Game Phase: Day | Twilight | Night
Day Number: Game Over
Deadline:
Lynch Threshold: 0
Vote Count:
Player Information
In Columbia or Rapture
02. KoolKoal
07. KamikazeArchon (r. kpaca (r. hansanator))
08. fulcrum
Stuck in a Sea of Lighthouses:
03. SelesnyaNewLife, Brigid Tenenbaum, Town Genetic Scientist (Modkilled D1, Post #633)
11. dkingsland967, Booker DeWitt, Mafia Private Eye (Lynched D1, Post #750)
05. LnGrrrR, Andrew Ryan, Town Randian Hypocrite (Night Killed, Post #774)
12. Cantripmancer (r. Generic), Elizabeth, Mafia Savant (Died of poison, Post #1,134)
04. Wildfire393 (r. cccccc808), Mr. Bubbles, Town Big Daddy (Night Killed, Post #1,140)
01. HookerPunch, Jack, Town Manchurian Candidate (Lynched D3, Post #1,184)
10. Niv, Lady Comstock, Town Siren (Lynched D4, Post #1,219)
06. DCIII, Jeremiah Fink, Town Billionaire and Dirty Cop Warlord (Night Killed, Post #1,220)
09. Kosakosa, Frank Fontaine, Rapture Crime Boss and Mafia Smuggler (Lynched D5, Post #1,291)
Stuck in the Space Time Continuum (Replace):
01. Bolly
Player Prods
01. cccccc808, pre-prod, 2 June 12:45 EDT
02. dkingsland967, pre-prod, 2 June 12:45 EDT
03. cccccc808, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
04. dkingsland967, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
05. HookerPunch, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
06. SelesnyaNewLife, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
07. LnGrrrR, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
08. cccccc808, prod, 13 June 20:50 EDT
09. Kosakosa, pre-prod, 13 June 20:50 EDT
10. cccccc808 forcibly replaced
11. hansanator replacement requested
12. SelesnyaNewLife, pre-prod, 20 June 13:40 EDT
13. SelesnyaNewLife, prod, 21 June 20:10 EDT
14. SelesnyaNewLife, Modkilled for Inactivity, 25 June 21:29 EDT
15. kpaca, pre-prod, 4 July 00:01 EDT
16. kpaca, prod, 7 July 11:10 EDT
17. fulcrum, pre-prod, 7 July 14:45 EDT
18. Kosakosa, pre-prod, 7 July 14:45 EDT
19. Generic, request replacement, 9 July 18:55 EDT
20. kpaca, forced replacement, 15 July 09:33 EDT
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
00: SPECIAL RULE. Each player has a True Identity that cannot be claimed. If you claim your True Identity, you will be modkilled on the spot. Claiming your True Identity includes not only outright claiming but attempting to use flavour to suggest who your True Identity could be.
01. Above all else, this is a game. I expect everyone to conduct themselves in a general sportsmanlike manner, which includes following all forum and game rules. Do not harass me or your fellow players. Having fun is required.
02. Do not:
Edit or delete posts
Quote any portion of your PM except the "you are" portion.
Post after you're dead. Not even a "bah" post.
Communicate with anyone about this game outside this thread unless your role PM permits.
Talk during the Night in this thread.
Discuss PM formatting.
"Thank" posts.
With the exception of post editing/deletion, which is an automatic mod-kill, I will not resort to mod-kills except in the most egregious of situations.
03. Votes should be in bold dark orange, in the form of Vote: Iso. Unvotes are required before re-voting. Additionally, if you wish to get my attention, please use the same bold dark orange text, preferably in the form of Mod: <request>. You may also vote for No Lynch; a majority voting for No Lynch will end the day without a lynch. Votes, Unvotes, and Action Requests not in bold dark orange may be ignored or missed.
For your convenience I have included a copyable form of the bold dark orange bbcode here:
04. This game includes a hard deadline that is calculated as Deadline = Living Players + Lynch Threshold + Day #. Night shall last no less than thirty six (36) hours; if I receive all Night actions before the deadline, I will end the Night early. I may, if needed, extend the Night deadline. Barring significant technical difficulties (ie, the site is unavailable for twelve (12) plus hours) or real life interfering with my ability to tend to the game (ie, I'm hit with a mack truck), Day deadlines will not be extended.
05. Lynches require a simple majority of votes. If the deadline is met, the player with the most votes shall be lynched; in the event of a tie, the player who reached the highest total first shall be lynched. Once a lynch has occurred, you may not change your vote or cast any additional votes.
06. Twilight begins immediately after a lynch occurs and will never be less than twenty four (24) hours.
07. Players are required to participate by posting at least once every seventy two (72) hours. I will pre-prod at forty eight (48) hours, at which time you have twenty four (24) hours to post to avoid being prodded. If you do not, the pre-prod will become an official prod and you have an additional twenty four (24) hours to post before being forcibly replaced. After two (2) official prods, the next will lead to an immediate forced replacement.
08. If you anticipate being unable to post for seventy two (72) hours or more, please post a V/LA notice in bold dark orange.
09. Each player may claim the "you are" portion of their role PM freely. Flavour must be paraphrased. If you are unsure, ask. Additionally, if you have any questions, please contact me via PM and I will do my best to answer your question without revealing game information or negatively impacting the game for you or your fellow players.
10. It is strongly advised not to flavour or mod game. It will likely end in tears. I employ safeguards against both
11. Night actions will be resolved using Seppel's order of night actions:
01. Immunities
02. Controlling another player's actions
03. First strike non-killing actions
04. Gaining actions
05. Losing actions
06. Redirecting / replacement effects
07. Roleblocking
08. Protecting
09. Rescuing / Reviving
10. Sending items or messages
11. First strike killing actions
12. Killing actions
13. Gathering information
14. Anything else
Nothing will be handled in time stamp order. There may or may not be abilities that resolve upon activation.
SAMPLE ROLE PM
Welcome to <Mafia Game>, anotherfuturedrafter!
You are Lois Griffin, Town Queen of Cherrywood
Flavour:
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
EDH UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
Scenes in Orange take place in Rapture. Scenes in Green take place in Columbia.
We interrupt this telecast with the following breaking news report. Riots have erupted throughout Rapture as workers in the city, backed by Atlas, have stormed several upper class establishments. Reports are coming in that Kashmir restaurant is in ruins after several explosions were heard. Hundreds are feared dead.
"What is that?!" yelled a citizen of Columbia.
"It's climbing on walls. And has hooks for hands?! And.. a bunny mask? What in the he-- AAAGGH" shrieked another citizen before his throat was slit by the creature.
It had been weeks since these alien creatures had appeared in Columbia. In the midsts of a civil war, it seemed as if these hellions were killing indiscriminately just for the sake of blood. No one knew what they were, or where they came from. No one seemed to be able to stop them, either.
We are live outside the Kashmir Restaurant where Atlas revolutionaries have — Jim, what is that? Cut to it!
"My aim is true, as my eye is the Prophet's!" bellowed the machine who lurched towards people, opening fire on all those it sees.
No one knew what this fearsome robot was — but there had been rumours abound for weeks that something had been slaying multiple big daddies. No one had seen the slayer until today as the Atlas revolutionaries launch their strikes against the Rapture elite.
Rosalind: "Oh my, brother. I fear we have really done it this time."
Robert: "Quite. I told you this would happen."
Rosalind: "Indeed. Maybe we have gone too far this time?"
Robert: "Likely. What happens if—?"
Rosalind: "The end."
Robert: "And if —?"
Rosalind: "The beginning"
Robert: "Is that so?"
Rosalind: "Indeed."
Robert: "Constants and variables."
Rosalind: Constants and variables."
Robert: "Shall we then?"
Rosalind: "We shall."
CHAPTER ONE Marche funèbre
"Ey Jim, you seen those bright flashes round town?"
"Yeah, Smitty; you see the one today not far from the Salty Oyster?"
"Sure did. Wonder what it could be?"
Ever since the invasion of these alien creatures, citizens around Columbia had been seeing random, bright pillars of light. No one knew what they where they came from, what they did, or who was responsible. Some theorised that they were responsible for the alien creatures, whereas some thought it was the doing of the Prophet in an attempt to cleanse Columbia of its impurities. Some people had noticed family members missing since the lights appeared — could it be? Could the lights and the disappearance of people be linked?
"Welcome back to our live coverage of the Kashmir Restaurant tragedy. We are now hearing reports from all around Rapture that shimmering beams of light have been manifesting out of thin air. We can only conclude that these shimmering beams are somehow linked to the attacks here on the Kashmir. Jim, over to you."
"Thanks Jill. I spoke with someone down at Neptune's Bounty just now about the light beams and and according to her, people had been disappearing with alarming frequency since they showed up. We can only hope that, if these is a link between these beams of light and the terrorist attacks on the Kashmir that Rapture Police are able to quickly bring Atlas to justice. Back to you, Jill."
Rosalind: "Welcome to Fort Frolic."
Robert: "Don't forget you masks."
Rosalind: "Quite"
Robert: "It wouldn't be a masquerade ball without masks, would it?"
Rosalind: "Indeed not."
"Why did it have to be Fort Frolic?" one guest pondered to themselves. It was a fair question — Fort Frolic, even in Rapture's hay day, was always a bit sketchy and creepy. It was home to Sander Cohen, the screw loose demented artist and musician who controlled the arts scene. Home to the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's personal art museum. The Fort was home to gentlemen's clubs, gambling halls, and the finest tobacco and spirits in Rapture. Posters for cigarettes, bicycles, spirits, sex, and more adorned the walls. It was the Las Vegas of the Atlantic.
In the years since the start of the war, Sander closed off Fort Frolic to the public, turning it into his own personal home. In the atrium, human statues — denizens of Fort Frolic whom had been encased in plaster against their will by Sander were a dime a dozen. Some bled, as if they were still alive after being encased. Water gushed down from the cracked ceiling, creating a small waterfall as the water ran down the staircase leading to the Upper Atrium, where the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's museum were. Blood covered the walls; it looked as if someone – maybe multiple people – had been gored violently. Blood and bodies were scattered around the Upper Atrium, carelessly, with no regard to artistic display. Perhaps Sander had abandoned the Fort?
By most accounts, Poseidon's Plaza had been spared the same kind wreckage throughout Rapture, though the businesses who resided there weren't as lucky. Eve's Garden, the marquee gentlemen's club was still accessible. Dusty bottles of Old Tom's Whiskey, alongside posters of Jasmine Jolene, "Andrew Ryan's favourite girl" and mistress, were visible as far as the eye could see. The only part of the club left undisturbed was the small performance stage where both metal poles remained intact, bloodstains and a corpse notwithstanding. Decay and destruction, the fate of Eve's Garden, enveloped businesses throughout the Plaza.
Robert: "Should we tell them?"
Rosalind: "We should, shouldn't we?"
Robert: "I believe so."
Rosalind: "Very well."
Robert: "What is hard to find—"
Rosalind: "But hard to avoid?"
Robert: "What falls but never breaks—"
Rosalind: "And breaks, but never falls?"
Robert: "Come Rosalind."
Rosalind: "Indeed."
As the Lutece twins vanished into thin air, the ball began, each person dressed to be unidentifiable. The first dance? A waltz, of course. Couples danced throughout the Fort, from the Atrium to the Fleet Hall, to the Southern Mall, and beyond, as music filled the air. The ball seemingly lasted forever; each dance brought a new partner, a new opportunity to try and figure out who was who. A game, if you will. But as the night went on, the music became darker and darker; more twisted and demonic. Haunting. Ethereal. Beautiful. You knew this masquerade ball was anything but — between the crypticness of the Lutece's and the downward spiral of darkness in the music, you could feel sinisterness seeping into the Fort.
"Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight."
As people began to look around for an exit, it quickly become clear that the bathysphere was not in working order. Were we to stay here in the Fort? A light began to shine on Sander's masterpiece: eight human statues, splattered with blood, contorted to different positions to hold up four different photographs of grisly, violent death scenes. Those photographs were no more. In their place were a series of photographs, each possessing three numbers.
"Room numbers?", some asked. "Must be."
One by one each guest selected a number and began searching for their room. As the last number was selected, a dark, dreary, melody could be heard. Somber. Chilling, as one guest described it.
"There are many a melody I like ending my day on, but this? The third movement from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2? Our pianist has a dark sense of humour."
"Why do you say that?" asked another guest.
"Because the third movement of that sonata is the Marche funèbre: The funeral march."
"…"
The guests hurried themselves to their rooms, sufficiently disturbed by the revelation from their musically inclined guest. Why would the pianist end the evening with such a disturbing piece?
When morning came, music again filled the Fort — a piece no one recognised, but was quite soothing after a long, restless night.
When the guests gathered down in the main foyer, the masterpiece where their room numbers had been was no more. Now, in its stead stood a riddle, each stanza a photograph.
Four Score and seven years;
less A fortnight and a half divide by three
less A fourth of the ball;
What number am I?
The guests looked at one another as someone uttered "77".
"77? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?" asked another guest.
Silence.
"Perhaps it is a room number?" suggested one guest.
"We should go look, then."
After looking around the fort, tucked behind a corner was room 77.
"Oh no" shrieked one guest.
There a man, crumbled, dead, holding sheet music for Chopin's Piano Sonata No 2. It appears the pianist's life had been taken from him.
CHAPTER TWO Pinkerton's Finest
”Come quickly!” shrieked one of the guests; everyone rushed quickly up the stairs of the Upper Atrium.
“Well what is it?” rudely harped one guest.
“Look. She’s dead!”
“What happened to her?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. I remember she went up stairs by herself after we found the pianist dead, but that was several hours ago and Fort Frolic isn’t so big that we’d not hear her screaming.”
After standing around in silence for a few minutes, one of the guests recommended they remove her mask and see if they could identify her.
“Oh no” said one guest. “That’s Brigid Tenenbaum.”
Some of the guests looked horrified; some were puzzled as to who, exactly, this woman was.
“You… do know of her, right?” one guest asked of another, who showed no reaction.
“Afraid not.”
“How is that possible? Where in Rapture do you live?”
“I don’t,” quipped the guest.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t come from Rapture, whatever the hell that is. I’m from Columbia.”
“There is no such place here in Rapture. Did you hit your head?”
“No. You remember that weird couple who welcomed us here? Do you know of them?”
“Why, I don’t.”
“Yeah. I do. And they’re from Columbia.”
“But how is that possible?” asked another guest, clearly from Rapture.
“Hell if I know,” snapped as the man walked off. Some of the guests quietly tailed him, suspicious of him for not knowing who, exactly, Brigid was.
Several hours later, as the day began to end, the guests had gathered back in front of Sander’s masterpiece.
“Look, everyone: We are the only people here in this God forsaken Fort. Clearly one of us has to be the killer. And we ain’t getting out of this joint from the looks of it.”
“Hear hear” harkened another guess.
“I followed that strange man earlier!” exclaimed one guest. The room stood still; silent as if it were in the dead of a winter’s night. You could hear a pin drop.
“I saw him go back to Room 77 and take the body into Poseidon’s Plaza!”
…
“Now why would you do that?”
“I didn’t”, scowled the suspect.
“Perhaps we should take a trip to the Plaza, then? All in favour raise your hand.”
One by one, each guest after the next raised their hand — it was unanimous. Booker was cursing himself silently as the party made their way towards Poseidon’s Plaza. He knew that he had to dispose of the body before the shock had worn off and everyone decided to investigate the crime scene. He had torn a piece of his costume — he hadn’t expected the pianist to resist as much as he did, and had they of found the piece of cloth, he’d’ve ended up just like the pianist: dead. The Plaza was still in a deep freeze; the perfect place to stash a corpse, he thought: somewhere it would freeze and slow decomposition, keeping away unwanted attention and an unwanted smell.
“Let’s split up and search for the body. You stay with the suspect.”
As the guests split up to look for the pianist, Booker sighed with relief, knowing who was tasked with “watching” him.
“How could you screw up this badly Booker?!”
“I followed standard procedure for being tailed; I thought I was in the clear.”
