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Hanamaki Takahiro is pretty sure that whatever this is is illegal.
"I'm pretty that whatever this is is illegal."
Matsukawa-san merely shrugs and finishes adjusting his black tie. "Maybe. Just let me know when you've decided." The man speaks nonchalantly, as if he didn't just admit to potentially breaking the law after dropping a pile of folders on the desk and telling Takahiro to choose his teammates. Which might have been fine if only a) the files weren't filled with death certificates, and b) Takahiro wasn't dead.
There are many things he does not remember. Scratch that. He doesn't have a fucking clue of who he is. All he got from the crash course from Matsukawa-san was that his name is Hanamaki Takahiro and he is dead but now a zombie. Still, he has the sneaking suspicion that everything in this super-chilled basement room, from his own reanimated corpse to the yellowed-to-white papers, breaks a hundred and four mortician oaths and or laws.
Because Matsukawa-san is a mortician. Of course.
"What am I even choosing teammates for?" he asks as he flicks open the manila cover. The first guy's date of death is fairly recent, a few years ago. Cause of death smoke inhalation.
"A volleyball team. You're going to nationals."
"You're fucking insane."
-
According to the internet, 99% of Japanese deceased are cremated.
According to Takahiro's eyeballs, the 1% that aren't end up in one of Matsukawa-san's basement rooms, so long as they were promising volleyball stars in life.
"I'm pretty sure this is illegal."
"Maybe," Matsukawa-san replies flippantly. He hefts out another black body bag and places it on the cart with the others. He shuts the doors of the vault with a grunt. He's also still in a suit, even though it's a Sunday.
Comparatively, Takahiro is in a pair of faded sweats eating a cream puff. He doesn't really need to eat anymore, but he likes to. Matsukawa-san brings him something every day ever since he whined about it. They're usually desserts, but he finds doesn't mind at all. Perks of zombie-fication, healthy eating isn't necessary.
Speaking of zombie-fication, he stares at the pile of bodies. "How do you even do, you know?" he gestures vaguely at himself.
"Methanol."
"Huh." He's pretty sure he has no idea what that is, nor is it the full answer, but he's fairly certain that Matsukawa-san won't tell him the whole truth anyways. "Do I get to watch?"
"No. Just stay in your room."
"But I'm bored."
"You can use my phone. I'll bring you some cake when I'm done."
"Can it be chocolate?"
"Sure."
Matsukawa-san might be a criminal, but hey, at least he's a rich criminal.
-
Although it's been a few days since he got his cake, Takahiro has yet to meet any of his hand-selected elite team. Matsukawa-san says there's a resting period in the process. Takahiro feels like a loaf of bread.
"You see, you have your ingredients in the fridge, and then you take it out and do some mixing magic or something, then you let it rise and boom, bread!" He gestures in the air as he paces the floor of his room, too winded up to sit still.
Matsukawa-san smiles from his seat on the bed. "I guess that makes me a baker."
"Yes! Now you need to dress the part. You have got to have something else in your wardrobe other than black suits, man."
"They're convenient though."
"Matsukawa-san. Please tell me you have other clothes."
"I do have other clothes... One of my suits is blue."
"I swear to god I will go online shopping the next chance I get your phone. Be ready for a chinchilla onesie at your doorstep."
Matsukawa-san laughs, and Takahiro startles back mid-step. He's never seen nor heard the man being anything other than sexy cool mature death doctor. His laugh is nice. A little wheezy, but still.
"Do you want to go shopping now?" Matsukawa-san digs in his pocket for his phone.
"No, you have to be completely unawares when your new wardrobe shows up. Besides, I have too much energy right now."
"Do you want to go out then?"
"Matsukawa-san." He puts on his most gentle, soothing 'you-are-an-idiot' voice. "I don't know if you can tell, but I'm dead. My skin is grey. I can pull my toes off of my foot. How do I, pray tell, go out without inciting mass panic and bringing the mob to our doorstep with pitchforks?"
Matsukawa-san heaves himself up with his hands on his knees. "Wait here a moment."
"Ok, grandpa."
Matsukawa-san returns with a box and sits back down on the bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here."
Takahiro sits. The box is opened and there's a bunch of brushes and pots and pens and stuff. "You know how to use all this?"
"I practiced. Close your eyes."
Matsukawa-san holds his face in place with warm fingers and something wet goes over his cheeks. It's a little ticklish. He jumps when it reaches near his ears.
"Hold still," Matsukawa-san murmurs. Takahiro sticks his tongue out. He tastes paint on his lips.
Matsukawa-san works on his face and neck, then his arms and hands in silence. It feels heavy and suffocating as more and more layers go on. Something is sprayed over his body. "Done."
He opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is Matsukawa-san capping a waterproofing spray. "Did you just waterproof me?" his voice rises indignantly.
"Yeah," Matsukawa-san remarks unabashedly as he packs up his little box. "Do you want to see?"
"Yes, phone." He places both palms out and wiggles his fingers. Matsukawa-san drops the device into his hands.
He navigates to the camera and waits for it to load. He looks at the camera feed. He checks if the filters are off. They are. He looks back at the camera feed.
"What the fuck."
"Yeah?"
"What the fuck. How are you so good at this? This should be illegal. No, this is illegal. Matsukawa-san you are a criminal."
"Maybe," Matsukawa-san's voice drips with smugness.
Takahiro tilts his head this way and that, and no matter what angle he uses, all he sees is a very-much-alive teenage face. He has freckles and pores and shit.
"If you're done ogling my masterpiece, we can head out and do something." Matsukawa-san is still gloating, he can hear it. Takahiro tears himself away.
"What can we do?"
"Anything you want. Preferably legal. I don't want to go to jail yet."
"But if it is illegal?"
"Then we better not get caught."
-
"Matsukawa-san," he muffles around a mouthful of fries.
"What is it?" Matsukawa-san chews on a burger.
"Why do you want to build a zombie army to go to nationals?"
Matsukawa-san takes his time chewing. Takahiro kicks him under the table.
"Well," Matsukawa-san sighs, then begins drinking his milkshake. Takahiro can hear the straw sucking up nothing but air. Takahiro already finished both milkshakes earlier. Takahiro kicks him again.
"I need to fulfill a promise."
"To raise a zombie army?"
"No. I promised someone to go to nationals. Now the only way to get there is with, you know."
"I may be an amnesiac but I am certain raising a zombie army is not the first option on the list. Or the second. Or the third. Or the fourth. Or- hey! That's my chicken nugget."
Matsukawa-san places the chicken nugget back down. "I guess. That's what I went with though."
Takahiro dips the nugget in the limited-edition yuzu-lemon sauce. "Who did you make the promise to?"
"Someone already gone." Takahiro glances up. Matsukawa-san's chin rests on his fist. He's staring at the empty milkshake cup with far-away eyes.
"Man, I'm jealous," he sighs.
"What for?"
"I mean, you'd do anything for them, clearly. Even the illegal bits."
Matsukawa-san huffs out a laugh. "I guess so."
Takahiro analyzes the man. His black suit is out of place in the primary colors of the fast food booth. His hair is styled and his face is clean-shaven, looking like an ordinary office worker. He bought two meals but let Takahiro steal his milkshake and fries blatantly. He has a basement full of corpses and brought a dead man back to life. He is raising a zombie army to go beat up teenagers on a volleyball court all because he made some promise to someone that's probably dead.
Takahiro swallows the last of his nugget. "Someday, I'll figure you out," he declares.
Matsukawa-san smiles, eyes back to the present. "I'm sure you will."