EDIT 4/10/12: Since Google Groups are now defunct, I have transfered the files for this game into the spoilers in this post and the next two. Note that they will undoubtedly spoil the game, so open them at your caution.
Sorry things are a little ugly - the text files I got were a little messy, and so the HTML conversion didn't work perfectly.
Pro-WTO Roles
Katrien Darko
OCCUPATION: Chairwoman of the General Council
COUNTRY: Belgium
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your hands clench and unclench, unable to decide between massaging your temples, brushing dust off your suit jacket, or simply wringing themselves in stress. As your eyes scan over the schedule on your desk, your brain ticks through every planned minute, playing out the days to come in your mind.
?Add ten minutes here, before opening ceremony,? you say to the gaggle of assistants nervously hovering near your desk. One of them, a wide-eyed, clean-shaven young man, jumps visibly.
?Ah, ah, right away, ma?am. I mean, Madame Ambassador. Er, Madame Chairwoman, I should say.? He swallows as he pulls his own copy of the schedule and a red pen out of his pocket. ?Ah, what should I ??
?Agricultural subsidies,? you reply, not even looking up. ?We may as well spend ten fewer minutes on a discussion that hasn?t got a hope of being resolved in the first place.?
?Right, right, thank you, ma?am,? he says, scribbling furiously on his paper.
?The Americans are hogging the media workshops again, I see.? You thumb through another page, rolling your eyes to no one in particular. ?And apparently they?re just going to let the protestors wander through Los Angeles willy-nilly, overturning cars or God only knows what else.?
?Ah, right.? The young man?s voice quavers a bit and he allows himself a conspiratorial glance to the other assistants. Your staff has long since learned not to draw out conversations when Americans are concerned. You toss the papers back onto your desk and shut your eyes. How long has it been since I got a full night?s sleep? It must be eighteen days, now. No, nineteen. Elections in a week, no less. At least I?ll be able to sleep in once I?m unemployed. Not opening your eyes, or even budging in your seat, you growl out another instruction: ?Coffee.?
?Right, right away, ma?am!? The young man nearly lunges out the door, leaving the other assistants to slowly back their way out of the room amidst the awkward silence. Eventually, he returns by himself with a steaming mug in his hand. Wordlessly, you reach out and take it from him, immediately bringing it to your lips. After a single sip, you open your eyes again and set the mug down.
?What is your name, young man??
?Ah, ah, Leopold, ma?am. Named after the King.?
?I see. Would I be correct, Leopold, to surmise that you have never gotten me coffee before??
?Ah??
?I ask simply because I have to conclude that if you had, you would know that I do not take sugar in my coffee. You would know, in fact, that I consider sugar in coffee to be an affront to the natural order, an unholy abomination the likes of the plagues of Egypt. Tell me, Leopold, would you like me to offer you a nice hot mug of locusts??
?I, ah??
?Please go see my secretary for your debriefing.?
He blinks. ?Ma?am, you?re transferring me out because I put sugar in your coffee??
?Don?t be silly, Leopold. That would be entirely out of proportion to your offense.? He breathes a barely audible sigh of relief as you arrange the papers on your desk. ?I?m firing you.?
ABILITIES:
Chairwoman's Fiat (Passive/Day/Permanent) As long you are voting for the same person as another player, that player whom you are voting is -1 to lynch (effectively, your vote will count twice). This will not be reflected in vote counts.
Exculpate (Active/Day/Permanent) Post Action -- Post "X is a valued member of the international community and we stand behind him/her completely". That player will be unlynchable today. You may not use this on the same player on consecutive days. You may not use this ability on yourself.
Note on Abilities: Your government has become increasingly unpopular as of late. During Night 4, an election will take place in Belgium. If you have not been on one wagon that lynches a scum before then, it is likely your party will be thrown out of office. As a result, you will be stripped of your ambassadorship and will lose your abilities Chairwoman's Fiat and Exculpate .