“CLEARLY. NOT.”
“Bite your tongue —“
“OVER HERE!” shouted one guest.
“*****” murmured Booker.
“We’ve found the pianist. And look what else we managed to find?” One of the guests held up a small piece of cloth that managed to match his costume.
“Why? Why did you kill the pianist?” asked the guest who “watched” over Booker, smiling behind their mask. Booker knew his fate was sealed, but the least he could do is make sure the mission succeeds.
“I killed him for the cause,” Booker confessed. “You fools don’t understand what is going on here; it’s over your heads. My death won’t stop what has been put in motion.”
“…”
Silence gripped the Plaza as Booker confessed to his sins.
“Do with me what you must.”
The group gathered to discuss what should they do with the killer. There wasn’t any prison within the Fort, and they couldn’t let a killer just be free. It was quickly becoming clear that the guests had but one option available to themselves: When in Rome, do as the Romans. They had decided to encase him in plaster, like many of Sander’s masterpieces. The party, with Booker in tow, adjourned to Sander’s private chamber within the museum. There stood the moulds he used on his human statues and enough bags of plaster to build a bridge. As they dragged Booker to the mould and fastened him in, they asked his name; he refused.
“Rip off his mask” one guest commanded. Some of the guests stood there in shock, not believing what their eyes saw.
“That’s Booker. Booker DeWitt,” said one guest. “A private detective from New York, living in Columbia.”
“We keep telling you there is no Columbia here in Rapture.”
“I don’t think you understand,” remarked another guest. “It seems that… not all of us are of this world. I, too, am of Columbia.”
“Me too.”
“What in the hell? How?”
Robert: “It’s easy”
Rosalind: “Indeed brother!”
Robert: “All will be explained”
Rosalind” “And explained it all shall be.”
Just as the Lutece’s appeared out of nowhere, they disappeared before anyone could speak. The guests looked at one another for a second, before looking at Booker again.
“End it”, he said.
They closed Booker inside the mould and began pouring the hot plaster through the opening; screams of agony filled the museum as they encased him alive. Sander’s museum now had the most exotic of all statues: that of someone not of this world.
CHAPTER THREE The fall of Andrew Ryan
“Where are we?” asked one guest as another took a deep breath.
“Columbia!”
“Look! It’s the Hand of the Prophet!”
“We’re on Monument Island,” said another guest. “There’s Monument Tower, where the Seed of the Prophet resides.”
“Prophet?” asked one man. “Seed of the Prophet? Are you people mad?”
Robert: “Not at all.”
Rosalind: “Indeed not. This is their homeland, you see.”
Robert: “We have come from Rapture to Columbia.”
Rosalind: “And back to Rapture we will go too.”
Robert: “Quite.”
“So wait, we are.. travelling between worlds? How is that even possible?”
Robert: “The question is not how is it possible, because it clearly is.”
Rosalind: “The question is why, is it not?”
Robert: “Indeed it is sister.”
Rosalind: “Shall we explain?”
Robert: “We shall.”
Rosalind: “What happens in Rapture.”
Robert: “Influences Columbia.”
Rosalind: “And what happens in Columbia.”
Robert: “Influences Rapture!”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
Robert: “Constants and variables.”
Rosalind: “What will happen to Columbia?”
Robert: “And to Rapture?”
As the Lutece twins vanished, it quickly became clear that something far more sinister was at play than ever imagined. How can the fate of two worlds, who do not simultaneously exist, be inexplicably linked? It goes against all scientific knowledge in the world. All the religious texts. Here on Monument Island, under the Hand of the Prophet, ironically, the world has been upended in ways never imaginable. What started with a weird, cryptic letter, and an even weirder masquerade ball, has become a game in which the fates of millions of people are at risk. It was as if the guests were marionettes in a sick and twisted war game. “Why us?” a number of guests asked. Though they still had not revealed themselves to one another yet, out of fear of who may just be behind the mask, it was reasonable to conclude that each person here was here for a reason. What that reason is, however, is anyone’s guess.
One guest pipped up and said “perhaps we should investigate this ‘Columbia’ and see if we can find some answers? We’ve been standing here, in the middle of this island, for an hour, and nary a person has recognised or seen us, and I’d to think with these ridiculous masks that we would be hard to miss.”
“Are we… invisible to others?”
“Seems that way.”
“Let’s take off these masks then, and see if we can get down to business.”
As the guests tried to take their masks off, they realised they were not able to. Nor were they able to say their names; the masks are “possessed”, if you will, to keep their wearers identity hidden. Sander had found a way to engineer the masks so that only at the end of a ball could they be removed, and only once Sander himself had given the “all clear.” They decided, then, to explore Columbia and see what answers, if any, they could find.
As they began wondering the island, they noticed a body in a tree — it was one of the guests, neck snapped by the noose around his neck.
CHAPTER FOUR That summer day, in Paris
"That person looks suspect" you thought to yourself. "Well... let us see if I am right!"
"Hey you. Buy you a drink?"
The guest looked puzzled; they thought to themselves "who drinks at this hour?"
"Maybe some other time."
"I insist", said the other guest. "It's been a hell of a ride so far, and well, I hate to drink alone. Who can say no to a martini?"
"Well... if you insist."
As the barkeep delivered the martinis -- gin, of course; three olives, stirred, not shaken -- a loud crash could be heard outside the bar. As patrons gawked, you wasted no time in slipping a vial of poison into your guest's martini. You smiled as you raised a toast, knowing that, soon enough, you'd be proven right or wrong.
”Thanks for the drink” the guest said as they took a sip. You smiled; no, grinned as they swallowed, knowing they had taken their own life unwittingly.
“Cheers”, you said, in a toast. Not five minutes later, you saw your target get up and walk away — stumbling, lightheaded.
“There’s no fighting father time, m’dear.”
Later that night
“I feel so dizzy.”
“Are you okay?” asked another guest. The had gathered on Monument Island for an evening picnic – some thought that by breaking bread with the group, they’d be able analyse how everyone interacted with the group, hoping the killer or killers would slip up somehow and expose themselves.
“Seriously, are you okay?” said another guest. “You loo—“
“OH MY GOD” shouted another as the sickly guessed fell forward.
“Take their pulse!”
“…”
“They’re dead.” Their mask fell off — you saw her face, soft and young, yet hardened by the trials and tribulations she’s endured.
“The seed of the prophet.”
“The what?”
“She is the seed of the prophet — Elizabeth
As people gawked at the passing of Elizabeth, the door to her tower on Monument Island flung open, as if they were being invited in. What they found was… shocking. A home built within the spire with no way out, but plenty in. It was a prison. Is this really where the seed of the prophet was kept? Like a petty criminal? The sun was setting, and with the door having slammed behind them as they entered, there was no point in trying to escape, and so the guests made themselves at home for the evening, knowing that tomorrow would only worsen their “adventure”
“Where in the bloody blue hell are we now?” asked a flustered guest who, correctly, figured out they weren’t in Columbia anymore.
Robert: That would be Rapture!
Rosalind: Or more accurately, Point Prometheus. Lovely little place, isn’t it brother?
Robert: Quite
”Why are we here?! Why are you doing this to us?”
Rosalind: “That is not the question you should be asking.”
Robert: “You should be asking why are you doing this to yourselves?”
”Where is our… obese guest?” one pondered.
“Oh no. Is another…?”
“Yeah. Look over there.”
There on the wall was the large guest — gored, blood everywhere. The size of the wound was several inches in diameter — the size caused only by a drill. A Big Daddy drill.
“That particular Big Daddy is Mr. Bubbles. One of the originals, and easily most feared in all of Rapture. Once was thought to be invincible, funny enough.”
“Funny enough? You’re sick and twisted, you know that? You’ve looked shady as hell this entire time too. Quiet, distant. What’s your angle?”
“I’m just the quiet type.”
“Bull*****. Our lives are in danger and you’re the ‘quiet’ type? I don’t buy it. Tell me right now why we shouldn’t just kill you and be done with it?”
“That would be a very bad idea.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling the desire to trust you. What about you guys? He’s shady.”
One by one, everyone raised their hands — their blind rage and bloodlust has begun to get the better of them. And so yet another life was snuffed out.
CHAPTER FIVE The Siren screams
Robert: “Why it appears things are coming along swimmingly, wouldn’t you say so sister?”
Rosalind: “Swimmingly so!”
Robert: “Quite!”
Rosalind: “Indeed”
Robert: “Who is next?”
Rosalind: “It isn’t who is next, it’s who isn’t next, isn’t it brother?”
Robert: “Indeed so.”
Rosalind: “It’s not that one.”
Robert: “Quite right.”
Rosalind: “Lady Comstock, what about her?”
Robert: “Knowledgeable.”
Rosalind: “Eternal.”
Robert: “Ethereal.”
Rosalind: “The Siren?”
Robert: “The Siren.”
Rosalind: “Very well then. Shall we?”
Robert: “We shall.”
Robert: “Greetings Guests!”
Rosalind:”And Salutations too!”
Robert: “We come bearing good news, you see.”
Rosalind: “Do they, brother?”
Robert: “Do they not, sister?”
Rosalind: “Quite not.”
Robert: “How so?”
Rosalind: “Because they hear it.”
Robert: “Oh bother.”
Rosalind: “Tee hee.”
Robert: “As you were.”
Rosalind: “Oh, quite. Yes. You hear, we know who your enemy is.”
Robert: “Indeed we do!”
Rosalind: “It is her.”
As soon as Rosalind pointed to the guest in question, her mask fell off, and her true form revealed: It was the ghost of Lady Comstock. Glossy white — ethereal in appearance, she began howling “NOT OF MY WOMB; NO CHILD OF MINE” at everyone, particularly at the Lutece’s.
“NOT OF MY WOMB — NOT OF MY WOMB”
“She’s gone mental!” exclaimed one guest.
“Elizabeth was her daughter; the seed of the Prophet.”
“Is she angry that Elizabeth is dead?”
“What else could it be?”
As the Siren seemed to settle and peace return to Point Prometheus, the Lutece’s reappeared. Before they could open their mouths, Lady Comstock attacked them, just barely missing the head of Rosalind.
“DEAL WITH HER!” shouted Robert.
“Are you mad?! She’s a freaking ghost witch!”
“Who is going to KILL US ALL if we don’t do something!” shouted back another guest.
Bang.
The room stood silent, still; you could hear a pin drop from a mile away. There stood a guest with a shotgun, they were abundant here on Point Prometheus, smoke billowing from the barrel. At its opposite end lay the Siren, cold, lifeless. Scribbled on the wall behind her were her final words: “Not of womb, that ‘child’ of mine.”
“Is she repudiating Elizabeth?”
“That can’t be! How else would Elizabeth succeed the Prophet?”
“So wait. If Elizabeth is not her daughter, then she’d have no reason to mourn her loss. Does that mean…?”
“… that she wasn’t the killer?”
“But if she isn’t the killer, then that means the Lutece’s deceived us.”
Robert: “One man’s deception”
Rosalind: “is another man’s truth”
Robert: “And another man’s truth”
Rosalind: “is yet another man’s deception.”
Robert: “Constants and variables”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
As the Lutece’s reappeared and captivated the attention of all, they winked at Jeremiah Fink. Fink was the wealthiest man in all of Columbia; he ran sweatshops and slave labour operations whilst making a mint in the process. It was well known that Fink was one of Comstock’s confidants, but none dared to challenge either the Prophet or Fink over the criminal conditions in which workers were subjected to. Hard work, preached the Prophet, was the will of God, and those who rocked the boat were “agents of the Devil” who found their lives cut short by the Columbian Police, whom Fink had a underhand in controlling himself.
The Luteces seem to drone on forever — from truth and deception to right and wrong being one in the same. Their speaking was mesmerising almost, and their wink was the signal that Fink had to die. When they finished up, what was once Point Prometheus had become a Sea of Lighthouses, in every direction, far as the eye could see. There were no bridges or walkways — they materialised as you walked and forged your own path.
But something was amiss. There were five of you in Point Prometheus, yet only four of you in the Sea of Lighthouses. Out on an island, where there stood no lighthouse, was a tall standing tomb. Each of the four guests looked at one another, and collectively marched toward it. It read “here lies Jeremiah Fink.”
Tragedy had struck again.
“Where do we go from here” mused one of the guests.
Robert: “Perhaps that lighthouse?”
Rosalind: “Or maybe that one?”
Robert: “What about that one, all the way over there?”
Rosalind: “No no Robert. Clearly it should be this one, over here.”
Robert: “Constants and variables.”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
Robert: “Someone will ‘win.’”
Rosalind: “Someone will ‘lose.’”
Robert: “But whoever wins.”
Rosalind: “And whoever loses.”
Robert: “Is a matter of perspective”
Rosalind: “is it not?”
Robert: “Oh bother.”
Rosalind: “Fiddle sticks.”
Robert: “I thought we had Comstock and Ryan this time sister.”
Rosalind: “As did I brother dearest.”
Robert: “Well, you know what they say.”
Rosalind: “Indeed. The 124th time is a charm.”
Robert: “Quite. Well, shall we then?”
Rosalind: “We shall.”
CHAPTER SIX The Rise of Rapture
“…. Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight and safe trip on the bathysphere.”
The masquerade ball had come to an end — just in time, some thought, as the music had descended far too deep into haunted and demonic side. Fitting though, given what happened at the Kashmir. Rapture had been plunged into the midsts of a civil war between Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine, also known as Atlas.
Two bathysphere’s arrived, unusual, given there is but one track leading away from the Fort. One was coloured green and said “Columbia” on it, to the confusion of some.
“What is Columbia?” asked Andrew Ryan.
“Our world; not all of us are from Rapture”, responded Elizabeth.
As six of the guests boarded the Columbia bathysphere, it began to fade from reality, leaving room for the rest of the guests to board the bathysphere to wherever they were headed. The last stop on the bathysphere was the Rapture Control Centre, from where Andrew Ryan has controlled Rapture since its inception.
Back in his office, Andrew Ryan had sat down at his desk and pulled out a note that had been passed to him by Zachary Hale Comstock just prior to his departure on the Columbia bathysphere. It said “Arcadia Tea Garden, look for the symbol “AD” in a circle.”
Comstock and Ryan had been in cahoots for some time now, thanks to Rosalind’s plan to bridge the worlds of Rapture and Columbia in order to bring about the demise of Comstock; after failing 122 consecutive times, you begin to look for new angles of attack. Rosalind theorised that should they bridge the worlds of Rapture and Columbia, they would then be able to orchestrate a battle of the minds in a neutral setting and, with their interference, finally bring down Ryan and Comstock. But they knew in order to do this, they would need to present it in a fashion that would have some sort of benefit to Comstock and Ryan: thus was born the argument that defeating your foes in a bridged universe would forever alter the timeline of history, preventing them coming after you. Of course, it wasn’t true; then again, neither Comstock nor Ryan were quantum physicists, either, so they did not question Rosalind or Robert.
The following evening, Andrew Ryan visited the Tea Garden and true to the note, there was an “AD” symbol encompassed by a circle. Ryan knew he had no choice, after being shown the future where his own sun, Jack, would help Frank Fontaine destroy Rapture. It was kill, or be killed; hunt, or be hunted. He had refused to ever go back to the surface — it was poison, and he’d rather take his own life before living in the police states of the surface. Ryan extended his hand forward to activate the “AD” logo.
Rumble.
The boulder upon which the “AD” was circled began to violently shake, as if an earthquake of all things had gripped Rapture.
“What the hell…” murmured Ryan, as beams of light began to emanate from the boulder right before it shattered into thousands upon thousands of pieces. In its place stood an open tear to Columbia — to the Hand of the Prophet, where Comstock stood.
“Your personal army, Mr. Ryan. Ready for your command.”
“Rise, defenders of freedom!” commanded Andrew Ryan.
