blank tone, "know how an entity of literature
gained a soul.  We do not know how such an entity can
be killed.  This is the information that We require
you to discover.  Because We.  Do.  Not.  Know."

	The room did not stir.  Every eye was on the silver
opera-mask that hung in midair, every breath was held,
and every hand was still.  

	"Your individual supervisors will be giving you the
further details that We *do* have,"  Enma-Daioh said,
with finality.  "Thank you for attending."  

	The silver mask drifted backwards, into the shadows,
and the room burst into frantic gabble as everyone
tried to talk at once.  

	Tatsumi finally gave up on talking in the great
conference hall and began to herd the members of his
office out of the room.  Once they got the idea, they
were happy to co-operate.

	"So.... what are we supposed to do?" asked Hisoka.

	"We could probably stake out Kermit and ask *him*,"
Wakaba chimed.

	"Good idea, Wakaba," Kaoru nodded, stroking his chin.

	Tsuzuki lifted his head, mischief gleaming in his
purple eyes.  "I volunteer--"

	"Given that there probably won't be any snack shops
in the back of the storeroom where Kermit *is*, I'm
perfectly agreeable to *us* doing it," Hisoka said
calmly.

	"Hisoooookaaa! You're meeeaaannn...."

*******

Author's notes:

	The people sitting behind Hisoka were Masati
tribespeople, from the plains below the Sahara, while
the kid with the blowpipe is from the Amazon basin. 
If anybody wanted to know.

=====
raye_j@yahoo.com
http://www.thejohnsens.com/index.html

"'I run, therefore I am'; more accurately, 
'I run, therefore with any luck I'll still *be*'."
   - Rincewind's philosophy, as explained in "Interesting Times"

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