---
MOD NOTE: If she loses her ambassadorship, her occupation becomes "Ex-".
If she succeeds in lynching scum, her government will lose, but by a small margin, and will successfully bargain to keep her as ambassador.
Christopher Exodus
OCCUPATION: Officer, LAPD
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"Jason, let me tell you a story..."
He's on his third beer, and you're starting to worry. His limits are never apparent. You know your brother enough to know that he has a fifth of Jack under the passenger's seat of his '97 Civic. He stashes alcohol where nobody will find it - in planters, in dense postmodern novels, in boxes of tissue - and you can't know for sure how much he's consumed today, but you can't tell him not to order them. It's his money, his body, and his decision, is his common thread, but you know your brother, know him well enough to tell that he's an alcoholic. He's probably really on his seventh, eighth drink of the night, and you can't really tell the difference, not until it becomes a problem.
And it isn't like he can afford the drinks anyway. You're drinking as far away from Hollywood as you can, even though your precinct is adjacent to Beverly Hills, because it's too damn expensive. Cops don't make **** if they make good, and your mother taught you not to steal. You would be living in a homeless shelter, and she would sternly tell you and J not to take a second helping from the soup line. "There's enough there for you, but there's no enough there for two of you," she reminded you every time your stomachs growled, and you bottled your hunger and pride and took another bite of saltines. There are cops who take drugs, money, and other paraphernalia from the evidence locker weekly, but that's not the kind of person your mother made you. But you and J can't really afford to drink. You're on your first, but he's on his third Guinness and throwing them back, disappearing as soon as they arrive, and you're starting to get fidgety, watching him, worried about dragging him away.
Your mum was diagnosed with Parkinson's fourteen years ago. At the time, you had a baseball scholarship to UCLA, but you needed money, because she couldn't work anymore and you couldn't put together enough money to care for her. So you dropped out and put your physique to work as a cop, to care for your family and your dying mother. And, in spite of it all, you've never regretted the decision. Fate deals you what you may, and you take your life and run with it. But J, he's in bad shape... can't hold down a steady job. He was fired from construction a week ago and hasn't found a replacement job. He has two strikes - once for a DUI that left its victim with a broken pelvis, and once for attacking a man in a bar fight with a broken beer bottle. If he gets in another fight, he's looking at significant jail time, and if he gets another strike, it's life. You've exerted influence where you can, but...
He stands up from the bar, his head tilted sharply sideways, toward a man at the end. You hadn't heard what they had said, but the man at the end of the bar looks angry, pointing, and J stands up and starts heading over, fists at the ready. Pulling yourself back, you try to hold him back. The bartender has stepped away for a moment for a smoke. "Hey, you!" J shouts, as you try to pull him back. The man at the end of the bar laughs and heads over, shouting in Dutch at J. J waves his arms frantically, fighting against you, but he's a big guy, and you can't hold him well enough. With a start, he bursts free, grabbing the Dutchman and throwing him against a wall. He slumps slightly, but stands up, ready to engage. In the brief moment, as the world seems to shake under the feet of the participants - your brother and his opponent yelling and swinging, you standing away, trying to find an opportunity - you glimpse of the ghost of a woman sitting in the corner, drinking a martini. She looks like your mother, starting idly into space. She catches your eye briefly, but only looks away again, as if in acceptance. Do what you will, my child...
Jumping in, you grab the Dutchman by the neck and shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pulling out your handcuffs. Words escape your mouth as if dragged by a dark wave back to sea, and you read him his rights and leave him in the corner. Walking back, you survey your brother, who looks petrified. "Hold still. It has to look authentic." He looks at you, for a moment, with an expression split between fear and gratitude, then nods. You close your eyes, for a moment, then swing your fist.
ABILITIES:
Blacklist (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player uses a Targeting ability, that ability is canceled. You may not use this ability in consecutive periods.