One by one, the eyes of Motorised Patriots far and wide as the eye could see came to life. The rumble of their engines, buzzing in unity, was as menacing as the howling of an evening rain cloaked Kansas tornado. They alone possessed enough firepower to destroy Rapture, Nay, half the surface world’s armies thrice over. With one sentence, Ryan cemented himself as one of the most powerful people on Earth.
It had been two days since the acquisition of the Patriots, and all was quiet throughout Rapture. Neither Ryan or Fontaine had made a move; not that Ryan needed to act in haste, given his army, but he feared Fontaine. He feared giving Fontaine time, for Fontaine has managed to outmanoeuvre Ryan at every turn thus far.
“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me” murmured Ryan. It was his favourite quote from Ayn Rand; it was what motivated him to spearhead the creation of Rapture. Ryan needed no ones permission to pursue his utopia — he was a free man, after all. And just as he needed no ones permission to create Rapture, he sure as hell did not need permission to defend his life, liberty, and property.
“Execute Order 17,” spoke Ryan from his secure compound. With that, the beginning of the end of the Rapture Civil War was underway. Squadrons of Motorised Patriots descended to every corner of Rapture, from Point Prometheus to Fort Frolic to the Medical Pavilion. Scores of people were massacred ruthlessly by the Patriots — all known supporters of Fontaine, as Ryan smiled from behind his desk. Area by area of Rapture would be liberated over the coming days.
Two days later, all but one area had been seized by the Ryan blitzkrieg: Neptune’s Bounty. To the surprise of Ryan, the first squadron of Patriots had failed to seize Neptune’s Bounty. But they came close too, and so four squadrons of Patriots were sent to assault the Bounty in waves. After the third wave hit, they were able to punch through. Casualties were numerous as the Patriots advanced — hundreds of Fontaine’s most die hard supporters and warriors were holed up in Neptune’s, waiting for the surprised offensive to hit. It was just that — a surprise, to Fontaine. He had been laying low, planning his own blitzkrieg when Ryan’s gadgets attacked. It was the first, and will be the last time that Ryan was capable of getting the drop on him. Fontaine knew he was hopelessly beaten, that he didn’t have an exit plan this time.
There he stood, alone, in the back of his compound, armed to the teeth. You could hear the Patriots advancing, quickly, the cries and screams of soldiers in the wind.
And then it went silent; like the eye of the storm had passed overhead. Seconds felt like minutes; minutes like hours.
Boom.
The Patriots breached the final compound door. Fontaine immediately fired, winging one of them, but dozens of Patriots and their turret guns unloaded on Fontaine, shredding him from head to toe. The war was over, and Ryan reigns supreme in Rapture.
“Look, mom!” shouted a young boy. “Mr. Sander is back from his trip to France!”
It had been three years since the end of the war. Andrew Ryan ruthlessly exterminated all those who stood in his way; all those who stood with Fontaine. The seeds of doubt were burned, ruined, never to come back again. But winning the war and winning the peace were two different things. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Ryan took to the airwaves to reassure the populace that the dream of liberty and freedom was still alive; that a new dawn was in the works for Rapture.
Ryan spent three years working to rebuild Rapture; to market it above, from below, as the safe haven for the oppressed. Some of the best minds, from the writers to the businessmen were migrating to Rapture, tired of the oppression from the surface world. Within a year, Rapture had turned the corner. Cleanup efforts had begun to restore the charm and beauty that was the city. Businesses had begun to re-open; new ones took the place of those unable to succeed.
Rapture, just two short years after the Civil War, had returned to its hay day of success just before the Kashmir bombings. As the third year of peace begun, Rapture was setting records for success above and beyond what it had in the past. That prompted a meeting of the minds, the business owners and wealthy who were the de facto rulers of Rapture. They had agreed that the success in just three short years had surpassed anything imaginable, and so they wondered, just how far could it really go? By mid year they had arranged a meeting with Andrew Ryan at the Rapture Control Centre to discuss it. Ryan immediately opposed it, saying there was no need to have but the barest of bare contact with the “filth” from the surface. But they continued to press their case and offered a compromise: a trial program. Let an established figure in the community, perhaps Sander Cohen, some suggested, go to the surface and see how it worked out? If Sander was able to be successful and capable of bringing revenue home to fuel the continued success and expansion of Rapture, who are we to stop it?
Ryan relented; he was sure in his mind that it would be a failure of memorable proportions. But the inverse was true. It had been a massive success. Sander’s time in France had drawn the attention of thousands of people, who were interested in purchasing not only his art work by the dozen, but it sparked an interest in all things associated with Rapture. It led to the liberalisation of tourism laws; of import/export laws. It was, ironically, and poetically enough, the last key to the everlasting success of Rapture: That which helped spark a Civil War was the last key to her future.
Rapture has been saved.
CHAPTER SEVEN The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men
”Booker! Watch out!”
Crash.
Just as Elizabeth yelled for Booker to move, a spire from the roof of Comstock house came crashing down, striking Booker in the knees, pinning him. Try as she might, Elizabeth wasn’t able to free Booker before forces loyal to Comstock arrived.
“NO. YOU CAN’T!” shouted Elizabeth as she restrained by two firemen.
“NO. BOOKER NO!”
Bang.
“Booker…” said Elizabeth as she dropped to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks. Booker had just come into her life all of two days ago, and now he was gone. Elizabeth grew as a person more in those two days than she had in the past two years; Booker showed her what her own city looked like. What it was like to dance and sing; to eat cotton candy. To be vulnerable. Sure, their brief relationship had it stressful moments too — Elizabeth did slap him with a wrench when he attempted to send them to New York. But there was a connection between Booker and Elizabeth that was uncanny; it was as if they had known each other for many years. Now? Now he is gone.
“Did you really think it would end any other way, my child?”
“I’m not your child, you murderer.”
“Take her to the tower.”
Just like that, Elizabeth found herself back in the tower on Monument Island. Back to her prison, where she was condemned to spend her days until Comstock beckons for her. Her and Booker barely escaped Song Bird the first time, and it took both of them. There was no way she’d be able to escape and evade Song Bird herself.
Time went by slowly at first — every hour seemed like a lifetime. No amount of reading, of studying, seemed to help. The hours became days, the days became weeks, and the weeks became months. Eventually she lost track of time, even the date. “What was the point?”, she often asked herself. “Better to keep myself occupied than to dwell” she thought. It seemed to work, for the depression that Elizabeth found herself in eventually gave way to the return of her sunny disposition.
Three years to the day after Booker died, Comstock had finally beckoned her. As she was escorted from her prison to the Hand of the Prophet. There lay Comstock, deathly ill; she knew many a year ago, before even meeting Booker, that Comstock was sick, that he didn’t have too many years left. It appeared as if the Prophet would soon be meeting his end. And so, too, would Elizabeth, because she knew what his death meant for her future. Comstock looked at her, smiling, knowing that he had “won”.
“My child… the time is near.”
“I’m not your child you bastard.”
“OUCH!” shouted Elizabeth as she was stricken by one of the firemen who had escorted her.
“The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men.”
“You understand, do you not, Elizabeth? That upon my death you shall bring to the people the righteous and holy judgement of I, the Prophet.”
“Go to hell, you —“, Elizabeth again was stricken by the fireman.
“Bring the child to me.”
“NO” shouted Elizabeth
“LET ME GO!”
“Quiet, child. It shall be over soon”, whispered Comstock as he embraced Elizabeth’s forehead with his hand, mumbling to himself in prayer.
“The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men. Go forth, my child.”
“Yes, father.”
It was set. The Prophet was dead and the Mountains of Men were destined to smoulder at the hands of his hand chosen executioner: Elizabeth.
“Arm the blimps with Patriots and missiles. Have the Hand of the Goddess ready.”
“Yes Elizabeth!” shouted row upon row of faithful soldiers. The first city that Elizabeth attacked was Paris — Comstock made sure of that. He wanted to take great pleasure in watching from above as Paris, the city of her dreams, burned in judgement for its sins. And that, he did, as the seventh arrondissement was the first target for the firemen and Patriots. They stormed the city, slaughtering all those they encountered. Men, women, children. It made no difference. It took just six minutes for the assault to claim the Eiffel Tower.
Boom.
That was the sound heard as people came to a halt, watching their beloved Tower crumble to the ground.
Once Paris was judged, next was London. Then Moscow. Berlin. Elizabeth and the Patriots marched across Europe, handing down the judgement of Comstock. It wasn’t until Italy, of all places, that the Patriots suffered their first set back. Their assault was blunted, albeit with heavy loss of life, but they did. Peace reigned in Italy for just three short days before the next assault was launched, this time helmed by the Hand of the Goddess. The Italians, who had given hope to others worldwide that this onslaught could be blunted, folded in three hours.
In Washington, DC, they had begun making preparations for when the Patriots came. They didn’t know when they’d come, but they knew they would; it was, after all, what Comstock had promised years ago. Six months had passed since the last of the Patriots were spotted — they had spent three months non-stop delivering what they called the “judgement of the Prophet”. Religious groups from every corner of the world were in shambles, for this kind of devastation was reserved for the end of the world scenarios that religions foretold. Yet none had an answer for what was happening.
It was 2:37 AM on the night of December 23rd when the first Patriots were spotted in New York City. They had attacked in the cover of night; Elizabeth herself, for only the second time, was personally leading the attack. A firebomb hit an apartment complex in Brooklyn, instantly levelling it and killing everyone inside. Patriots soon flooded the cities boroughs as Elizabeth stood on the deck of the Hand of the Goddess, watching the destruction. Building after building fell; screams of despair filled the air as people pleaded for mercy before the Patriots. But on that night, mercy was not to be shown, not even to the child who grasped her teddy bear, calling out for her mommy.
The assault continued on throughout the night into the morning. As the sun rose above New York City, the sky was filled with smoke from the burning buildings. New York had been reduced to a smouldering crater of debris. New York, the home of Booker DeWitt, was no more. New York, according to Comstock, represented the sins of humanity the world over. Greed. Lust. Gluttony. Progress. The world in which New York existed, and stood for, was diametrically opposed to the world that Comstock sought to build, where all persons bowed to him, and the poor were rightfully enslaved by the rich for that was the will of God. City by city throughout America eventually succumbed to Columbia ; after New York it was Boston and Philadelphia on New Years Day. In Atlanta, the Patriots suffered just their second defeat, but unlike Italy, it took Elizabeth and the Patriots six attempts to siege the city, but also like Italy, they eventually succeeded and reducing Atlanta to a footnote in a history book.
Washington, DC, had been spared so far, though no one knew why. But when Columbia was founded, many of the residents, from the citizenry to the Senators and Representatives, remembered that when Comstock was rebuffed on capital hill, he foretold this very sequence of events. That those who stood in opposition would be judged when the seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men.
The Mountains of Men were no more, as Earth fell to the Seed of the Prophet.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, dkingsland967!
You are Guest 07
True Identity: Booker DeWitt, Mafia Private Eye
Flavour:
When you return home for the evening, you found the following letter under your door:
Come to the Hall of Heroes tonight — there is a gift for you awaiting.
Role: Role Cop
Abilities:
Stakeout: Twice during the game, at Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will learn their role. You may not perform both Stakeout and the Night Kill at Night.
Night Kill: Once per Night, you, Elizabeth, and Frank Fontaine may submit the name of an agreed upon player to iRebel, as well as an agreement indicating which of you is performing the kill.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Passive Ability:
Night talk with Elizabeth and Frank Fontaine: You may talk at Night with Elizabeth and Frank Fontaine.
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Generic!
You are Guest 11
True Identity: Elizabeth, Mafia Savant
Flavour:
As you were out walking in the city, a strange man handed you the following letter:
I know what you did last summer. Unless you want it to be publicly known, come to Finkton tonight.
Role: Jack of All Trades
Abilities:
Night Kill: Once per Night, you, Booker DeWitt, and Frank Fontaine may submit the name of an agreed upon player to iRebel, as well as an agreement indicating which of you is performing the kill. You not may perform the Night Kill and open a tear, use Plasmid/Vigor Upgrade, or use a Plasmid/Vigor at Night.
Plasmid/Vigor Upgrade: Once per game, at Night, you may upgrade either your Plasmid or Vigor to a new, more powerful version. You may not use Plasmid/Vigor Upgrade and open a tear or use a Plasmid/Vigor, or perform the Night Kill in the same Night. (Plasmid/Vigor Upgrade resolves upon activation).
Vote: You may Vote during the Day.
Passive Ability:
Night Talk with Booker DeWitt and Frank Fontaine: You may talk at Night with Booker DeWitt and Frank Fontaine
Starting Tear, Plasmid, and Vigor:
Tear: Motorised Patriot: One during the game, at Night, when you are performing the Night Kill, you may open a tear and summon a Motorised Patriot. If you do, the Motorised Patriot will kill the target twice.
Plasmid: Winter Blast: Once during the game, at Night, you may inject yourself with the Winter Blast Plasmid and select target player. If you do, you will give them the cold shoulder, preventing them from performing a Night action. You may upgrade this to the Old Man Winter Plasmid.
Vigor: Possession: Once during the game, at Night, you may drink the Possession Vigor. If you do and you are investigated that Night, you will persuade them you are innocent. There is a 33% chance that Possession will fail. You may upgrade this to Possession's Aid.
Available Upgrades:
Plasmid: Old Man Winter: Once per game, during the Night, you may inject yourself with the Old Man Winter plasmid. If you do, a frigid winter storm will rage on, causing whoever performed a Night action to contract hypothermia. Players who contract hypothermia will be too ill to perform Night actions the following Night (this does not prevent you, Booker DeWitt, or Frank Fontaine from performing the Night kill).
Possession's Aid: One per game, during the Night, you may select target player. If you do, they will become possessed for the duration of the Night and reveal their role to you. If they are able to perform a Night action, you may select their target (this resolves upon activation).
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Kosakosa!
You are Guest 05
True Identity: Frank Fontaine, Rapture Crime Boss and Mafia Smuggler
Flavour:
You received the following note on your receipt:
Want to be rich? Meet tonight at the Smuggler's Hideout.
Role: Modular Godfather/Ninja
Abilities:
Business Front: During the pre-game, select either "Fontaine's Home for the Poor" or "Fontaine Futuristics" as a business front to set up in Columbia.
Night Kill: Once per Night, you, Booker DeWitt, and Elizabeth may submit the name of an agreed upon player to iRebel, as well as an agreement indicating which of you is performing the kill.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day.
Passive Ability:
Night Talk with Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth: You may talk at Night with Booker DeWitt and Elizabeth.
Business Fronts:
Fontaine's Home for the Poor: If you establish Fontaine's Home for the Poor in Columbia, you will return an innocent verdict if investigated that Night due to your upstanding character.
Fontaine Futuristics: If you establish Fontaine Futuristics in Columbia, you will oversee a scientific breakthrough that allows you to become invisible, thus allowing you to target people without being seen.
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, KoolKoal!
You are Guest 01
True Identity: Daisy Fitzroy, Town Rebel and Assassin
Flavour:
As you returned for the day, a puppy ran by you with a piece of paper attached to its collar. When you read it, it say:
We haven't talked in forever. Meet me at Soldier's Field tonight!
Role: One-shot Poison Vig
Abilities:
Dirty Martini: Once during game, during the Day or Night, you may select target player. If you do, that player will receive a Dirty Martini laced with a vial of poison. They will die at the beginning of the phase after the Dirty Martini is consumed. (Day usage requires activation in the game thread)
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Niv!
You are Guest 02
True Identity: Lady Comstock, Town Siren
Flavour:
Someone came to visit you and gave you a slip of paper. It said:
Enjoy a relaxing holiday on me at Monument Island. Come tonight!
Role: Mason
Abilities:
Summon the Soul: During the Pre-Game, select a player from the Replacement list. They will be removed from the replacement list and given the name Summoned Soul.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Passive Ability:
Ethereal Whisper: You may talk with a Summoned Soul in a designated Quick Topic thread (Day or Night).
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, LnGrrrR!
You are Guest 03
True Identity: Andrew Ryan, Town Randian Hypocrite
Flavour:
As you listened to music, you heard a voice address you by name. They said:
It is in your interest to be near Neptune's Bounty tonight.
