The Normal's Game

Ch. 4-2: Falsified Mastermind

"You cannot be serious," were words that intercepted the jumpy piano tune, dancing with the violin. Though the notes and melodies circled the majestic room they were in, under one chandelier, sat two people in monochrome, where the yellow glow from the other chandeliers couldn't touch. Even the words that were uttered felt like graffiti to the mood, quickly painted over by the cheers of the joyful people around them. 

The noirette—the accused serial killer of fourteen—was like a stain on the London framework. In a plain white shirt and a pair of brown long-sleeves that were worn like a leather jacket, every person in that room was like a paid actor, pretending not to have any idea of who he was. Their body and mouth were lying on the scene, though their eyes couldn't help but tell the truth. Shadowy figures, tall and slim and all black from head-to-toe, were watching him from over their shoulders. Even their judging whispers were like writings on a white wall. 

Corwin took a bite from the platter before a brunette of his acquaintance, one that was in a black vest and a dusky attire, as the setting was laid upon them like the last supper. Sat in front of a much younger Arvel was a black-haired man, a wanted man, whose words have become hollow as they hit the brunette's forehead, bouncing off with no substance to them. Like empty shells but shells nonetheless, the absence in his words weren't just that of a message, but also that of life itself. It felt like pointless chitchat, it felt like nothing more than a casual conversation between normal people. 

"What do you mean I won't be able to see you again?"

"This is my last meal with you, Arvel," he called the brunette man by name. 

"What in hell are you talking about?" Arvel almost yelled. 

Suspense snowed down like a bad winter day. The last howls of a dying wolf was drowned out by the devouring blizzard in the forest's core as it closed its eyes and succumbed to its end. That was how Arvel saw it. Corwin was like a small firefly in a vast cavern where innocent souls were trapped in, he was like a torch of hope for the people he lead, and yet his defeat seemed pathetic to the unbeknownst eye. An unfinished legacy to a man that gave up in his final moments and didn't fight back. 

Corwin sipped from the wine glass in his hands as a trembling Arvel, shaking from anger and sorrow, glared into his eyes as he did so. 

"This isn't over! You're quitting all because of some stupid fingerprints, are you out of your mind? All we need is evidence that it wasn't you!"

Would it even matter if so? All was written in the puppeteer's script, down to how the hands on the clock were approaching zero, the scenes of the script were already unfolding,. The strings had been pulled and twisted, and the puppets had been made to dance. The play was about to reach its climax and there was a roaring audience anticipating the result. 

Ting ting ting. 

The room went quiet. Three taps of a metal fork onto a wine glass and the scene of dancing couples on a romantic night turned into the sights of a brutal massacre. The smiles on their faces looked as if they were ripped off their lips, their eyes appeared empty as the colourful atmosphere turned to black and white, even the jumpy piano and jolly violin jumped off a cliff on command. 

"Careful, we've got company."

The people that resembled soulless bodies began standing up one by one, their hands hung from their shoulders and their heads faced the carpeted floor. From the one closest to the large gate-like doors, they began marching out together, without a single one that stepped out the line. The spectacle would take anyone back to slavery, like watching them as they were shackled and forced to walk long distances to be sold or killed. Soon enough, the party-filled room felt like a graveyard as it became empty, apart from the two men that were left.