Arrest (Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Send in the name of a player. That player will be removed from the game for two game days and nights. He will not count for or against any win condition, but is still part of the game. He cannot be the target of abilities, cannot post, and cannot vote. You and that player may communicate via PM as long as he or she is in custody.
--
MOD NOTE: If Exodus uses Arrest on Sophia Guerrero, she will be exposed as an illegal immigrant and deported, causing her to lose the game.
Players RFGed with Arrest (sans Guerrero) will be placed in a separate "Absent" pile, akin to what I did with the jester after he was lynched in TGA.
Jorge Sur
OCCUPATION: Soldier, Mara Salvatrucha COUNTRY: El Salvador ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"I'm a fleabit peanut monkey
All my friends are junkies
That's not really true!"
The car is stolen, its plates swapped with those of a rusted-out hulk sitting in a scrapyard in Inglewood. You've been pulled over more than a few times in stolen cars, and since cops have computers and can quickly check plates against recent reports, switching plates is an easy way to avoid suspicion as long as you don't get pulled over. Besides, it's not like California doesn't have plenty of red convertibles.
Passenger seat is talking about a girl he met at a club last weekend to Left and Right Backseat, who are laughing along while you silently concentrate on street signs to avoid missing the turn-off. A few minutes late, and the contact might get spooked.
So I was talking to this girl, and she's got an ass out to here, and my buddies are watching my wings, chatting up her girlfriends, and she was all - and he makes a very suggestive gesture that cracks up Left and Right. Passenger Seat turns to you and asks so how's your chick, Jor? The pun is lost on the backseats, both because they are too busy grinning like madmen and because they're light on English, but you feel your teeth start inching closer together, looking to grind. What Passenger Seat lacks in rank, he makes up for in overconfidence.
"But I've been bit and I've been tossed around
By every she-rat in this town
Have you, babe?"
"We're here," you mutter, pulling over to the concrete trench of the Los Angeles River. The contact is barely visible under the pillars of a bridge, his hands twin tumors erupting under his jacket. Stupid blanco in his backwards cap and visible tattoos.
You step out of the car, and Passenger Seat follows suit, while the two backseats stay behind to watch for cops. As you walk toward the contact, his eyes turn up, and in the bright light resemble jewels, like the overtrusting punk that he is.
"You have the money?" he asks, shifting his weight anxiously. His hands are still firmly entrenched in his coat, though you can just barely make out a slightly larger bulge in one pocket than the other. You lift the backpack you carried down. He nods slightly and reveals the bag of opaque crystals, which he tosses to Passenger Seat per his instructions. Passenger Seat opens up the ziplock and takes one out. He removes a razor blade from his pocket and sets to work on the
product, quickly grinding it up and placing the line on a small piece
of cardboard in his pocket. Quickly, he leans down and the powder
disappears. Shaking slightly as he leans back down, he nods before pressing a pair of fingers to his nose. You unzip the backpack, stare into it for a moment, then remove the sawed-off from within and shoot the contact with one of the barrels in the chest.
The sound of the firearm radiates off the walls of the canyon, radiating down the valley. The contact falls, blood oozing over his ensemble, before collapsing. Passenger Seat moves toward the body to grab his wallet, but you stop him with your gun arm. "We've been told to leave a message. His wallet stays."
"**** you. I'm not getting paid enough." He pushes past you, and you sigh, before swinging the gun towards his head. The crunch of metal on bone isn't very loud, but is still eerie. He doubles over in pain on the ground, concussed, while you stand over him.
"You don't pay any attention, do you. Pick yourself up."
He collapses back, squinting against the pain. "You aren't going to tell them, are you?"
"No, not yet. Oh, and Ernesto?" you say, leaning over him with tightness in your brow. "If you say anything about my wife again, you can forget about how your employer will feel, because I'll kill you myself. Got it?" He meekly trembles on the ground, answering your question. Dropping the empty backpack on his face, you walk back toward the car, where the backseats still sit unawares. As you climb, you sing along quietly with the song in your head:
"Well, I hope we're not too messianic
Or a trifle too satanic
We love to play the blues"
ITEMS:
Sawed-Off Shotgun
The Gun (Passive/Any/Permanent) Whenever you are targeted with a nonkill ability, that ability's user will be prompted to target a different player instead. This will resolve immediately upon you being targeted.