Role: Cowardly Cop
Abilities:
Investigate: Each Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will learn whether or not they are Mafia. After completing your investigation, you will imagine that you are being chased by Soviet and American agents who are trying to drag you back to the surface, causing you to spend the following Night locked in your room. Whilst you are locked in your room you are immune to Night actions.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, fulcrum!
You are Guest 04
True Identity: Z. H. Comstock, Town Pastor
Flavour:
A child ran up to you and said:
Let's play a game tonight at The Arcade!
Role: Voyeur
Abilities:
Follow: At Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will Follow them in hopes they lead you to those who seek to harm Columbia. You will see whatever Night action they perform, but not who they targeted.
Track: At Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will Track them in hopes they lead you to those who seek to harm Columbia. You will see whose room they enter, but not not what action they take.
Watch: At Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will Watch their room to see if those who seek to harm Columbia stops by. You will see whoever enters their room, but not what happens in their room.
Voyeur: At Night, you may select target player. If you do, you will hide in their closet, hoping to see those who seek to harm Columbia. You will see whatever happens to them, but not who performed the action.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Passive Ability:
Amnesia: After using Follow, Track, Watch, or Voyeur, you will forget how to perform that action.
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, DCIII!
You are Guest 06
True Identity: Jeremiah Fink, Town Billionaire and Dirty Cop Warlord
Flavour:
A man in the shadows hollered out:
You're dead if you ain't at The Salty Oyster tonight!
Role: Jailer
Abilities:
Blackball: Once per Night, you may select another target player. If you do, a Columbian Police Officer that you paid off will detain that player. When a player you Blackball is detained, they will be protected from Night actions and unable to perform Night actions of their own.
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Wildfire393!
You are Guest 08
True Identity: Mr. Bubbles, Town Big Daddy
Flavour:
Someone told you they received a message for you, saying that:
A job specifically for you can be found tonight at Arcadia
Role: Double Voter
Ability:
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Passive Abilities:
Influence: You may cast an additional vote each Day. This does not increase the lynch threshold.
Until death do us part: If a Little Sister is killed, you will lose Influence.
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, SelesnynaNewLife!
You are Guest 09
True Identity: Brigid Tenenbaum, Town Genetic Scientist
Flavour:
You found a hastily written letter nailed to your door. It said:
Come to Point Prometheus tonight. Or else.
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, KamikazeArchon!
You are Guest 10
True Identity: A Little Sister, Town Little Sister
Flavour:
A man said to you:
Want a milkshake? Best around are in the Farmer's Market. Better go tonight before they close.
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, HookerPunch!
You are Guest 12
True Identity: Jack, Town Manchurian Candidate
Flavour:
As you were walking, you saw the following poster:
Jack! You won a toy! Collect it at Apollo Square tonight!
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Vote: You may Vote during the Day
:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Cythare!
You are Guest 02A
True Identity: A Summoned Soul
Flavour:
You have been summoned to assist Lady Comstock in her endeavours.
Role: Mason
Passive Abilities:
Ethereal Whisper: You may talk with Lady Comstock in a designated Quick Topic thread (Day or Night)
Invisible: You may not post in the game thread. If you do, you and Lady Comstock will be mod killed.
Disenfranchised: You may not vote.
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
"Ey Jim, you seen those bright flashes round town?"
"Yeah, Smitty; you see the one today not far from the Salty Oyster?"
"Sure did. Wonder what it could be?"
Ever since the invasion of these alien creatures, citizens around Columbia had been seeing random, bright pillars of light. No one knew what they where they came from, what they did, or who was responsible. Some theorised that they were responsible for the alien creatures, whereas some thought it was the doing of the Prophet in an attempt to cleanse Columbia of its impurities. Some people had noticed family members missing since the lights appeared — could it be? Could the lights and the disappearance of people be linked?
"Welcome back to our live coverage of the Kashmir Restaurant tragedy. We are now hearing reports from all around Rapture that shimmering beams of light have been manifesting out of thin air. We can only conclude that these shimmering beams are somehow linked to the attacks here on the Kashmir. Jim, over to you."
"Thanks Jill. I spoke with someone down at Neptune's Bounty just now about the light beams and and according to her, people had been disappearing with alarming frequency since they showed up. We can only hope that, if these is a link between these beams of light and the terrorist attacks on the Kashmir that Rapture Police are able to quickly bring Atlas to justice. Back to you, Jill."
Rosalind: "Welcome to Fort Frolic."
Robert: "Don't forget you masks."
Rosalind: "Quite"
Robert: "It wouldn't be a masquerade ball without masks, would it?"
Rosalind: "Indeed not."
"Why did it have to be Fort Frolic?" one guest pondered to themselves. It was a fair question — Fort Frolic, even in Rapture's hay day, was always a bit sketchy and creepy. It was home to Sander Cohen, the screw loose demented artist and musician who controlled the arts scene. Home to the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's personal art museum. The Fort was home to gentlemen's clubs, gambling halls, and the finest tobacco and spirits in Rapture. Posters for cigarettes, bicycles, spirits, sex, and more adorned the walls. It was the Las Vegas of the Atlantic.
In the years since the start of the war, Sander closed off Fort Frolic to the public, turning it into his own personal home. In the atrium, human statues — denizens of Fort Frolic whom had been encased in plaster against their will by Sander were a dime a dozen. Some bled, as if they were still alive after being encased. Water gushed down from the cracked ceiling, creating a small waterfall as the water ran down the staircase leading to the Upper Atrium, where the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's museum were. Blood covered the walls; it looked as if someone – maybe multiple people – had been gored violently. Blood and bodies were scattered around the Upper Atrium, carelessly, with no regard to artistic display. Perhaps Sander had abandoned the Fort?
By most accounts, Poseidon's Plaza had been spared the same kind wreckage throughout Rapture, though the businesses who resided there weren't as lucky. Eve's Garden, the marquee gentlemen's club was still accessible. Dusty bottles of Old Tom's Whiskey, alongside posters of Jasmine Jolene, "Andrew Ryan's favourite girl" and mistress, were visible as far as the eye could see. The only part of the club left undisturbed was the small performance stage where both metal poles remained intact, bloodstains and a corpse notwithstanding. Decay and destruction, the fate of Eve's Garden, enveloped businesses throughout the Plaza.
Robert: "Should we tell them?"
Rosalind: "We should, shouldn't we?"
Robert: "I believe so."
Rosalind: "Very well."
Robert: "What is hard to find—"
Rosalind: "But hard to avoid?"
Robert: "What falls but never breaks—"
Rosalind: "And breaks, but never falls?"
Robert: "Come Rosalind."
Rosalind: "Indeed."
As the Lutece twins vanished into thin air, the ball began, each person dressed to be unidentifiable. The first dance? A waltz, of course. Couples danced throughout the Fort, from the Atrium to the Fleet Hall, to the Southern Mall, and beyond, as music filled the air. The ball seemingly lasted forever; each dance brought a new partner, a new opportunity to try and figure out who was who. A game, if you will. But as the night went on, the music became darker and darker; more twisted and demonic. Haunting. Ethereal. Beautiful. You knew this masquerade ball was anything but — between the crypticness of the Lutece's and the downward spiral of darkness in the music, you could feel sinisterness seeping into the Fort.
"Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight."
As people began to look around for an exit, it quickly become clear that the bathysphere was not in working order. Were we to stay here in the Fort? A light began to shine on Sander's masterpiece: eight human statues, splattered with blood, contorted to different positions to hold up four different photographs of grisly, violent death scenes. Those photographs were no more. In their place were a series of photographs, each possessing three numbers.
"Room numbers?", some asked. "Must be."
One by one each guest selected a number and began searching for their room. As the last number was selected, a dark, dreary, melody could be heard. Somber. Chilling, as one guest described it.
"There are many a melody I like ending my day on, but this? The third movement from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2? Our pianist has a dark sense of humour."
"Why do you say that?" asked another guest.
"Because the third movement of that sonata is the Marche funèbre: The funeral march."
"…"
The guests hurried themselves to their rooms, sufficiently disturbed by the revelation from their musically inclined guest. Why would the pianist end the evening with such a disturbing piece?
When morning came, music again filled the Fort — a piece no one recognised, but was quite soothing after a long, restless night.
When the guests gathered down in the main foyer, the masterpiece where their room numbers had been was no more. Now, in its stead stood a riddle, each stanza a photograph.
Four Score and seven years;
less A fortnight and a half divide by three
less A fourth of the ball;
What number am I?
The guests looked at one another as someone uttered "77".
"77? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?" asked another guest.
Silence.
"Perhaps it is a room number?" suggested one guest.
"We should go look, then."
After looking around the fort, tucked behind a corner was room 77.
"Oh no" shrieked one guest.
There a man, crumbled, dead, holding sheet music for Chopin's Piano Sonata No 2. It appears the pianist's life had been taken from him.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
EDH UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
1. First and foremost, thank you all for joining this game. I hope you have as much fun playing it as I had designing it.
2. With regard to vote counts: I will be keeping a very up-to-date vote count in the OP. As such, my intent is to not post them very often since an updated vote count is always accessible. I will be evaluating this throughout Day 1 and seeing how it works and may, if needed, make a change beginning with Day 2.
3. Your Deadline is June 17th, 23:30 EDT. Please remember this deadline will not be extended except under very extreme circumstances.
With that, Welcome to Day 1 of BioShock Mafia!
It is now Day 1. With 12 alive, it is 7 to lynch.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
EDH UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
Hello fellow party members! Let's get these games started, shall we?
I'll go first!
Vote: Miss_Lynch
Because Generic is always scum in games with me, and Cantrip just won in RTR by cheating his Selesnyan buddies. What more could you ask for? Let's get this wagon a-rolling!
We should treat our guest numbers as valuable info and therefore, refrain from claiming it. We don't know if there are roles or mechanics able to interact with them.
LnG thought his was the first post, indicating that it took him at least 7 minutes (based on Hans's time stamp) to compose the post, indicating that he gave a lot of thought to what he wanted his RVS post to say. The enthusiasm in his post feels forced as well.
LnG thought his was the first post, indicating that it took him at least 7 minutes (based on Hans's time stamp) to compose the post, indicating that he gave a lot of thought to what he wanted his RVS post to say. The enthusiasm in his post feels forced as well.
care to explain to me exactly why over thinking a RVS post is a tell? something I don't know? all I see is someone trying to be witty.
the fact that there's already been a suggested soft claim on page on is a little odd as well. this one in particular feels as though it would be nothing but a waste of time, until told otherwise, and unless Hans wants to tell me otherwise I'm going to go ahead and not support this waste of time.
However I am willing to UnVote, Vote fulcrum. while the still the first page, that was obviously not an RVS post, and a shameless barn of a flimsy post, followed up by randomly declaring people town as well. if we're gonna go somewhere on page one, this IMO is a pretty good place to start.
as for hansanator... he's not even trying to hide the fact that he is scum.[/quote]
This is bull*****. Your naked vote on LnG reeked on opportunism and after getting flak for it, you backed off for Hans. Which haven't posted in between and, despite "not even trying to hide the fact that he is scum", didn't deserve a single comment from you before the post I quoted.
I'm voting for you to try and prove it. I'm using your death to help the others. I suspect DCIII for accusing yoy first, so I jumped on the wagon to confirm my suspicions on him and fulcrum. I did realize that this would make me look like scum. In any case
care to explain to me exactly why over thinking a RVS post is a tell? something I don't know? all I see is someone trying to be witty.
the fact that there's already been a suggested soft claim on page on is a little odd as well. this one in particular feels as though it would be nothing but a waste of time, until told otherwise, and unless Hans wants to tell me otherwise I'm going to go ahead and not support this waste of time.
However I am willing to UnVote, Vote fulcrum. while the still the first page, that was obviously not an RVS post, and a shameless barn of a flimsy post, followed up by randomly declaring people town as well. if we're gonna go somewhere on page one, this IMO is a pretty good place to start.
Niv - in this post you both pre-supposed a reason for LnGrr posting as he did (trying to be witty) and dismissed my post as being flimsy without Lngr even having responded. Don't like that at all as you twice discredited my vote on him without seeing how he reacted to it, and even gave him an answer to use. Your entire post is both a direct and underlying defense of him prior to waiting to see what he had to say.
As for RVS - Town are much more carefree about their RVS posts than scum are and spending such an amount of time crafting an RVS post shows a careful/calculated approach to it. Also, you ignored the part about the enthusiasm feeling forced.
I'm voting for you to try and prove it. I'm using your death to help the others. I suspect DCIII for accusing yoy first, so I jumped on the wagon to confirm my suspicions on him and fulcrum. I did realize that this would make me look like scum. In any case
Unvote
Vote: fulcrum
cause' I feel like we can hang him.
Your logic throughout doesn't jive. You naked voted Lngr without offering context to prove that fulcrum and I are scum? You took your vote off quickly to shift to Hans because you say he isn't hiding that he's scum... why isn't he hiding that he's scum? What about his play do you think is scummy? Additionally, you say that you trust LngR is town - but if your initial vote was to prove that fulcrum and I are scum then why would you have doubted that he's Town to begin with? Then you say that you just have a feeling that Hans is scum but that fulcrum and I are scum. If you just have a feeling about Hans that is different than saying that he wasn't trying to hide that he was scum which indicated that you had clear reasons for thinking he is. The reasons you're giving don't add up with your initial actions.
Also, /barn Generic's #31. Lng's response to me feels very controlled, and his subsequent posting does more speaking well of other players than scum hunting.
He does ask a few questions to CC but he asks why Hunger's post affects his gut read. Hunger isn't in this game! CC was saying that he wasn't thinking clearly due to his own physical Hunger... which also makes me think that Lngr wasn't thinking critically about his questions to CC but was rather asking them to look busy.
We should definitely lynch Lngr Today. Also don't like CCC or Niv.
I'm voting for you to try and prove it. I'm using your death to help the others. I suspect DCIII for accusing yoy first, so I jumped on the wagon to confirm my suspicions on him and fulcrum. I did realize that this would make me look like scum. In any case
Unvote
Vote: fulcrum
cause' I feel like we can hang him.
...considering hans didn't post anything between them? Why the quick backpedal on being so sure that Hans is scum?
My bad on thinking Hunger was in the game. We are a whopping 40 posts in after all; of course I should have everyone memorized by now
I also think the whole "not scumhunting" thing is pretty silly. The game just started, how much scum hunting do you think can really go on in the first 50 posts? I am fine with you looking at my RVS post (as sometimes scum can be caught by that), but I didn't think it was particularly forced. *shrug* You also didn't comment about my mentioning the software is out of wack sometimes.
I happen to think I am a particularly bad lynch. The fact that you think I should "definitely" be the lynch today with so few posts is interesting. I don't remember you being so cocksure about your reads so early in the Day.
I don't have any hard numbers on this, but I'm targeted more often than a black guy driving a beat-up sedan with a broken tail-light and no license plate, and Cy's well aware of that.
LnG thought his was the first post, indicating that it took him at least 7 minutes (based on Hans's time stamp) to compose the post, indicating that he gave a lot of thought to what he wanted his RVS post to say. The enthusiasm in his post feels forced as well.
I felt the same way when I read lng's post. While not conclusive, it is something of note.
-------------------------------
I think that kosa's #14 is rather suspect, and I don't like it. By the looks of it, he failed my test, but I don't feel confident enough to take action yet.
@ccccccccc808 - Are you always this... sporadic? You flipped flopped your position at least 3 times in a period of like 10 posts. Do you have any links to previous games?
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I'm a compulsive liar no matter what team I play on, but I'm trying to get better about it."
I feel like DCIII has been trying too hard thus far. Putting more weight on his reads of LnGrrrR than makes sense, and adding suspicion to cccc as an aside rather than pushing him at all.
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
I'll bet you wish you had a non-unglued/unhinged card that shared your first name.
I think Niv summed it up pretty well. Fulcrum's RVS post was a naked barn, which feels odd to me when everyone is supposed to be at least slightly jovial. A naked vote prevents any self conscious slips.
