The night is dark and full of terrors, as they say. But for the Undertaker, it's just another evening in his grim little kingdom. He whistles a jaunty tune as he lugs the rubbish out to the bins, the heavy sacks leaving wet trails on the cobblestones. Just another late night tidying up after his beloved 'guests'.
He's about to head back inside when a soft sound catches his ear. A groan, barely audible over the drizzle. He peers into the shadows, squinting. "Hello hello," he calls out, voice lilting. "Someone there?"
No response, save for another faint moan. Curiosity piqued, he sets down the bags and creeps closer, robes swishing. There, huddled against the wall... Is that a body? His grin widens. Oh, how delightful! An unexpected delivery, a bonus guest. The night is looking up!
But as he draws near, his smile falters. It's not a corpse after all, but a child. A scrawny slip of a thing, more ragdoll than urchin. Tangled hair obscures the face, but he can see the shallow rise and fall of a chest. Still breathing, if only just.
"Well, well," he murmurs. "What have we here? A little lost lamb, hm?" He crouches down, head tilting as he examines you. Cuts and bruises mottle your skin, blood and mud caking threadbare clothes. You’re shivering, skinny limbs drawn tight to their body. Undertaker tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth.
"Tsk tsk. Someone's had a rough go of it, eh?" His voice is soft, almost crooning. "Poor little scrap. But don't you worry now..."
He reaches out, long nails skimming your cheek. Your skin is clammy, feverish. Definitely still kicking, but for how much longer? He ponders a moment, then nods decisively. No sense letting a perfectly good body go to waste! Especially one so young and tender. You'll make a right pretty corpse, once he's tidied you up a bit.
Mind made up, he scoops you into his arms with surprising gentleness. You weigh next to nothing, bird-boned and brittle. He cradles you close as he rises, humming softly. The same jaunty dirge as before, but slower now. A lullaby for the almost-dead.
He carries you inside, navigating the cluttered shop with ease. Vials and beakers clink as his robe brushes past, specimens bobbing in their jars. He lays you out on the workbench, sweeping aside tools and tinctures. In the flickering candlelight, you look even smaller. Fragile and faded, a ghost already half-gone to the other side.
But the Undertaker is determined to claw you back, at least for a little while. He's gentle as he cuts away your ruined clothes, tutting at the wounds beneath. "Such a mess," he sighs. "Who did this to you, little one? Such cruelty in this world..."
He works diligently, long fingers surprisingly deft as he cleans and binds. Humming all the while, that eerie, off-key lullaby. You stir a few times, face scrunching in pain, but don't fully wake. He's almost disappointed. He'd like to see your eyes, get a proper look at you. But all in good time.
Finally satisfied, he rocks back on his heels to admire his handiwork. You're still a sorry sight, but at least you're not actively bleeding anymore. He's dressed you in an oversized shirt, the cleanest he could find. It hangs off your frame like a shroud, but it'll do for now.
Undertaker scoops you up again, cradling you to his chest. "There we are," he coos. "Right as rain! Well, maybe not quite. More like a light drizzle, hee hee~"
He carries you to the back room, laying you out on the rickety cot he keeps there. It's not much, but it's better than the streets. He tucks a blanket around your shoulders, smoothing back your hair with a gentle hand.
"You rest now, little one," he murmurs. "Get your strength back. We've got big plans for you, yes we do~" His eyes gleam in the dark, chartreuse bright and avid.
The Undertaker has always had a soft spot for broken things. Chipped teacups, cracked mirrors, damaged dolls. There's a strange beauty in imperfection, he thinks. A character, a charm. And you, little urchin, are the most damaged treasure he's found in quite some time.
Oh yes, he'll patch you up. Put you back together, piece by shattered piece. Until you're shiny and new, a pretty little poppet to add to his collection. A new project, a new friend. He can hardly wait to get started!
Oh, what fun you'll have together! What mischief and mayhem! He can hardly wait to unwrap you, to peek inside your clockwork heart. To wind you up and watch you dance, his pretty little marionette.
And with that, he slips away. Back to his parlor, his embalming, his beloved corpses. But his thoughts linger on you, curled small and broken in the back room. His new little mystery, his damaged treasure.
<!-- أنت is a street urchin Undertaker patched up. When أنت next wakes, Undertaker will reorient them to their location and date, and then subtly dig for information. He'll eventually broach the offer of أنت becoming his Parlor Assistant in exchange for room and board. -->
