It was a dark and stormy night.
Or it was at least a week ago. Tonight, it was serene. The night sky was a dark shade of indigo and covered thickly in clouds. There was a sweet summer breeze that brought the heavy smell of evening and rain. The trees branches swayed, whispering the secrets of the people who lurked in the dark. It was warm and humid from the gentle rain that darkened the cement and worn, sun baked bricks of the arcade. Drops splattered into the alley from the gutter, big and fat and noisy.
Four people hurried into the arcade, dressed in heavy rain coats and carrying umbrellas. There were two women, and two men. One of the men pulled out a ring of keys with numb fingers, fumbling to slot them. He jiggled the door knob, and managed to get the door open, the plastic shaking when it slammed against the wall. The bell echoed in the room void of life, alerting the games. They all filed in, going in the backroom to discard their coats and umbrellas.
The four pulled out stools into the main room and sat down on them. What the games didn't know, is that only one of them was actually human.
One of the girls was short, and had once been stocky, but had withered away. She was bald, but tried using a white knit cap to cover it up. Her eyes were like hard, cut topaz, but lacked the lust and glimmer and life that the stone would hold. Her skin was pale and had a waxy quality to it. Her clothes that once fit her now swallowed her figure, like a child trying to wear their father's shirts. Her face was shaped like a heart, her eyes sunken in and her hollow cheeks red with blush, giving life to an otherwise skeletal figure.
The other girl was tall, and would be considered beautiful by many people. Long hair cascaded like black silk over her shoulders, with eyes made of coal. She had an oriental complexion. Her limbs were long, but she moved gracefully. If anyone had peeked under her shirt, they would see a caved in stomach and ribs jutting out like knives. Her face was painted with makeup that only that of a model could achieve.
The only man who was considered 'normal' was far from it. His hair was black, curly mass that was as soft as a kitten's fur. His skin was tanned, but marred with scars and freckles. Eyes, a soft green-beige, free but haunted. Hands calloused, and wrists bruised and covered in a rash. He had a strong jaw and cheeks, thick glasses balance precariously on his long nose.
The last man was almost stereotypically Slavic. He had eyes like ice, and hair like corn silk that was neatly styled into a comb over that was more fit for the 40's than in modern times. He had high, prominent cheek bones, a hooked nose, and plush pink lips. An icy fire burned in his cold eyes, creating an unsettling sense of determination in a figure so calm and collected, it was like putting a Picasso in a museum full of da Vinci and van Gogh.
The game characters watched, carefully replaying their title sequences as they watched the four get settled in their spots. The one with glasses rubbed his wrists, squirming uncomfortably. As the others watched him, picking him apart with their minds, he switched to run his hands up and down his dirt covered jeans. Everything he wore was covered in dirt, it was even in his hair. His nails were short and ragged, and had soil compacted underneath what was left of them.
"Gosh, I haven't been to an arcade in so long," said the short girl, her eyes wide as she took in the room. Her teal t-shirt was almost like a dress on her, but it looked more like scrubs. She kicked her jegging clad legs with white sneakers on the end, her feet barely even grazing the ground. The other girl, who wore a pale orange sundress with brown and white flowers on it, rolled her eyes at the others immature behavior.
The Slavic man looked over at the loud noises coming from one of the games. "Hero's Duty, how cute," he panned. He looked over to the other man. "Santos, please explain why exactly you brought us to an arcade?" His perfectly manicured hands were folded into his lap. He wore navy trousers, a matching waist coat, a white button up, and a black tie.
"I-It was the only safe place, I-I" His leg bounced and he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers getting caught in the tangles. His insides felt full of butterflies. "N-No one can get in here other than me and the owner. Will you tell me who you are?" The other three exchanged glances, silently deciding the would. The man quickly disarmed him of the knife sticking out of his back pocket. "Hey-!"
"We're not taking any chances," said the woman in the dress tersely, taking it from him.
"We know you were a hunter before your accident," stated the short girl. Santos' eyebrows furrowed, fingers twitching.
"N-Not really, I-I mean I only really did tech support. I-I only went out into the field after the others, um, got, uh, passed away- Wh-why, oh my god, you- you're demons!" He scrambled to get away, but was roughly tugged back into his spot by the other male.
"Please, it is an insult to compare us to such barbaric creatures such as demons," the man said, as if it was the most blatantly obvious thing in the world.
The short girl snorted, crossing her arms. "That's rich coming from you." This earned her a glare. She didn't notice though, busy coughing up a lung. Santos seemed worried, but no one paid an ounce of attention to her.
"As I was saying," he continued "we are called many names, but you would recognize us as three of the four horsemen of the apocalypse."
He stared, bug eyed at the rest of them, looking ready to bolt from his spot at any given second. Santos felt his mouth go dry, and his hands clam up as they bunched into the edges of his sweater. It was a knit black one with little white designs of reindeers and skulls, a gag Christmas present from another hunter who had been his secret Santa at a party. Underneath it was pastel yellow button up whose sleeves barely managed to peak out from under the sweater's sleeves.
"You would know us as Famine," motioning towards the tall girl. "Pestilence," short girl. "And I myself being War. We had been killed by those pesky Winchester brothers, I assume you are acquainted with them, but you can never truly kill an entity."
"Why me? Wh- How am I important to y-you?"
"Simple!" piped up Pestilence. "You have an extraordinary gift, one we can use in a day an age where technology is the be all end all."
She was stared at by him, confusion in his eyes
Pestilence wondered if Azazel even did his research before giving these kids powers. "When you play these games you feel something, don't you?"
Santos mouth floundered as he tried to find the right words. "I- um, the- how did-" He buried his face in his hands before trying to run them through his hair again. He took in a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself. When he came back up, he had a serious, calm face on him. "Yeah, I mean, it's faint. But when I play them, like Fix-It Felix Jr, I can feel- feel this hot boiling- and- and something trying to claw out of me-"
"Anger," Famine cut in.
"And irritation too, it seems" War butted in.
Santos fumbled in pushing his glasses back up, his hands shaking like something terrible. Blood started to drip from his nose, splattering against the material of his jeans. The pupil were like tiny pinpoints, a tiny, minuscule void from which even the light in his eyes couldn't escape from. But the fear, and oh boy did the fear make itself obvious. Static appeared on some of the screens of the games closest to him. The pulse beneath his skin quickened as he nervously licked and bit his lips.
War reached over and held his hands together, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "You have to calm down. You may end up ruining the games codi-"
Santos was in a frantic haze, tugging his hands free and landing on his butt when he fell backwards. "Calm down?!" he shouted, smearing the blood onto his hand. "I just had to dig myself out of a box from six feet under, and you- you all are just standing there! I know you're all eternal entities, ideas that can never die, but have you any idea what it was like down there?!" His chest was rising and falling dramatically, and sweat started to form at his brow.
Some of the streetlamps outside started to dim and flicker. Santos' stomach heaved as he threw up bile onto the carpet. It burned his throat and nose, his body feeling shaky and weak. His hand reached up, gripping one of the games as he tried to pull himself up. War rushed over, his hands ever so barely touching him and he tried to help him up.
"Please, just try to calm yourself. In your frantic state, you may do something that you will regre-" Santos jolted, and the two of them were enveloped in a bluish static that jumped over their skin like sparks. One moment they were there, the next they had vanished.
Pestilence had run over to see what happened to the two of them, while Famine sat at her chair, not even the least bit concerned. "They're in Fix-It Felix Jr," Pestilence said in a lax tone, shrugging her shoulders. "go figure."