... Why didn't you address the response to my question to me? You'll notice that I did have an RVS post before I got serious, if that's what you're criticizing (I'm not sure why you would criticize that.). Anyway, naked votes also provoke reactions, which I can use.
The Hans question is the one Niv should have asked me, by the way, instead of assuming I declared him and DC town "randomly." Hans is town because the stupid call for softclaimes (especially the line " I have a hypothesis that I would like to test.") came from an arrogant, town mindset. His post 46 reinforces that read, by confirming my suspicion that he was attempting to test people.
in completely off topic news: this new forum software is garbage on a stick. thoughts???? is there any way to get the preview to show in a different tab like it used to, cause this quoting system is garbage too..........
CCC's 32 & 33 strike me really odd. that post 33 is just really sure, and I don't know what to think of it yet. I'm not sure if your idiot town, or idiot scum, but I know one thing.....
his #35 is also pretty much a waste of time, It pretty much accomplished nothing. @CCC: could you actually do me a favor, and explain your thought process in these few posts, like how you thought they were even remotely useful?
I'm voting for you to try and prove it. I'm using your death to help the others. I suspect DCIII for accusing yoy first, so I jumped on the wagon to confirm my suspicions on him and fulcrum. I did realize that this would make me look like scum. In any case
Unvote
Vote: fulcrum
cause' I feel like we can hang him.
Are you TRYING to die?
@DCIII: I think you and I just differ on theory here with regards to RVS. I personally believe that the interactions are a place to look, but never something like a first post like that. you can just argue in a circle forever #WIFOM. there is no "defense" to what you accused him of that can't be argued in a circle afterwards, and can't be proven since it's outside the game knowledge. for all we know, he could have said he opened the thread and then had to go take a dump. (he didn't, but it's an example). as to the enthusiasm bit, maybe it was forced, but in a game (referring to mafia as a whole) like this, 90% of RVS posts are forced, it's just how much detail goes into it. sorry, not a tell. /end theory.
Niv is making too many assumptions about mindsets (both mine and LnGrrrR's). I'm not a fan.
cool, another shameless barn, with 100% no content. I still like my vote.
KK's 47 is a town post.
@Cantrip: I have RVS voted myself in every game since my first game ever played. feel free to look it up if you'd like. I've got into theory arguments with people as to whether or not it's a tell, and I've pretty much come to the conclusion that anyone that wants to make it one can go blow themselves.
... Why didn't you address the response to my question to me? You'll notice that I did have an RVS post before I got serious, if that's what you're criticizing (I'm not sure why you would criticize that.). Anyway, naked votes also provoke reactions, which I can use.
The Hans question is the one Niv should have asked me, by the way, instead of assuming I declared him and DC town "randomly." Hans is town because the stupid call for softclaimes (especially the line " I have a hypothesis that I would like to test.") came from an arrogant, town mindset. His post 46 reinforces that read, by confirming my suspicion that he was attempting to test people.
Naked votes provoke reactions, shameless naked barns are scumtells.
@HookerPunch: your 56, nothing at all else to add? nothing? are you useless?
This actually makes me lean town on LnGrrrR. I think scum would be much more aware of who's in the game or not. Maybe LnGrrrR's sloppy scum, but it doesn't feel that way to me.
This makes sense. I like Cantrip.
What I don't like is people voting anyone but cccc.
Game Phase: Day | Twilight | Night
Day Number: Game Over
Deadline:
Lynch Threshold: 0
Vote Count:
In Columbia or Rapture
02. KoolKoal
07. KamikazeArchon (r. kpaca (r. hansanator))
08. fulcrum
Stuck in a Sea of Lighthouses:
03. SelesnyaNewLife, Brigid Tenenbaum, Town Genetic Scientist (Modkilled D1, Post #633)
11. dkingsland967, Booker DeWitt, Mafia Private Eye (Lynched D1, Post #750)
05. LnGrrrR, Andrew Ryan, Town Randian Hypocrite (Night Killed, Post #774)
12. Cantripmancer (r. Generic), Elizabeth, Mafia Savant (Died of poison, Post #1,134)
04. Wildfire393 (r. cccccc808), Mr. Bubbles, Town Big Daddy (Night Killed, Post #1,140)
01. HookerPunch, Jack, Town Manchurian Candidate (Lynched D3, Post #1,184)
10. Niv, Lady Comstock, Town Siren (Lynched D4, Post #1,219)
06. DCIII, Jeremiah Fink, Town Billionaire and Dirty Cop Warlord (Night Killed, Post #1,220)
09. Kosakosa, Frank Fontaine, Rapture Crime Boss and Mafia Smuggler (Lynched D5, Post #1,291)
Stuck in the Space Time Continuum (Replace):
01. Bolly
01. cccccc808, pre-prod, 2 June 12:45 EDT
02. dkingsland967, pre-prod, 2 June 12:45 EDT
03. cccccc808, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
04. dkingsland967, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
05. HookerPunch, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
06. SelesnyaNewLife, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
07. LnGrrrR, pre-prod, 8 June 16:20 EDT
08. cccccc808, prod, 13 June 20:50 EDT
09. Kosakosa, pre-prod, 13 June 20:50 EDT
10. cccccc808 forcibly replaced
11. hansanator replacement requested
12. SelesnyaNewLife, pre-prod, 20 June 13:40 EDT
13. SelesnyaNewLife, prod, 21 June 20:10 EDT
14. SelesnyaNewLife, Modkilled for Inactivity, 25 June 21:29 EDT
15. kpaca, pre-prod, 4 July 00:01 EDT
16. kpaca, prod, 7 July 11:10 EDT
17. fulcrum, pre-prod, 7 July 14:45 EDT
18. Kosakosa, pre-prod, 7 July 14:45 EDT
19. Generic, request replacement, 9 July 18:55 EDT
20. kpaca, forced replacement, 15 July 09:33 EDT
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
00: SPECIAL RULE. Each player has a True Identity that cannot be claimed. If you claim your True Identity, you will be modkilled on the spot. Claiming your True Identity includes not only outright claiming but attempting to use flavour to suggest who your True Identity could be.
01. Above all else, this is a game. I expect everyone to conduct themselves in a general sportsmanlike manner, which includes following all forum and game rules. Do not harass me or your fellow players. Having fun is required.
02. Do not:
With the exception of post editing/deletion, which is an automatic mod-kill, I will not resort to mod-kills except in the most egregious of situations.
03. Votes should be in bold dark orange, in the form of Vote: Iso. Unvotes are required before re-voting. Additionally, if you wish to get my attention, please use the same bold dark orange text, preferably in the form of Mod: <request>. You may also vote for No Lynch; a majority voting for No Lynch will end the day without a lynch. Votes, Unvotes, and Action Requests not in bold dark orange may be ignored or missed.
For your convenience I have included a copyable form of the bold dark orange bbcode here:
04. This game includes a hard deadline that is calculated as Deadline = Living Players + Lynch Threshold + Day #. Night shall last no less than thirty six (36) hours; if I receive all Night actions before the deadline, I will end the Night early. I may, if needed, extend the Night deadline. Barring significant technical difficulties (ie, the site is unavailable for twelve (12) plus hours) or real life interfering with my ability to tend to the game (ie, I'm hit with a mack truck), Day deadlines will not be extended.
05. Lynches require a simple majority of votes. If the deadline is met, the player with the most votes shall be lynched; in the event of a tie, the player who reached the highest total first shall be lynched. Once a lynch has occurred, you may not change your vote or cast any additional votes.
06. Twilight begins immediately after a lynch occurs and will never be less than twenty four (24) hours.
07. Players are required to participate by posting at least once every seventy two (72) hours. I will pre-prod at forty eight (48) hours, at which time you have twenty four (24) hours to post to avoid being prodded. If you do not, the pre-prod will become an official prod and you have an additional twenty four (24) hours to post before being forcibly replaced. After two (2) official prods, the next will lead to an immediate forced replacement.
08. If you anticipate being unable to post for seventy two (72) hours or more, please post a V/LA notice in bold dark orange.
09. Each player may claim the "you are" portion of their role PM freely. Flavour must be paraphrased. If you are unsure, ask. Additionally, if you have any questions, please contact me via PM and I will do my best to answer your question without revealing game information or negatively impacting the game for you or your fellow players.
10. It is strongly advised not to flavour or mod game. It will likely end in tears. I employ safeguards against both
11. Night actions will be resolved using Seppel's order of night actions:
01. Immunities
02. Controlling another player's actions
03. First strike non-killing actions
04. Gaining actions
05. Losing actions
06. Redirecting / replacement effects
07. Roleblocking
08. Protecting
09. Rescuing / Reviving
10. Sending items or messages
11. First strike killing actions
12. Killing actions
13. Gathering information
14. Anything else
Nothing will be handled in time stamp order. There may or may not be abilities that resolve upon activation.
Welcome to <Mafia Game>, anotherfuturedrafter!
You are Lois Griffin, Town Queen of Cherrywood
Flavour:
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
Scenes in Orange take place in Rapture.
Scenes in Green take place in Columbia.
We interrupt this telecast with the following breaking news report. Riots have erupted throughout Rapture as workers in the city, backed by Atlas, have stormed several upper class establishments. Reports are coming in that Kashmir restaurant is in ruins after several explosions were heard. Hundreds are feared dead.
"What is that?!" yelled a citizen of Columbia.
"It's climbing on walls. And has hooks for hands?! And.. a bunny mask? What in the he-- AAAGGH" shrieked another citizen before his throat was slit by the creature.
It had been weeks since these alien creatures had appeared in Columbia. In the midsts of a civil war, it seemed as if these hellions were killing indiscriminately just for the sake of blood. No one knew what they were, or where they came from. No one seemed to be able to stop them, either.
We are live outside the Kashmir Restaurant where Atlas revolutionaries have — Jim, what is that? Cut to it!
"My aim is true, as my eye is the Prophet's!" bellowed the machine who lurched towards people, opening fire on all those it sees.
No one knew what this fearsome robot was — but there had been rumours abound for weeks that something had been slaying multiple big daddies. No one had seen the slayer until today as the Atlas revolutionaries launch their strikes against the Rapture elite.
Rosalind: "Oh my, brother. I fear we have really done it this time."
Robert: "Quite. I told you this would happen."
Rosalind: "Indeed. Maybe we have gone too far this time?"
Robert: "Likely. What happens if—?"
Rosalind: "The end."
Robert: "And if —?"
Rosalind: "The beginning"
Robert: "Is that so?"
Rosalind: "Indeed."
Robert: "Constants and variables."
Rosalind: Constants and variables."
Robert: "Shall we then?"
Rosalind: "We shall."
Marche funèbre
"Ey Jim, you seen those bright flashes round town?"
"Yeah, Smitty; you see the one today not far from the Salty Oyster?"
"Sure did. Wonder what it could be?"
Ever since the invasion of these alien creatures, citizens around Columbia had been seeing random, bright pillars of light. No one knew what they where they came from, what they did, or who was responsible. Some theorised that they were responsible for the alien creatures, whereas some thought it was the doing of the Prophet in an attempt to cleanse Columbia of its impurities. Some people had noticed family members missing since the lights appeared — could it be? Could the lights and the disappearance of people be linked?
"Welcome back to our live coverage of the Kashmir Restaurant tragedy. We are now hearing reports from all around Rapture that shimmering beams of light have been manifesting out of thin air. We can only conclude that these shimmering beams are somehow linked to the attacks here on the Kashmir. Jim, over to you."
"Thanks Jill. I spoke with someone down at Neptune's Bounty just now about the light beams and and according to her, people had been disappearing with alarming frequency since they showed up. We can only hope that, if these is a link between these beams of light and the terrorist attacks on the Kashmir that Rapture Police are able to quickly bring Atlas to justice. Back to you, Jill."
Rosalind: "Welcome to Fort Frolic."
Robert: "Don't forget you masks."
Rosalind: "Quite"
Robert: "It wouldn't be a masquerade ball without masks, would it?"
Rosalind: "Indeed not."
"Why did it have to be Fort Frolic?" one guest pondered to themselves. It was a fair question — Fort Frolic, even in Rapture's hay day, was always a bit sketchy and creepy. It was home to Sander Cohen, the screw loose demented artist and musician who controlled the arts scene. Home to the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's personal art museum. The Fort was home to gentlemen's clubs, gambling halls, and the finest tobacco and spirits in Rapture. Posters for cigarettes, bicycles, spirits, sex, and more adorned the walls. It was the Las Vegas of the Atlantic.
In the years since the start of the war, Sander closed off Fort Frolic to the public, turning it into his own personal home. In the atrium, human statues — denizens of Fort Frolic whom had been encased in plaster against their will by Sander were a dime a dozen. Some bled, as if they were still alive after being encased. Water gushed down from the cracked ceiling, creating a small waterfall as the water ran down the staircase leading to the Upper Atrium, where the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's museum were. Blood covered the walls; it looked as if someone – maybe multiple people – had been gored violently. Blood and bodies were scattered around the Upper Atrium, carelessly, with no regard to artistic display. Perhaps Sander had abandoned the Fort?
By most accounts, Poseidon's Plaza had been spared the same kind wreckage throughout Rapture, though the businesses who resided there weren't as lucky. Eve's Garden, the marquee gentlemen's club was still accessible. Dusty bottles of Old Tom's Whiskey, alongside posters of Jasmine Jolene, "Andrew Ryan's favourite girl" and mistress, were visible as far as the eye could see. The only part of the club left undisturbed was the small performance stage where both metal poles remained intact, bloodstains and a corpse notwithstanding. Decay and destruction, the fate of Eve's Garden, enveloped businesses throughout the Plaza.
Robert: "Should we tell them?"
Rosalind: "We should, shouldn't we?"
Robert: "I believe so."
Rosalind: "Very well."
Robert: "What is hard to find—"
Rosalind: "But hard to avoid?"
Robert: "What falls but never breaks—"
Rosalind: "And breaks, but never falls?"
Robert: "Come Rosalind."
Rosalind: "Indeed."
As the Lutece twins vanished into thin air, the ball began, each person dressed to be unidentifiable. The first dance? A waltz, of course. Couples danced throughout the Fort, from the Atrium to the Fleet Hall, to the Southern Mall, and beyond, as music filled the air. The ball seemingly lasted forever; each dance brought a new partner, a new opportunity to try and figure out who was who. A game, if you will. But as the night went on, the music became darker and darker; more twisted and demonic. Haunting. Ethereal. Beautiful. You knew this masquerade ball was anything but — between the crypticness of the Lutece's and the downward spiral of darkness in the music, you could feel sinisterness seeping into the Fort.
"Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight."
As people began to look around for an exit, it quickly become clear that the bathysphere was not in working order. Were we to stay here in the Fort? A light began to shine on Sander's masterpiece: eight human statues, splattered with blood, contorted to different positions to hold up four different photographs of grisly, violent death scenes. Those photographs were no more. In their place were a series of photographs, each possessing three numbers.
"Room numbers?", some asked. "Must be."
One by one each guest selected a number and began searching for their room. As the last number was selected, a dark, dreary, melody could be heard. Somber. Chilling, as one guest described it.
"There are many a melody I like ending my day on, but this? The third movement from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2? Our pianist has a dark sense of humour."
"Why do you say that?" asked another guest.
"Because the third movement of that sonata is the Marche funèbre: The funeral march."
"…"
The guests hurried themselves to their rooms, sufficiently disturbed by the revelation from their musically inclined guest. Why would the pianist end the evening with such a disturbing piece?
When morning came, music again filled the Fort — a piece no one recognised, but was quite soothing after a long, restless night.
When the guests gathered down in the main foyer, the masterpiece where their room numbers had been was no more. Now, in its stead stood a riddle, each stanza a photograph.
less A fortnight and a half divide by three
less A fourth of the ball;
What number am I?
"77? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?" asked another guest.
Silence.
"Perhaps it is a room number?" suggested one guest.
"We should go look, then."
