"Let's play a game... a game of murder."
A young blossoming composer, Markel didn't know what to do when he was cordially invited to the last concert of a retiring pianist. But when the concert's true motive is revealed, Markel is sucked into a vort...
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A younger Markel had always fantasized about being a hero, saving others, killing monsters, and dark forests with some sort of old hide-away within them. An older Markel, though to a far lesser extent, had fantasized about nearly the same things.
Looking up at the sleek, future-esk building that stood in front of him, he was no longer sure why he'd ever thought about saving a person.
It looked modern, but it also looked like it was aged- judging by the sheer amount of plants that grew in and along its wall, it was probably not built within the last century. Add in the crumbling bricks- and it probably wasn't built within the last one and a half centuries.
Markel's inquiring eyes looked to Xavier, who caught his glance and gave a barely-visible nod.
The two men rammed through the door, ripping it off its hinges as they violently barreled through the half-rotten wood. The glass embedded within the double doors- which somehow remained intact until now- rained down like hail around their heads. In normal circumstances, the two would've laughed when they caught sight of the glints in each other's hair, but 'saving a kidnapped girlfriend' wasn't exactly considered normal.
'Where'd you think she went?' Markel asked, scanning left and right for clues as to the latest direction their target ran in.
'I don't know. Split up?'
'Sure.'
In the end, Markel went left and Xavier went right. Armed with flashlights and a strong sense of vengeance, the composers bid each other good luck and went their separate ways.
He was almost halfway down the hall when he heard it. The steady drip drip drip of some liquid onto the broken-up concrete was almost impossible to discern because of the shuffling sound another set of feet made. Abruptly, his flashlight shut itself off, plunging Xavier into pitch darkness with a stalker behind him and a drip source in front.
Markel was the quick to respond when the second set of footsteps abruptly stopped after its last, heaviest step- he flattened himself against the brick wall to avoid the lunge, but instead of feeling brick on his skin, he suddenly felt himself soundlessly free falling through the murkiness of the building's secrets.
Thund.
Xavier jumped as the sound of a semi-soft object hitting the floor somewhere below his current position echoed throughout the abandoned building, reverberating several times as though to assure its existence. As though on cue, the stalker behind him leapt forward, barely catching the back of Xavier's shirt as he broke into a silent sprint.
Markel could sense hostile eyes glaring at him from all directions as he picked himself off the ground, quietly groaning as he felt the prime sore areas in his thighs and behind. Those were definitely going to be bruises soon, he promised himself, but he had more pressing issues at hand- such as identifying the soft, squishy and smelly thing that his shoulder had landed on.
Flipping on his flashlight, Markel quickly turned away from the object that halfway broke his fall, gagging and dropping to his knees as he retched.
Did I lose them yet? Or are they still following me?
The questions of his safety plagued Xavier's mind as he ran through the cracked brick hallways, towards the area where he and Markel had first separated. However, as he got closer, he found something he hadn't noticed before: a large, winding spiral staircase. Deciding to take his chances, Xavier threw one leg over the handrail and began his sliding descent.
Bright orange hair in shoulder length waves and a terribly-stained plaid dress were all that adorned the skeleton, with the exception of a few limp pieces of flesh that hung off of it. Maggots, white and plump, crawled in and out of the badly decomposed body, and if Markel hadn't known any better, he would've thought that the corpse was Sicily. Instead, he covered his nose and mouth with his arm, which oh-so-happened to be covered in a mysterious black fluid that smelled exactly like the corpse he'd had the misfortune to fall on. With the beam of light held in his quivering hands guiding the way, Markel navigated around similar corpses, all in varying states of decay, races and genders. The only thing they had in common was their hair colour, and even that ranged from a neon orange to the deepest shade of crimson. Halfway down the tunnel of red-headed corpses, Markel's flashlight spluttered and died, leaving an 18-year-old composer to his own despair in the darkness.
