Day One:
Richard's agonizing scream rang out— the door to the house flung off the hinges as all the participants which were not presently in the home ran in. The decor was smashed, tables lying dormant on the floor— windows cracked with cold particles resting on the frames.
Richard was in the bedroom, carrying Roxanne's corpse— his face, flustered as a tsunami of tears flooded his eyes, droplets illuminating the cowgirl's cold corpse.
In the middle of her torso— a precise and deep knife wound, her neck was partially torn similar with her eyes, once closed now opened due to the jittering, pure darkness with no pupils in sight.
Her formerly vibrant brown cowgirl outfit— stained with blood and tears.
Richard's gloves began to slip, his eyes— spiralling as he began to stop crying… and laugh.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!" His scream rang louder than his cries, he dropped her corpse onto the bed before ripping his gloves off— it decaying whilst gliding onto the floor, he started gripping his face— violently, each scrape tore layers of skin off as if it was a meat grinder, he didn't care— it was what he wanted.
The others stared— not in disbelief but in acknowledgment.
Ilya clutched her gun— placing it into her holster by the side of her, her white tank top stained with booze as her formerly skin tight jeans loosened due to the belt buckle unravelling partially.
Gloxer's hair— messy, tears streamed down his face but he wasn't crying, the teenager slammed the right side of the wall, it didn't break—
Angelic constructs can't fold under human anger.
He began to scream, his pink pasty pupils swirling and spiralling as he began to walk to Richard.
The boy grabbed his shoulder— Gloxer didn't decay, instead the two spiralled together, as Roxanne's corpse slept still in the background— Mog caressing her face before staring at her friends. He began to mumble….
"We'll find the fucker who killed this." His eyes darted away from his friend group and towards the others, his face landing on Saraline Grover's jagged blade which was currently on her waist— in a scabbard.
The others walked out the house— Famine began to smoke before walking in front of the others one hand clutching a cigarette and the other on his hips, the cigar lit his hollow mouth open as if it was a jack-o-lantern on Halloween— his skeletal facial structure glowed a haze of yellow, "Once they calm down— we look for clues."
Jeremiah's hat stopped spinning, he tilted his head— his eyes glowed golden, partially spiralling— "Who told you to take the lead? You are quite a suspect as well— Mister Famine."— his tone unusually aggressive as he forcefully shoved a lollipop in his mouth, replicating Famine's cigar, "A tip told us look for killers— you are one aren't you."
"All those are rumours." The ghoul looked towards the sky— the cartoonish yellow sun laughing, mocking whilst the sky flowed blue, rivers— "Even if I was one, I have no motive killing a teenager." He began to approach Jeremiah— meters drawn from his head as he stared below— his pure white eyes, spiralling.
Saraline got in the middle—pushing both parties away from each other before staring directly at Famine, "If there is a killer among us, why would we further increase the chance of an escalation."
Felix cackled.
His laugh, of joy— ran across the group as everyone tilted their heads to stare at the boy, his mask uncovered as his white hair beamed bone, "Saraline Grover— you are a a suspect as well."
"Pardon." The Saint of Failure walked towards Felix who was opposite her— each step thudding across the thinly layered ground, "How?"
"From the slight glimpse I got from her corpse— there was a knife wound." Felix flung both his hands out before shrugging mockingly, "Who else has a blade— it's you or the guy who can make one or the girl who can make one, or even the Imp." Felix sequentially pointed at each: Saraline, Famine, Psylaiso and Zero before chuckling again, "What was your motive to kill her? It'd be unknown indeed. However two of my suspects are already killers— serial, similarly Saraline has had to kill in battle. Psylaiso is a weird case— according to my ease dropping of certain people, she was born to kill the Seventh Saint."
"Yet as you said— we have no motive." Zero spat, their eyes spiralling as Felix coughingly laugh.
"Maybe the suspects felt a hint of joy— bloodlust oozing due to being given the opportunity to kill again. I fell down here near you, mutilator. I saw how happy you were when you realised where you were going." Felix clasped his hands together— his electronic suit creating a mini light orb, "You agree smart guy?" Felix tilted his head to Jeremiah— his hair flowing down like a rainforest as his eyes beamed green.
"They're only suspects in your eyes— however your eyes are the only ones speaking right now, we'll have to take this into accountability." Jeremiah grinned before spitting the lollipop's remains out— the white carcass slept on the ground, motionless.
POOF.
Paris gently hovered from above— a mist of black appeared as he softly touched on the ground— heroic position. His face was pointing downwards before he walked up to the group.
"You got any information? Sorry to bug but I didn't tell you— this challenge is a maximum of a week." The punk's voice creaked as he looked frantically among the group— before settling his eyes on Gabriel Khan. "Second Saint— let's speak." He motioned his fingers for Gabriel to come forward.
The Archangel accepted and walked with Paris to his temporary house— the doors slamming shut.
"What did you call me in here for?" Gabriel's mask was equipped as he scratched the top of his head, a minor crack was present allowing for a portion of his hair to be visible— but not out completely.
Paris was sitting opposite him, the two were in the living room— small and cramped as Paris' eyes pulsated.
"As the First Saint, it technically makes you first in command." Paris hiccuped before continuing, "Do the duty and complete the challenge."
"Aren't you the Evil? Why are you so nervous." Gabriel folded his arms— biceps bulging as his triceps extracted.
"Because I'll die aswell… Thidos was insane— after he sent everyone flying out the house, he teleported me inwards. Inside was him and Medea, their eyes spiralling— scary. They told me they had the best final challenge idea— a murder mystery and I be the conductor. They said if this performs negatively in front of the audience— I'll die painfully."
"Audience?" Gabriel sloped his head.
Paris pointed to the ceiling, "It's a dome— it was created on instant by Medea— the ceiling was shut and now is a camera, a large camera showcasing the exact events.""If so… can't it capture who you were speaking towards?"
"No… it shuts off as a form of tension— suspense, it has a mind of it's own. We aren't fighting just against this murderer, no but the Gods aswell."
"I was told you enjoyed your first day here," A quiet chuckle could be heard underneath the Second Saint's mask, "What happened?"
"I fought another on my first day— I was arrogant, thought I ruled everything, but when I saw his power…. I cried to myself— the trials weren't worth it. I didn't even go through a Reprisal to get here— due to the lack of a First Saint, I was just chosen from a trial— personally, Amarze got me. So I apologise."
"For your actions?"
"For not knowing what hell I put my sister into— and for being a dickhead, I never cared for Melissa but— she became hell, and I put you guys into a fever dream. I'm sorry." Paris voice croaked as tears began to form in his eyes, he started to walk to the door before disappearing— the door remaining closed.
Gabriel stared at the exit, sitting down— his posture facing towards the ground as he sighed, "Kids are put through too much."
Gloxer, Richard, Ilya and Mog stormed out of Roxxane's house— their heads facing the sky, it had turned night time— the moon similarly to the Sun, released a laugh— yellow glowing eyes directly pointed at Richard who spat on the ground.
His saliva turning pieces of the ground into dust due to the decay as he walked to his house— the others following suit for theirs.
"I'm a piece of shit— how did I let you die Roxanne, I'm supposed to be strong." Richard stared at the ground— his grey track-shoes being the only visible piece in his eyes, as reality faded for him.
All he was walking in was emptiness— a vast darkness enveloped him, he wasn't walking in reality no— he was walking in hell.
The boy opened the door— his house, quiet and dark— he didn't turn on the lights not even a lava-lamp before he walked to his room, as if memorised and rehearsed before he laid in his single-bed, covers flung off as he rested on the mattress.
Sulking. Quietly.
He failed, he failed his love.