After looking around the fort, tucked behind a corner was room 77.
"Oh no" shrieked one guest.
There a man, crumbled, dead, holding sheet music for Chopin's Piano Sonata No 2. It appears the pianist's life had been taken from him.
Pinkerton's Finest
”Come quickly!” shrieked one of the guests; everyone rushed quickly up the stairs of the Upper Atrium.
“Well what is it?” rudely harped one guest.
“Look. She’s dead!”
“What happened to her?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. I remember she went up stairs by herself after we found the pianist dead, but that was several hours ago and Fort Frolic isn’t so big that we’d not hear her screaming.”
After standing around in silence for a few minutes, one of the guests recommended they remove her mask and see if they could identify her.
“Oh no” said one guest. “That’s Brigid Tenenbaum.”
Some of the guests looked horrified; some were puzzled as to who, exactly, this woman was.
“You… do know of her, right?” one guest asked of another, who showed no reaction.
“Afraid not.”
“How is that possible? Where in Rapture do you live?”
“I don’t,” quipped the guest.
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t come from Rapture, whatever the hell that is. I’m from Columbia.”
“There is no such place here in Rapture. Did you hit your head?”
“No. You remember that weird couple who welcomed us here? Do you know of them?”
“Why, I don’t.”
“Yeah. I do. And they’re from Columbia.”
“But how is that possible?” asked another guest, clearly from Rapture.
“Hell if I know,” snapped as the man walked off. Some of the guests quietly tailed him, suspicious of him for not knowing who, exactly, Brigid was.
Several hours later, as the day began to end, the guests had gathered back in front of Sander’s masterpiece.
“Look, everyone: We are the only people here in this God forsaken Fort. Clearly one of us has to be the killer. And we ain’t getting out of this joint from the looks of it.”
“Hear hear” harkened another guess.
“I followed that strange man earlier!” exclaimed one guest. The room stood still; silent as if it were in the dead of a winter’s night. You could hear a pin drop.
“I saw him go back to Room 77 and take the body into Poseidon’s Plaza!”
…
“Now why would you do that?”
“I didn’t”, scowled the suspect.
“Perhaps we should take a trip to the Plaza, then? All in favour raise your hand.”
One by one, each guest after the next raised their hand — it was unanimous. Booker was cursing himself silently as the party made their way towards Poseidon’s Plaza. He knew that he had to dispose of the body before the shock had worn off and everyone decided to investigate the crime scene. He had torn a piece of his costume — he hadn’t expected the pianist to resist as much as he did, and had they of found the piece of cloth, he’d’ve ended up just like the pianist: dead. The Plaza was still in a deep freeze; the perfect place to stash a corpse, he thought: somewhere it would freeze and slow decomposition, keeping away unwanted attention and an unwanted smell.
“Let’s split up and search for the body. You stay with the suspect.”
As the guests split up to look for the pianist, Booker sighed with relief, knowing who was tasked with “watching” him.
“How could you screw up this badly Booker?!”
“I followed standard procedure for being tailed; I thought I was in the clear.”
“CLEARLY. NOT.”
“Bite your tongue —“
“OVER HERE!” shouted one guest.
“*****” murmured Booker.
“We’ve found the pianist. And look what else we managed to find?” One of the guests held up a small piece of cloth that managed to match his costume.
“Why? Why did you kill the pianist?” asked the guest who “watched” over Booker, smiling behind their mask. Booker knew his fate was sealed, but the least he could do is make sure the mission succeeds.
“I killed him for the cause,” Booker confessed. “You fools don’t understand what is going on here; it’s over your heads. My death won’t stop what has been put in motion.”
“…”
Silence gripped the Plaza as Booker confessed to his sins.
“Do with me what you must.”
The group gathered to discuss what should they do with the killer. There wasn’t any prison within the Fort, and they couldn’t let a killer just be free. It was quickly becoming clear that the guests had but one option available to themselves: When in Rome, do as the Romans. They had decided to encase him in plaster, like many of Sander’s masterpieces. The party, with Booker in tow, adjourned to Sander’s private chamber within the museum. There stood the moulds he used on his human statues and enough bags of plaster to build a bridge. As they dragged Booker to the mould and fastened him in, they asked his name; he refused.
“Rip off his mask” one guest commanded. Some of the guests stood there in shock, not believing what their eyes saw.
“That’s Booker. Booker DeWitt,” said one guest. “A private detective from New York, living in Columbia.”
“We keep telling you there is no Columbia here in Rapture.”
“I don’t think you understand,” remarked another guest. “It seems that… not all of us are of this world. I, too, am of Columbia.”
“Me too.”
“What in the hell? How?”
Robert: “It’s easy”
Rosalind: “Indeed brother!”
Robert: “All will be explained”
Rosalind” “And explained it all shall be.”
Just as the Lutece’s appeared out of nowhere, they disappeared before anyone could speak. The guests looked at one another for a second, before looking at Booker again.
“End it”, he said.
They closed Booker inside the mould and began pouring the hot plaster through the opening; screams of agony filled the museum as they encased him alive. Sander’s museum now had the most exotic of all statues: that of someone not of this world.
The fall of Andrew Ryan
“Where are we?” asked one guest as another took a deep breath.
“Columbia!”
“Look! It’s the Hand of the Prophet!”
“We’re on Monument Island,” said another guest. “There’s Monument Tower, where the Seed of the Prophet resides.”
“Prophet?” asked one man. “Seed of the Prophet? Are you people mad?”
Robert: “Not at all.”
Rosalind: “Indeed not. This is their homeland, you see.”
Robert: “We have come from Rapture to Columbia.”
Rosalind: “And back to Rapture we will go too.”
Robert: “Quite.”
“So wait, we are.. travelling between worlds? How is that even possible?”
Robert: “The question is not how is it possible, because it clearly is.”
Rosalind: “The question is why, is it not?”
Robert: “Indeed it is sister.”
Rosalind: “Shall we explain?”
Robert: “We shall.”
Rosalind: “What happens in Rapture.”
Robert: “Influences Columbia.”
Rosalind: “And what happens in Columbia.”
Robert: “Influences Rapture!”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
Robert: “Constants and variables.”
Rosalind: “What will happen to Columbia?”
Robert: “And to Rapture?”
As the Lutece twins vanished, it quickly became clear that something far more sinister was at play than ever imagined. How can the fate of two worlds, who do not simultaneously exist, be inexplicably linked? It goes against all scientific knowledge in the world. All the religious texts. Here on Monument Island, under the Hand of the Prophet, ironically, the world has been upended in ways never imaginable. What started with a weird, cryptic letter, and an even weirder masquerade ball, has become a game in which the fates of millions of people are at risk. It was as if the guests were marionettes in a sick and twisted war game. “Why us?” a number of guests asked. Though they still had not revealed themselves to one another yet, out of fear of who may just be behind the mask, it was reasonable to conclude that each person here was here for a reason. What that reason is, however, is anyone’s guess.
One guest pipped up and said “perhaps we should investigate this ‘Columbia’ and see if we can find some answers? We’ve been standing here, in the middle of this island, for an hour, and nary a person has recognised or seen us, and I’d to think with these ridiculous masks that we would be hard to miss.”
“Are we… invisible to others?”
“Seems that way.”
“Let’s take off these masks then, and see if we can get down to business.”
As the guests tried to take their masks off, they realised they were not able to. Nor were they able to say their names; the masks are “possessed”, if you will, to keep their wearers identity hidden. Sander had found a way to engineer the masks so that only at the end of a ball could they be removed, and only once Sander himself had given the “all clear.” They decided, then, to explore Columbia and see what answers, if any, they could find.
As they began wondering the island, they noticed a body in a tree — it was one of the guests, neck snapped by the noose around his neck.
That summer day, in Paris
"That person looks suspect" you thought to yourself. "Well... let us see if I am right!"
"Hey you. Buy you a drink?"
The guest looked puzzled; they thought to themselves "who drinks at this hour?"
"Maybe some other time."
"I insist", said the other guest. "It's been a hell of a ride so far, and well, I hate to drink alone. Who can say no to a martini?"
"Well... if you insist."
As the barkeep delivered the martinis -- gin, of course; three olives, stirred, not shaken -- a loud crash could be heard outside the bar. As patrons gawked, you wasted no time in slipping a vial of poison into your guest's martini. You smiled as you raised a toast, knowing that, soon enough, you'd be proven right or wrong.
”Thanks for the drink” the guest said as they took a sip. You smiled; no, grinned as they swallowed, knowing they had taken their own life unwittingly.
“Cheers”, you said, in a toast. Not five minutes later, you saw your target get up and walk away — stumbling, lightheaded.
“There’s no fighting father time, m’dear.”
Later that night
“I feel so dizzy.”
“Are you okay?” asked another guest. The had gathered on Monument Island for an evening picnic – some thought that by breaking bread with the group, they’d be able analyse how everyone interacted with the group, hoping the killer or killers would slip up somehow and expose themselves.
“Seriously, are you okay?” said another guest. “You loo—“
“OH MY GOD” shouted another as the sickly guessed fell forward.
“Take their pulse!”
“…”
“They’re dead.” Their mask fell off — you saw her face, soft and young, yet hardened by the trials and tribulations she’s endured.
“The seed of the prophet.”
“The what?”
“She is the seed of the prophet — Elizabeth
As people gawked at the passing of Elizabeth, the door to her tower on Monument Island flung open, as if they were being invited in. What they found was… shocking. A home built within the spire with no way out, but plenty in. It was a prison. Is this really where the seed of the prophet was kept? Like a petty criminal? The sun was setting, and with the door having slammed behind them as they entered, there was no point in trying to escape, and so the guests made themselves at home for the evening, knowing that tomorrow would only worsen their “adventure”
“Where in the bloody blue hell are we now?” asked a flustered guest who, correctly, figured out they weren’t in Columbia anymore.
Robert: That would be Rapture!
Rosalind: Or more accurately, Point Prometheus. Lovely little place, isn’t it brother?
Robert: Quite
”Why are we here?! Why are you doing this to us?”
Rosalind: “That is not the question you should be asking.”
Robert: “You should be asking why are you doing this to yourselves?”
”Where is our… obese guest?” one pondered.
“Oh no. Is another…?”
“Yeah. Look over there.”
There on the wall was the large guest — gored, blood everywhere. The size of the wound was several inches in diameter — the size caused only by a drill. A Big Daddy drill.
“That particular Big Daddy is Mr. Bubbles. One of the originals, and easily most feared in all of Rapture. Once was thought to be invincible, funny enough.”
“Funny enough? You’re sick and twisted, you know that? You’ve looked shady as hell this entire time too. Quiet, distant. What’s your angle?”
“I’m just the quiet type.”
“Bull*****. Our lives are in danger and you’re the ‘quiet’ type? I don’t buy it. Tell me right now why we shouldn’t just kill you and be done with it?”
“That would be a very bad idea.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly feeling the desire to trust you. What about you guys? He’s shady.”
One by one, everyone raised their hands — their blind rage and bloodlust has begun to get the better of them. And so yet another life was snuffed out.
The Siren screams
Robert: “Why it appears things are coming along swimmingly, wouldn’t you say so sister?”
Rosalind: “Swimmingly so!”
Robert: “Quite!”
Rosalind: “Indeed”
Robert: “Who is next?”
Rosalind: “It isn’t who is next, it’s who isn’t next, isn’t it brother?”
Robert: “Indeed so.”
Rosalind: “It’s not that one.”
Robert: “Quite right.”
Rosalind: “Lady Comstock, what about her?”
Robert: “Knowledgeable.”
Rosalind: “Eternal.”
Robert: “Ethereal.”
Rosalind: “The Siren?”
Robert: “The Siren.”
Rosalind: “Very well then. Shall we?”
Robert: “We shall.”
Robert: “Greetings Guests!”
Rosalind:”And Salutations too!”
Robert: “We come bearing good news, you see.”
Rosalind: “Do they, brother?”
Robert: “Do they not, sister?”
Rosalind: “Quite not.”
Robert: “How so?”
Rosalind: “Because they hear it.”
Robert: “Oh bother.”
Rosalind: “Tee hee.”
Robert: “As you were.”
Rosalind: “Oh, quite. Yes. You hear, we know who your enemy is.”
Robert: “Indeed we do!”
Rosalind: “It is her.”
As soon as Rosalind pointed to the guest in question, her mask fell off, and her true form revealed: It was the ghost of Lady Comstock. Glossy white — ethereal in appearance, she began howling “NOT OF MY WOMB; NO CHILD OF MINE” at everyone, particularly at the Lutece’s.
“NOT OF MY WOMB — NOT OF MY WOMB”
“She’s gone mental!” exclaimed one guest.
“Elizabeth was her daughter; the seed of the Prophet.”
“Is she angry that Elizabeth is dead?”
“What else could it be?”
As the Siren seemed to settle and peace return to Point Prometheus, the Lutece’s reappeared. Before they could open their mouths, Lady Comstock attacked them, just barely missing the head of Rosalind.
“DEAL WITH HER!” shouted Robert.
“Are you mad?! She’s a freaking ghost witch!”
“Who is going to KILL US ALL if we don’t do something!” shouted back another guest.
Bang.
The room stood silent, still; you could hear a pin drop from a mile away. There stood a guest with a shotgun, they were abundant here on Point Prometheus, smoke billowing from the barrel. At its opposite end lay the Siren, cold, lifeless. Scribbled on the wall behind her were her final words: “Not of womb, that ‘child’ of mine.”
“Is she repudiating Elizabeth?”
“That can’t be! How else would Elizabeth succeed the Prophet?”
“So wait. If Elizabeth is not her daughter, then she’d have no reason to mourn her loss. Does that mean…?”
“… that she wasn’t the killer?”
“But if she isn’t the killer, then that means the Lutece’s deceived us.”
Robert: “One man’s deception”
Rosalind: “is another man’s truth”
Robert: “And another man’s truth”
Rosalind: “is yet another man’s deception.”
Robert: “Constants and variables”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
As the Lutece’s reappeared and captivated the attention of all, they winked at Jeremiah Fink. Fink was the wealthiest man in all of Columbia; he ran sweatshops and slave labour operations whilst making a mint in the process. It was well known that Fink was one of Comstock’s confidants, but none dared to challenge either the Prophet or Fink over the criminal conditions in which workers were subjected to. Hard work, preached the Prophet, was the will of God, and those who rocked the boat were “agents of the Devil” who found their lives cut short by the Columbian Police, whom Fink had a underhand in controlling himself.
The Luteces seem to drone on forever — from truth and deception to right and wrong being one in the same. Their speaking was mesmerising almost, and their wink was the signal that Fink had to die. When they finished up, what was once Point Prometheus had become a Sea of Lighthouses, in every direction, far as the eye could see. There were no bridges or walkways — they materialised as you walked and forged your own path.
But something was amiss. There were five of you in Point Prometheus, yet only four of you in the Sea of Lighthouses. Out on an island, where there stood no lighthouse, was a tall standing tomb. Each of the four guests looked at one another, and collectively marched toward it. It read “here lies Jeremiah Fink.”
Tragedy had struck again.
“Where do we go from here” mused one of the guests.
Robert: “Perhaps that lighthouse?”
Rosalind: “Or maybe that one?”
Robert: “What about that one, all the way over there?”
Rosalind: “No no Robert. Clearly it should be this one, over here.”
Robert: “Constants and variables.”
Rosalind: “Constants and variables.”
Robert: “Someone will ‘win.’”
Rosalind: “Someone will ‘lose.’”
Robert: “But whoever wins.”
Rosalind: “And whoever loses.”
Robert: “Is a matter of perspective”
Rosalind: “is it not?”
Robert: “Oh bother.”
Rosalind: “Fiddle sticks.”
Robert: “I thought we had Comstock and Ryan this time sister.”
Rosalind: “As did I brother dearest.”
Robert: “Well, you know what they say.”
Rosalind: “Indeed. The 124th time is a charm.”
Robert: “Quite. Well, shall we then?”
Rosalind: “We shall.”
