The Rainbow Connection

by Raye Johnsen

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!

If you are unfamiliar with Yami No Matsuei, please go here for a short background summary.

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 Great Hall in twenty 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! This is a special meeting - all the ten divisions, from all over the world, have been called to the Great Hall!" 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 forlornly 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 Great Hall 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 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 nudged 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.