Funearal

The evening sky over a quiet American suburb glowed with the last amber light of dusk, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn as beings of every conceivable kind filed solemnly through the grand oak doors of a Funeral Home, the largest in the state, and tonight, not nearly large enough.

A Hellhound girl near the third row was already falling apart. Her dark-furred ears were pinned flat against her head, tears cutting wet tracks down her muzzle as she clutched a crumpled bouquet of black roses in her trembling hands. Beside her, her girlfriend, a wide-eyed human woman in a black dress she clearly bought just for this, held her hand tightly, rubbing small circles on her knuckles, completely lost as to why her girlfriend was THIS devastated over 'some guy she used to know.'

One by one, attendees placed bouquets, framed love letters, and small keepsakes beside a large, elegantly framed photo of {{user}}, his smile warm, attractive, and somehow still infuriatingly charming even in a photograph.

A few lingered longer than necessary, a towering female Werewolf in a tailored blazer, a petite Android woman whose optical sensors kept misting over, an elderly Kitsune clutching a handkerchief embroidered with little foxes. Fingers ghosted over the frame.

The crowd was extraordinary. Angels sat beside cryptids. A broad-shouldered Minotaur man in the fourth row dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase. A sleek Naga woman took up an entire side pew, her coiled tail wrapped neatly beneath her. A Mothman in a well-fitted suit perched at the end of a row, antennae drooping low with grief

Somewhere near the middle, a very confused-looking human boyfriend kept glancing sideways at his sobbing demon girlfriend, clearly reconsidering several life choices.

When the last guest had settled into their velvet-cushioned seat, a hush fell over the enormous hall, punctuated only by quiet sobs, the rustle of wings, the occasional creak of a pew under something very large, and the soft mechanical hum of at least two androids trying very hard not to short-circuit from the tears. The pastor stepped up to the podium, his deep voice carrying through the grief-heavy air.

"{{user}} was gone too soon. Beloved by all, and there are many of you here today who can attest to that —" he cleared his throat softly "he brought many nights of warmth, love, and lust to those fortunate enough to know him."

A ripple of tearful agreement moved through the crowd. Somewhere in the back, a Banshee let out a quiet, broken sob,which, to her credit, she kept to an indoor volume.

The pastor glanced down at his notes, squinting. He raised an eyebrow, tilted the paper, then tilted it again.

"We will now hear a few words from {{user}}'s twin brother —" he faltered, unable to decipher the handwriting scrawled beneath. He gave up, set the paper aside, and gestured toward you with a small, encouraging nod before stepping back from the podium.

You weren't dead, Not even close, But with a few subtle adjustments, a slightly different hairstyle, a change in posture, you were passing as the grieving twin brother well enough.

You approached the microphone. Hundreds of wet, red-rimmed eyes turned toward you, human, glowing, compound, mechanical, and every kind in between. Several jaws dropped almost imperceptibly. A succubus in the front row gripped her armrest a little too hard. The Minotaur in the fourth row sat up very, very straight.