The Rise of Rapture
“…. Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight and safe trip on the bathysphere.”
The masquerade ball had come to an end — just in time, some thought, as the music had descended far too deep into haunted and demonic side. Fitting though, given what happened at the Kashmir. Rapture had been plunged into the midsts of a civil war between Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine, also known as Atlas.
Two bathysphere’s arrived, unusual, given there is but one track leading away from the Fort. One was coloured green and said “Columbia” on it, to the confusion of some.
“What is Columbia?” asked Andrew Ryan.
“Our world; not all of us are from Rapture”, responded Elizabeth.
As six of the guests boarded the Columbia bathysphere, it began to fade from reality, leaving room for the rest of the guests to board the bathysphere to wherever they were headed. The last stop on the bathysphere was the Rapture Control Centre, from where Andrew Ryan has controlled Rapture since its inception.
Back in his office, Andrew Ryan had sat down at his desk and pulled out a note that had been passed to him by Zachary Hale Comstock just prior to his departure on the Columbia bathysphere. It said “Arcadia Tea Garden, look for the symbol “AD” in a circle.”
Comstock and Ryan had been in cahoots for some time now, thanks to Rosalind’s plan to bridge the worlds of Rapture and Columbia in order to bring about the demise of Comstock; after failing 122 consecutive times, you begin to look for new angles of attack. Rosalind theorised that should they bridge the worlds of Rapture and Columbia, they would then be able to orchestrate a battle of the minds in a neutral setting and, with their interference, finally bring down Ryan and Comstock. But they knew in order to do this, they would need to present it in a fashion that would have some sort of benefit to Comstock and Ryan: thus was born the argument that defeating your foes in a bridged universe would forever alter the timeline of history, preventing them coming after you. Of course, it wasn’t true; then again, neither Comstock nor Ryan were quantum physicists, either, so they did not question Rosalind or Robert.
The following evening, Andrew Ryan visited the Tea Garden and true to the note, there was an “AD” symbol encompassed by a circle. Ryan knew he had no choice, after being shown the future where his own sun, Jack, would help Frank Fontaine destroy Rapture. It was kill, or be killed; hunt, or be hunted. He had refused to ever go back to the surface — it was poison, and he’d rather take his own life before living in the police states of the surface. Ryan extended his hand forward to activate the “AD” logo.
Rumble.
The boulder upon which the “AD” was circled began to violently shake, as if an earthquake of all things had gripped Rapture.
“What the hell…” murmured Ryan, as beams of light began to emanate from the boulder right before it shattered into thousands upon thousands of pieces. In its place stood an open tear to Columbia — to the Hand of the Prophet, where Comstock stood.
“Your personal army, Mr. Ryan. Ready for your command.”
“Rise, defenders of freedom!” commanded Andrew Ryan.
One by one, the eyes of Motorised Patriots far and wide as the eye could see came to life. The rumble of their engines, buzzing in unity, was as menacing as the howling of an evening rain cloaked Kansas tornado. They alone possessed enough firepower to destroy Rapture, Nay, half the surface world’s armies thrice over. With one sentence, Ryan cemented himself as one of the most powerful people on Earth.
It had been two days since the acquisition of the Patriots, and all was quiet throughout Rapture. Neither Ryan or Fontaine had made a move; not that Ryan needed to act in haste, given his army, but he feared Fontaine. He feared giving Fontaine time, for Fontaine has managed to outmanoeuvre Ryan at every turn thus far.
“The question isn’t who is going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me” murmured Ryan. It was his favourite quote from Ayn Rand; it was what motivated him to spearhead the creation of Rapture. Ryan needed no ones permission to pursue his utopia — he was a free man, after all. And just as he needed no ones permission to create Rapture, he sure as hell did not need permission to defend his life, liberty, and property.
“Execute Order 17,” spoke Ryan from his secure compound. With that, the beginning of the end of the Rapture Civil War was underway. Squadrons of Motorised Patriots descended to every corner of Rapture, from Point Prometheus to Fort Frolic to the Medical Pavilion. Scores of people were massacred ruthlessly by the Patriots — all known supporters of Fontaine, as Ryan smiled from behind his desk. Area by area of Rapture would be liberated over the coming days.
Two days later, all but one area had been seized by the Ryan blitzkrieg: Neptune’s Bounty. To the surprise of Ryan, the first squadron of Patriots had failed to seize Neptune’s Bounty. But they came close too, and so four squadrons of Patriots were sent to assault the Bounty in waves. After the third wave hit, they were able to punch through. Casualties were numerous as the Patriots advanced — hundreds of Fontaine’s most die hard supporters and warriors were holed up in Neptune’s, waiting for the surprised offensive to hit. It was just that — a surprise, to Fontaine. He had been laying low, planning his own blitzkrieg when Ryan’s gadgets attacked. It was the first, and will be the last time that Ryan was capable of getting the drop on him. Fontaine knew he was hopelessly beaten, that he didn’t have an exit plan this time.
There he stood, alone, in the back of his compound, armed to the teeth. You could hear the Patriots advancing, quickly, the cries and screams of soldiers in the wind.
And then it went silent; like the eye of the storm had passed overhead. Seconds felt like minutes; minutes like hours.
Boom.
The Patriots breached the final compound door. Fontaine immediately fired, winging one of them, but dozens of Patriots and their turret guns unloaded on Fontaine, shredding him from head to toe. The war was over, and Ryan reigns supreme in Rapture.
“Look, mom!” shouted a young boy. “Mr. Sander is back from his trip to France!”
It had been three years since the end of the war. Andrew Ryan ruthlessly exterminated all those who stood in his way; all those who stood with Fontaine. The seeds of doubt were burned, ruined, never to come back again. But winning the war and winning the peace were two different things. In the immediate aftermath of the war, Ryan took to the airwaves to reassure the populace that the dream of liberty and freedom was still alive; that a new dawn was in the works for Rapture.
Ryan spent three years working to rebuild Rapture; to market it above, from below, as the safe haven for the oppressed. Some of the best minds, from the writers to the businessmen were migrating to Rapture, tired of the oppression from the surface world. Within a year, Rapture had turned the corner. Cleanup efforts had begun to restore the charm and beauty that was the city. Businesses had begun to re-open; new ones took the place of those unable to succeed.
Rapture, just two short years after the Civil War, had returned to its hay day of success just before the Kashmir bombings. As the third year of peace begun, Rapture was setting records for success above and beyond what it had in the past. That prompted a meeting of the minds, the business owners and wealthy who were the de facto rulers of Rapture. They had agreed that the success in just three short years had surpassed anything imaginable, and so they wondered, just how far could it really go? By mid year they had arranged a meeting with Andrew Ryan at the Rapture Control Centre to discuss it. Ryan immediately opposed it, saying there was no need to have but the barest of bare contact with the “filth” from the surface. But they continued to press their case and offered a compromise: a trial program. Let an established figure in the community, perhaps Sander Cohen, some suggested, go to the surface and see how it worked out? If Sander was able to be successful and capable of bringing revenue home to fuel the continued success and expansion of Rapture, who are we to stop it?
Ryan relented; he was sure in his mind that it would be a failure of memorable proportions. But the inverse was true. It had been a massive success. Sander’s time in France had drawn the attention of thousands of people, who were interested in purchasing not only his art work by the dozen, but it sparked an interest in all things associated with Rapture. It led to the liberalisation of tourism laws; of import/export laws. It was, ironically, and poetically enough, the last key to the everlasting success of Rapture: That which helped spark a Civil War was the last key to her future.
Rapture has been saved.
The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men
”Booker! Watch out!”
Crash.
Just as Elizabeth yelled for Booker to move, a spire from the roof of Comstock house came crashing down, striking Booker in the knees, pinning him. Try as she might, Elizabeth wasn’t able to free Booker before forces loyal to Comstock arrived.
“NO. YOU CAN’T!” shouted Elizabeth as she restrained by two firemen.
“NO. BOOKER NO!”
Bang.
“Booker…” said Elizabeth as she dropped to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks. Booker had just come into her life all of two days ago, and now he was gone. Elizabeth grew as a person more in those two days than she had in the past two years; Booker showed her what her own city looked like. What it was like to dance and sing; to eat cotton candy. To be vulnerable. Sure, their brief relationship had it stressful moments too — Elizabeth did slap him with a wrench when he attempted to send them to New York. But there was a connection between Booker and Elizabeth that was uncanny; it was as if they had known each other for many years. Now? Now he is gone.
“Did you really think it would end any other way, my child?”
“I’m not your child, you murderer.”
“Take her to the tower.”
Just like that, Elizabeth found herself back in the tower on Monument Island. Back to her prison, where she was condemned to spend her days until Comstock beckons for her. Her and Booker barely escaped Song Bird the first time, and it took both of them. There was no way she’d be able to escape and evade Song Bird herself.
Time went by slowly at first — every hour seemed like a lifetime. No amount of reading, of studying, seemed to help. The hours became days, the days became weeks, and the weeks became months. Eventually she lost track of time, even the date. “What was the point?”, she often asked herself. “Better to keep myself occupied than to dwell” she thought. It seemed to work, for the depression that Elizabeth found herself in eventually gave way to the return of her sunny disposition.
Three years to the day after Booker died, Comstock had finally beckoned her. As she was escorted from her prison to the Hand of the Prophet. There lay Comstock, deathly ill; she knew many a year ago, before even meeting Booker, that Comstock was sick, that he didn’t have too many years left. It appeared as if the Prophet would soon be meeting his end. And so, too, would Elizabeth, because she knew what his death meant for her future. Comstock looked at her, smiling, knowing that he had “won”.
“My child… the time is near.”
“I’m not your child you bastard.”
“OUCH!” shouted Elizabeth as she was stricken by one of the firemen who had escorted her.
“The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men.”
“You understand, do you not, Elizabeth? That upon my death you shall bring to the people the righteous and holy judgement of I, the Prophet.”
“Go to hell, you —“, Elizabeth again was stricken by the fireman.
“Bring the child to me.”
“NO” shouted Elizabeth
“LET ME GO!”
“Quiet, child. It shall be over soon”, whispered Comstock as he embraced Elizabeth’s forehead with his hand, mumbling to himself in prayer.
“The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men. Go forth, my child.”
“Yes, father.”
It was set. The Prophet was dead and the Mountains of Men were destined to smoulder at the hands of his hand chosen executioner: Elizabeth.
“Arm the blimps with Patriots and missiles. Have the Hand of the Goddess ready.”
“Yes Elizabeth!” shouted row upon row of faithful soldiers. The first city that Elizabeth attacked was Paris — Comstock made sure of that. He wanted to take great pleasure in watching from above as Paris, the city of her dreams, burned in judgement for its sins. And that, he did, as the seventh arrondissement was the first target for the firemen and Patriots. They stormed the city, slaughtering all those they encountered. Men, women, children. It made no difference. It took just six minutes for the assault to claim the Eiffel Tower.
Boom.
That was the sound heard as people came to a halt, watching their beloved Tower crumble to the ground.
Once Paris was judged, next was London. Then Moscow. Berlin. Elizabeth and the Patriots marched across Europe, handing down the judgement of Comstock. It wasn’t until Italy, of all places, that the Patriots suffered their first set back. Their assault was blunted, albeit with heavy loss of life, but they did. Peace reigned in Italy for just three short days before the next assault was launched, this time helmed by the Hand of the Goddess. The Italians, who had given hope to others worldwide that this onslaught could be blunted, folded in three hours.
In Washington, DC, they had begun making preparations for when the Patriots came. They didn’t know when they’d come, but they knew they would; it was, after all, what Comstock had promised years ago. Six months had passed since the last of the Patriots were spotted — they had spent three months non-stop delivering what they called the “judgement of the Prophet”. Religious groups from every corner of the world were in shambles, for this kind of devastation was reserved for the end of the world scenarios that religions foretold. Yet none had an answer for what was happening.
It was 2:37 AM on the night of December 23rd when the first Patriots were spotted in New York City. They had attacked in the cover of night; Elizabeth herself, for only the second time, was personally leading the attack. A firebomb hit an apartment complex in Brooklyn, instantly levelling it and killing everyone inside. Patriots soon flooded the cities boroughs as Elizabeth stood on the deck of the Hand of the Goddess, watching the destruction. Building after building fell; screams of despair filled the air as people pleaded for mercy before the Patriots. But on that night, mercy was not to be shown, not even to the child who grasped her teddy bear, calling out for her mommy.
The assault continued on throughout the night into the morning. As the sun rose above New York City, the sky was filled with smoke from the burning buildings. New York had been reduced to a smouldering crater of debris. New York, the home of Booker DeWitt, was no more. New York, according to Comstock, represented the sins of humanity the world over. Greed. Lust. Gluttony. Progress. The world in which New York existed, and stood for, was diametrically opposed to the world that Comstock sought to build, where all persons bowed to him, and the poor were rightfully enslaved by the rich for that was the will of God. City by city throughout America eventually succumbed to Columbia ; after New York it was Boston and Philadelphia on New Years Day. In Atlanta, the Patriots suffered just their second defeat, but unlike Italy, it took Elizabeth and the Patriots six attempts to siege the city, but also like Italy, they eventually succeeded and reducing Atlanta to a footnote in a history book.
Washington, DC, had been spared so far, though no one knew why. But when Columbia was founded, many of the residents, from the citizenry to the Senators and Representatives, remembered that when Comstock was rebuffed on capital hill, he foretold this very sequence of events. That those who stood in opposition would be judged when the seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the Mountains of Men.
The Mountains of Men were no more, as Earth fell to the Seed of the Prophet.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, dkingsland967!
You are Guest 07
True Identity: Booker DeWitt, Mafia Private Eye
Flavour:
When you return home for the evening, you found the following letter under your door:
Role: Role Cop
Abilities:
Passive Ability:
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Generic!
You are Guest 11
True Identity: Elizabeth, Mafia Savant
Flavour:
As you were out walking in the city, a strange man handed you the following letter:
Role: Jack of All Trades
Abilities:
Passive Ability:
Starting Tear, Plasmid, and Vigor:
Available Upgrades:
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Kosakosa!
You are Guest 05
True Identity: Frank Fontaine, Rapture Crime Boss and Mafia Smuggler
Flavour:
You received the following note on your receipt:
Role: Modular Godfather/Ninja
Abilities:
Passive Ability:
Business Fronts:
Win Condition: You win when half the living players are Mafia, even if you are dead.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, KoolKoal!
You are Guest 01
True Identity: Daisy Fitzroy, Town Rebel and Assassin
Flavour:
As you returned for the day, a puppy ran by you with a piece of paper attached to its collar. When you read it, it say:
Role: One-shot Poison Vig
Abilities:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Niv!
You are Guest 02
True Identity: Lady Comstock, Town Siren
Flavour:
Someone came to visit you and gave you a slip of paper. It said:
Role: Mason
Abilities:
Passive Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, LnGrrrR!
You are Guest 03
True Identity: Andrew Ryan, Town Randian Hypocrite
Flavour:
As you listened to music, you heard a voice address you by name. They said:
Role: Cowardly Cop
Abilities:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, fulcrum!
You are Guest 04
True Identity: Z. H. Comstock, Town Pastor
Flavour:
A child ran up to you and said:
Role: Voyeur
Abilities:
Passive Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, DCIII!
You are Guest 06
True Identity: Jeremiah Fink, Town Billionaire and Dirty Cop Warlord
Flavour:
A man in the shadows hollered out:
Role: Jailer
Abilities:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Wildfire393!
You are Guest 08
True Identity: Mr. Bubbles, Town Big Daddy
Flavour:
Someone told you they received a message for you, saying that:
Role: Double Voter
Ability:
Passive Abilities:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, SelesnynaNewLife!
You are Guest 09
True Identity: Brigid Tenenbaum, Town Genetic Scientist
Flavour:
You found a hastily written letter nailed to your door. It said:
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, KamikazeArchon!
You are Guest 10
True Identity: A Little Sister, Town Little Sister
Flavour:
A man said to you:
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, HookerPunch!
