'Quin lay sprawled atop the satin sheets on the king-sized bed in his carriage, snoring just loud enough to drown out the rumble of the train. Only the sound of shouting from the nearby Lounge car roused him from slumber, and he woke with a violent start. For several long seconds he lay quietly, afraid to open his eyes to see who among them the Reaper had visited in the night, but he knew his pretender's peace couldn't last. When he rolled over and glared blearily around, he was struck with the surprise of an empty carriage.
'Uh...well. Guess Carriage B must have gotten a little less crowded, then,' he thought as he rose to his feet. 'After all, what are the odds nobody died on this hell train last night?' 'Probably the same as the odds of you trying to calculate the probability of a murder on a luxury train, dude.' 'That...makes no sense.' 'I don't care. It's true; it doesn't need to make sense.' 'Just shut up and lets go get some breakfast.' 'Yeah. And find out who died.'
Starlequin shambled into the lounge just in time to catch Sasha's explosive rant over her missing hat, and to peep Kaizen rabbiting under one of the dining tables to hide from her wrath. Rubbing his eyes beneath his mask, he caught enough snippets of the ongoing conversations to infer that Lady Death had indeed stowed onboard once again, this time stealing away that artistic chick, Imogen.
'I am so, so glad I managed to refrain from falling in love on this trip; I think the repetitive heartbreak would have killed me.' 'Or turned you into a supervillain.' 'Quin rolled his eyes at his internal dialogue, wordlessly making his way toward the breakfast buffet. 'Alright, look. We know that this train is about as safe as...as...' 'As what, Shakespeare?' 'Forget it, I'll finish the metaphor after coffee. The point is, being a passenger on this train is severely unhealthy, and these people don't seem too interested in punishing cold-blooded homicidal maniacs; they let the last one go at a bloody mountain resort!' 'Ah, I get what you're saying. Why don't we confess to a murder and see if we can get thrown off at some posh little French villa?' 'What!? No, you idiot, I was--wait, actually, that's not a bad idea...'
Starlequin mulled over the thought as he sipped at a steaming cup of java, hunched over the bar with his back to the others. The argument between Remiel and the chess pieces seemed to be heating up; wait a minute, so Remiel was a security guard? 'Been doing a top notch job too, I'd say. He's kept it down to one murder a night; with this crew, he must be a member of the Justice League.'
Presently, 'Quin turned from the bar and stared with sad, confused eyes at the occupied concierge, Miss Pixilicious, and wondered what he'd ever done to her that would make her invite him onto this grimly gilded go-go line. 'Well, there was that time you ran over a puppy.' 'That was no puppy, you moron. It was a very large, very angry Doberman. And I didn't run him over; he got hit by an 18-wheeler after chasing me for nine blocks!'
Trapped with a, with a whole pack of probable murderers. Like that, that Ryven fella. Him for sure. Honestly, it was right there in his name. Ryven. Just like all those passengers who had been ryv-...rivven? Ryved? Rivven? Was that a word? It felt like a word...Ripped from the world of the living. He leaned one arm on the bar and cradled his face in his palm, watching the ensuing drama.