acuite
elena alvarez can i get an amen
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July 31st, 2134, was designed to be a grand event. Vincent and Charlene Guinevere spent months upon months meticulously planning each and every excruciating detail. Not a glass was out of place, not a single seat speckled with dust. Mr. and Mrs. Guinevere cared for the masquerade ball as if it was their own child - and a child deserves all the best. Only the brightest, the most esteemed, the most privileged of citizens received an invite. An invite was considered highly elite - the sort of elite that made the lucky ones frame said invitation on the wall and subtly and obnoxiously allude to it every time guests came over.
The masquerade ball was designed to be a grand event. In a world full of socialites and champagne flutes, twirling hair and priceless satin dresses, very few things were considered luxurious or grand anymore. The rich took it for granted, and the poor were stamped into the ground, hidden away in the seedy parts of the world. (Out of sight, out of mind, after all.) The Guinevere Ball, however… was something out. The modern society was practically abuzz. Anybody who was anything knew every single detail, whether it was the colour of the curtain drapes or the entree menus. Everybody had their opinion, and everybody had something to share: but everyone was in consensus that to attend would be a gift like no other. It would be the final push most needed to secure their reputation amongst the elitists, once and for all. The Guinevere Ball was designed to be perfect.
And on that fateful July night, those lucky enough to wave the barcode at the security scanner began the evening with excited smiles and elevated heartbeats. They knew their life was about to change - they just weren’t quite sure how much.
Festivities began early and descended well into the night. Numbers were exchanged, smiles flashed, dresses twirled. Everything was decidedly as it was supposed to be. Until an ear-piercing scream shattered the picture perfect night. Crowds flocked, women slipping on their stiletto heels, men adjusting their bow ties. For in the center of the room, on her knees, mouth still open in a silent scream, wept the daughter of the esteemed Guineveres. And at her very feet, laid the dead bodies of Vincent and Charlene Guinevere. And written brazenly on the wall in scrawling writing, read, ‘Steal from the rich, give to the poor. Two down. The rest of you to go’.
If the Guineveres wanted fame, they certainly got it. Their death blew up the entire civilization. The poor rose out of their slums, rioting, fighting for a good life for their children. The rich remain wrapped in their tiny bubbles. But most importantly, the attendees of the party were in trouble. Officials, after thorough examination, decreed that the murderer had to have attended the party for the murders to be entirely plausible. And every one of those esteemed guests was now a suspected murderer.
The guests have found themselves in the mansion, on lockdown. They problem with that, however, is that the murder is still in the building. And his/her's mission is to kill them. All of them. Will you survive? Or will you land the same fate as the Guineveres? As dead as a doorknob.
PLOT..
July 31st, 2134, was designed to be a grand event. Vincent and Charlene Guinevere spent months upon months meticulously planning each and every excruciating detail. Not a glass was out of place, not a single seat speckled with dust. Mr. and Mrs. Guinevere cared for the masquerade ball as if it was their own child - and a child deserves all the best. Only the brightest, the most esteemed, the most privileged of citizens received an invite. An invite was considered highly elite - the sort of elite that made the lucky ones frame said invitation on the wall and subtly and obnoxiously allude to it every time guests came over.
The masquerade ball was designed to be a grand event. In a world full of socialites and champagne flutes, twirling hair and priceless satin dresses, very few things were considered luxurious or grand anymore. The rich took it for granted, and the poor were stamped into the ground, hidden away in the seedy parts of the world. (Out of sight, out of mind, after all.) The Guinevere Ball, however… was something out. The modern society was practically abuzz. Anybody who was anything knew every single detail, whether it was the colour of the curtain drapes or the entree menus. Everybody had their opinion, and everybody had something to share: but everyone was in consensus that to attend would be a gift like no other. It would be the final push most needed to secure their reputation amongst the elitists, once and for all. The Guinevere Ball was designed to be perfect.
And on that fateful July night, those lucky enough to wave the barcode at the security scanner began the evening with excited smiles and elevated heartbeats. They knew their life was about to change - they just weren’t quite sure how much.
Festivities began early and descended well into the night. Numbers were exchanged, smiles flashed, dresses twirled. Everything was decidedly as it was supposed to be. Until an ear-piercing scream shattered the picture perfect night. Crowds flocked, women slipping on their stiletto heels, men adjusting their bow ties. For in the center of the room, on her knees, mouth still open in a silent scream, wept the daughter of the esteemed Guineveres. And at her very feet, laid the dead bodies of Vincent and Charlene Guinevere. And written brazenly on the wall in scrawling writing, read, ‘Steal from the rich, give to the poor. Two down. The rest of you to go’.
If the Guineveres wanted fame, they certainly got it. Their death blew up the entire civilization. The poor rose out of their slums, rioting, fighting for a good life for their children. The rich remain wrapped in their tiny bubbles. But most importantly, the attendees of the party were in trouble. Officials, after thorough examination, decreed that the murderer had to have attended the party for the murders to be entirely plausible. And every one of those esteemed guests was now a suspected murderer.
The guests have found themselves in the mansion, on lockdown. They problem with that, however, is that the murder is still in the building. And his/her's mission is to kill them. All of them. Will you survive? Or will you land the same fate as the Guineveres? As dead as a doorknob.
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