You are Guest 12
True Identity: Jack, Town Manchurian Candidate
Flavour:
As you were walking, you saw the following poster:
Role: Vanilla
Ability:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
======================================================================================================================
Welcome to BioShock Mafia, Cythare!
You are Guest 02A
True Identity: A Summoned Soul
Flavour:
You have been summoned to assist Lady Comstock in her endeavours.
Role: Mason
Passive Abilities:
Win Condition: You win when all threats have been eliminated.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
Marche funèbre
"Ey Jim, you seen those bright flashes round town?"
"Yeah, Smitty; you see the one today not far from the Salty Oyster?"
"Sure did. Wonder what it could be?"
Ever since the invasion of these alien creatures, citizens around Columbia had been seeing random, bright pillars of light. No one knew what they where they came from, what they did, or who was responsible. Some theorised that they were responsible for the alien creatures, whereas some thought it was the doing of the Prophet in an attempt to cleanse Columbia of its impurities. Some people had noticed family members missing since the lights appeared — could it be? Could the lights and the disappearance of people be linked?
"Welcome back to our live coverage of the Kashmir Restaurant tragedy. We are now hearing reports from all around Rapture that shimmering beams of light have been manifesting out of thin air. We can only conclude that these shimmering beams are somehow linked to the attacks here on the Kashmir. Jim, over to you."
"Thanks Jill. I spoke with someone down at Neptune's Bounty just now about the light beams and and according to her, people had been disappearing with alarming frequency since they showed up. We can only hope that, if these is a link between these beams of light and the terrorist attacks on the Kashmir that Rapture Police are able to quickly bring Atlas to justice. Back to you, Jill."
Rosalind: "Welcome to Fort Frolic."
Robert: "Don't forget you masks."
Rosalind: "Quite"
Robert: "It wouldn't be a masquerade ball without masks, would it?"
Rosalind: "Indeed not."
"Why did it have to be Fort Frolic?" one guest pondered to themselves. It was a fair question — Fort Frolic, even in Rapture's hay day, was always a bit sketchy and creepy. It was home to Sander Cohen, the screw loose demented artist and musician who controlled the arts scene. Home to the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's personal art museum. The Fort was home to gentlemen's clubs, gambling halls, and the finest tobacco and spirits in Rapture. Posters for cigarettes, bicycles, spirits, sex, and more adorned the walls. It was the Las Vegas of the Atlantic.
In the years since the start of the war, Sander closed off Fort Frolic to the public, turning it into his own personal home. In the atrium, human statues — denizens of Fort Frolic whom had been encased in plaster against their will by Sander were a dime a dozen. Some bled, as if they were still alive after being encased. Water gushed down from the cracked ceiling, creating a small waterfall as the water ran down the staircase leading to the Upper Atrium, where the Fleet Hall theatre and Sander's museum were. Blood covered the walls; it looked as if someone – maybe multiple people – had been gored violently. Blood and bodies were scattered around the Upper Atrium, carelessly, with no regard to artistic display. Perhaps Sander had abandoned the Fort?
By most accounts, Poseidon's Plaza had been spared the same kind wreckage throughout Rapture, though the businesses who resided there weren't as lucky. Eve's Garden, the marquee gentlemen's club was still accessible. Dusty bottles of Old Tom's Whiskey, alongside posters of Jasmine Jolene, "Andrew Ryan's favourite girl" and mistress, were visible as far as the eye could see. The only part of the club left undisturbed was the small performance stage where both metal poles remained intact, bloodstains and a corpse notwithstanding. Decay and destruction, the fate of Eve's Garden, enveloped businesses throughout the Plaza.
Robert: "Should we tell them?"
Rosalind: "We should, shouldn't we?"
Robert: "I believe so."
Rosalind: "Very well."
Robert: "What is hard to find—"
Rosalind: "But hard to avoid?"
Robert: "What falls but never breaks—"
Rosalind: "And breaks, but never falls?"
Robert: "Come Rosalind."
Rosalind: "Indeed."
As the Lutece twins vanished into thin air, the ball began, each person dressed to be unidentifiable. The first dance? A waltz, of course. Couples danced throughout the Fort, from the Atrium to the Fleet Hall, to the Southern Mall, and beyond, as music filled the air. The ball seemingly lasted forever; each dance brought a new partner, a new opportunity to try and figure out who was who. A game, if you will. But as the night went on, the music became darker and darker; more twisted and demonic. Haunting. Ethereal. Beautiful. You knew this masquerade ball was anything but — between the crypticness of the Lutece's and the downward spiral of darkness in the music, you could feel sinisterness seeping into the Fort.
"Good evening guests. I am but heartbroken to inform you that our gathering must come to an end now. It has been my pleasure to serve as your pianist. May you all have a goodnight."
As people began to look around for an exit, it quickly become clear that the bathysphere was not in working order. Were we to stay here in the Fort? A light began to shine on Sander's masterpiece: eight human statues, splattered with blood, contorted to different positions to hold up four different photographs of grisly, violent death scenes. Those photographs were no more. In their place were a series of photographs, each possessing three numbers.
"Room numbers?", some asked. "Must be."
One by one each guest selected a number and began searching for their room. As the last number was selected, a dark, dreary, melody could be heard. Somber. Chilling, as one guest described it.
"There are many a melody I like ending my day on, but this? The third movement from Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2? Our pianist has a dark sense of humour."
"Why do you say that?" asked another guest.
"Because the third movement of that sonata is the Marche funèbre: The funeral march."
"…"
The guests hurried themselves to their rooms, sufficiently disturbed by the revelation from their musically inclined guest. Why would the pianist end the evening with such a disturbing piece?
When morning came, music again filled the Fort — a piece no one recognised, but was quite soothing after a long, restless night.
When the guests gathered down in the main foyer, the masterpiece where their room numbers had been was no more. Now, in its stead stood a riddle, each stanza a photograph.
less A fortnight and a half divide by three
less A fourth of the ball;
What number am I?
"77? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"What does it mean?" asked another guest.
Silence.
"Perhaps it is a room number?" suggested one guest.
"We should go look, then."
After looking around the fort, tucked behind a corner was room 77.
"Oh no" shrieked one guest.
There a man, crumbled, dead, holding sheet music for Chopin's Piano Sonata No 2. It appears the pianist's life had been taken from him.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
1. First and foremost, thank you all for joining this game. I hope you have as much fun playing it as I had designing it.
2. With regard to vote counts: I will be keeping a very up-to-date vote count in the OP. As such, my intent is to not post them very often since an updated vote count is always accessible. I will be evaluating this throughout Day 1 and seeing how it works and may, if needed, make a change beginning with Day 2.
3. Your Deadline is June 17th, 23:30 EDT. Please remember this deadline will not be extended except under very extreme circumstances.
With that, Welcome to Day 1 of BioShock Mafia!
It is now Day 1. With 12 alive, it is 7 to lynch.
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
Previous Mafia Experience:
Mafia aligned: 2/0 -100%
Town aligned: 4/3 - 57%
Vote Hansanator
I'll go first!
Vote: Miss_Lynch
Because Generic is always scum in games with me, and Cantrip just won in RTR by cheating his Selesnyan buddies. What more could you ask for? Let's get this wagon a-rolling!
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Your vote is invalid. It needs moar yellow.
Also, I think that it is in our best interest to mass claim guest numbers. I have a hypothesis that I would like to test. Yay or nay?
Previous Mafia Experience:
Mafia aligned: 2/0 -100%
Town aligned: 4/3 - 57%
>Hans attempts to modgame the system.
I don't even
We should treat our guest numbers as valuable info and therefore, refrain from claiming it. We don't know if there are roles or mechanics able to interact with them.
for old times sake
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
LnG thought his was the first post, indicating that it took him at least 7 minutes (based on Hans's time stamp) to compose the post, indicating that he gave a lot of thought to what he wanted his RVS post to say. The enthusiasm in his post feels forced as well.
Town Win % = 75%
Mafia Win % = 75%
Overall Win % = 75%
Completed Game Log
2014: Best Mafia Performance (Group)
2014: Most Improved Player
2014: Best Town Player
2014: Best Overall Player
Vote: LnGrrrR
hans and DC are town. Fun.
This game has many silly rules.
Vote: Natirasha
Either way, we're all gonna burn
care to explain to me exactly why over thinking a RVS post is a tell? something I don't know? all I see is someone trying to be witty.
the fact that there's already been a suggested soft claim on page on is a little odd as well. this one in particular feels as though it would be nothing but a waste of time, until told otherwise, and unless Hans wants to tell me otherwise I'm going to go ahead and not support this waste of time.
However I am willing to UnVote, Vote fulcrum. while the still the first page, that was obviously not an RVS post, and a shameless barn of a flimsy post, followed up by randomly declaring people town as well. if we're gonna go somewhere on page one, this IMO is a pretty good place to start.
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
Or perhaps a little too sex-C...
Vote: LnGrrrR
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
Vote c808
Fulcrum's vote on me is bad, and she should feel bad. OMGUS vote, away!
Unvote
Vote: Fulcrum
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Unvote
Vote: hansanator
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
I'm going with my gut on LnG
as for hansanator... he's not even trying to hide the fact that he is scum.
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
Unvote
Vote: LnGrrrR
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
as for hansanator... he's not even trying to hide the fact that he is scum.[/quote]
This is bull*****. Your naked vote on LnG reeked on opportunism and after getting flak for it, you backed off for Hans. Which haven't posted in between and, despite "not even trying to hide the fact that he is scum", didn't deserve a single comment from you before the post I quoted.
You're scum.
I feel like hans is scum due to his posts so far. I could be wrong, and if LnG gets lynched I know exactly who the scum are. But no, I'm not scum.
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
I do think DC3 paying attention to timestamps and mindsets shows well on him.
I don't really see how me calling attention to my OMGUS makes a difference. *shrug*
I like Kosa for town so far.
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Honestly I think the scum are fulcrum and DCIII
I'm voting for you to try and prove it. I'm using your death to help the others. I suspect DCIII for accusing yoy first, so I jumped on the wagon to confirm my suspicions on him and fulcrum. I did realize that this would make me look like scum. In any case
Unvote
Vote: fulcrum
cause' I feel like we can hang him.
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block
Niv - in this post you both pre-supposed a reason for LnGrr posting as he did (trying to be witty) and dismissed my post as being flimsy without Lngr even having responded. Don't like that at all as you twice discredited my vote on him without seeing how he reacted to it, and even gave him an answer to use. Your entire post is both a direct and underlying defense of him prior to waiting to see what he had to say.
As for RVS - Town are much more carefree about their RVS posts than scum are and spending such an amount of time crafting an RVS post shows a careful/calculated approach to it. Also, you ignored the part about the enthusiasm feeling forced.
Your logic throughout doesn't jive. You naked voted Lngr without offering context to prove that fulcrum and I are scum? You took your vote off quickly to shift to Hans because you say he isn't hiding that he's scum... why isn't he hiding that he's scum? What about his play do you think is scummy? Additionally, you say that you trust LngR is town - but if your initial vote was to prove that fulcrum and I are scum then why would you have doubted that he's Town to begin with? Then you say that you just have a feeling that Hans is scum but that fulcrum and I are scum. If you just have a feeling about Hans that is different than saying that he wasn't trying to hide that he was scum which indicated that you had clear reasons for thinking he is. The reasons you're giving don't add up with your initial actions.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Also, /barn Generic's #31. Lng's response to me feels very controlled, and his subsequent posting does more speaking well of other players than scum hunting.
He does ask a few questions to CC but he asks why Hunger's post affects his gut read. Hunger isn't in this game! CC was saying that he wasn't thinking clearly due to his own physical Hunger... which also makes me think that Lngr wasn't thinking critically about his questions to CC but was rather asking them to look busy.
We should definitely lynch Lngr Today. Also don't like CCC or Niv.
Town Win % = 75%
Mafia Win % = 75%
Overall Win % = 75%
Completed Game Log
2014: Best Mafia Performance (Group)
2014: Most Improved Player
2014: Best Town Player
2014: Best Overall Player
@c808: What happened between this post...
And this one...
...considering hans didn't post anything between them? Why the quick backpedal on being so sure that Hans is scum?
I also think the whole "not scumhunting" thing is pretty silly. The game just started, how much scum hunting do you think can really go on in the first 50 posts? I am fine with you looking at my RVS post (as sometimes scum can be caught by that), but I didn't think it was particularly forced. *shrug* You also didn't comment about my mentioning the software is out of wack sometimes.
I happen to think I am a particularly bad lynch. The fact that you think I should "definitely" be the lynch today with so few posts is interesting. I don't remember you being so cocksure about your reads so early in the Day.
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
UUU Azami, Lady of Scrolls
RRR Diaochan, Artful Beauty
UR(U/R) Tibor, Lumia, & Melek (WIP)
Mafia Stats
LnGrrrR: Why OMGUS me over DC?
Niv is making too many assumptions about mindsets (both mine and LnGrrrR's). I'm not a fan.
I felt the same way when I read lng's post. While not conclusive, it is something of note.
-------------------------------
I think that kosa's #14 is rather suspect, and I don't like it. By the looks of it, he failed my test, but I don't feel confident enough to take action yet.
@ccccccccc808 - Are you always this... sporadic? You flipped flopped your position at least 3 times in a period of like 10 posts. Do you have any links to previous games?
Previous Mafia Experience:
Mafia aligned: 2/0 -100%
Town aligned: 4/3 - 57%
Vote cccccc808
I feel like DCIII has been trying too hard thus far. Putting more weight on his reads of LnGrrrR than makes sense, and adding suspicion to cccc as an aside rather than pushing him at all.
What made you think Hans was/is town Fulcrum?
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
The Hans question is the one Niv should have asked me, by the way, instead of assuming I declared him and DC town "randomly." Hans is town because the stupid call for softclaimes (especially the line " I have a hypothesis that I would like to test.") came from an arrogant, town mindset. His post 46 reinforces that read, by confirming my suspicion that he was attempting to test people.
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Club Flamingo Wins: 1!
Either way, we're all gonna burn
CCC's 32 & 33 strike me really odd. that post 33 is just really sure, and I don't know what to think of it yet. I'm not sure if your idiot town, or idiot scum, but I know one thing.....
his #35 is also pretty much a waste of time, It pretty much accomplished nothing. @CCC: could you actually do me a favor, and explain your thought process in these few posts, like how you thought they were even remotely useful?
Kosakosa's 34 is a town post imo.
Are you TRYING to die?
@DCIII: I think you and I just differ on theory here with regards to RVS. I personally believe that the interactions are a place to look, but never something like a first post like that. you can just argue in a circle forever #WIFOM. there is no "defense" to what you accused him of that can't be argued in a circle afterwards, and can't be proven since it's outside the game knowledge. for all we know, he could have said he opened the thread and then had to go take a dump. (he didn't, but it's an example). as to the enthusiasm bit, maybe it was forced, but in a game (referring to mafia as a whole) like this, 90% of RVS posts are forced, it's just how much detail goes into it. sorry, not a tell. /end theory.
cool, another shameless barn, with 100% no content. I still like my vote.
KK's 47 is a town post.
@Cantrip: I have RVS voted myself in every game since my first game ever played. feel free to look it up if you'd like. I've got into theory arguments with people as to whether or not it's a tell, and I've pretty much come to the conclusion that anyone that wants to make it one can go blow themselves.
Naked votes provoke reactions, shameless naked barns are scumtells.
@HookerPunch: your 56, nothing at all else to add? nothing? are you useless?
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
I'm not going to answer this right now. Ask me again later.
Why are open barns indicative of scum, Niv? If you want my thoughts so badly, why don't you ask for them?
This makes sense. I like Cantrip.
What I don't like is people voting anyone but cccc.
Alright, go ahead and hang me, but in the end you'll se i was right.
CHECK OUT MY TRIBAL CUSTOM SET KREVAN
http://www.mtgsalvation.com/forums/creativity/custom-card-creation/custom-set-creation-and/530273-krevan-the-first-set-in-a-tribal-block