The Shell
(Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Send in the name of a player. That player will be killed. Your kill method is a sawed-off shotgun blast. This ability cannot be blocked and the player cannot be doc-protected. Only the killed player's alignment will be revealed. After you use this ability, you will discard Sawed-Off Shotgun.
Xu Tao
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Republic of China (Taiwan)
ALINGMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
This country is so strange, like all the others. They all come from different places, and yet have little sense of memory. Each fights, to be sure, but fights merely for himself, pushing and shoving in the journey across life's bridge and only succeeding in sending themselves flying over the rails. You see no duty, no purpose, no family. Why would anyone ever want to live here?
You've never quite felt yourself away from home, despite being stretched between two worlds. Your father, an aide to Chiang Kai-Shek, fought hard to maintain the integrity of his homeland, his forefathers' culture, and his pride in his work. He left the army on the eve of the Second World War to serve his country to his best potential, and faithfully directed Chinese national policy. When the Communists seized control in the provinces, however, your father found himself in an unfamiliar place, on the island of Taiwan - his home under the control of the enemy, his national pride shattered. And yet he persevered dutifully under Kai-Shek, spending every breath in his body defending the man and his work. Three days after you were born, on the eve of the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, your father was killed by a stray bomb crashing through the roof of his office. Not once did the government ever acknowledge his work and his life, but your mother always reminded you of the burden of pride and your father's duty. As soon as you could, you joined the military to fulfill that duty, and like your father have served with every breath available.
The People's Republic has grown, decayed, and been reborn again, and never once has stopped pointing a leery eye at the small island. In spite of its weakness, it has become a superpower, and you are positive it has sent agents to this meeting, here in this other superpower, to again assail Taiwan's freedom. You are now in your fifties, and your military training is beginning to evaporate, your body beginning to quake, and your senses beginning to cloud, but you still have a bright light in your mind - the light of your father's duty, burning like a solitary candle in the great fog of the world and its war. For him, for Taiwan, you know you will give everything you have left - the last breath, for your home. You could only just deserve that great and expansive honor.
ABILITIES:
Military Training (Passive/Day/Permanent) Post actions have no effect on you.
ITEMS:
Syringe of Sodium Thiopental
Interrogate (Active/Day/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote a portion of a player's post and respond with :confused2:. The mods will tell you to the best of their knowledge if that player lied in any part of the quoted section.
Mitchell Henderson
OCCUPATION: Professional Blogger
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short,
The cursor blinks idly on the screen as you stare into what must be about your tenth cup of coffee. He is? he is? damn, what is the phrase I?m looking for? You search through your mental library of scathing invectives, trying to find just the right turn of phrase to express your snark. He is? ah, I?ve got it.
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short, wholely without value as a human being.
Ugh, that?s far too generic. You hold down the backspace key for several seconds while further considering your options. Something? it?s on the tips of my fingers? yes! That?s it!
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short, as much a threat to our country?s ability to hold civilized political discourse as he is to our national supply of cheese fries.
Everyone loves a fat joke.
Mitchell Henderson ? lady killer, wordsmith extraordinaire, a juggernaut force for political and social change the likes of which
haven?t been seen since Martin Luther King, Jr. Well, sort of. Actually, you?re a bit of a dork, in your twelve-year-old daughter?s
words. A bit of a grammar fetishist as well, sadly also in your daughter?s words (you intend to find out which of her friends taught her the word ?fetishist? and make them pay dearly.) You are a fairly well-known blogger, however, and you like to think you defy the stereotype of your profession by generally avoiding histrionic ad hominem attacks on your ideological opposition. Well, unless those attacks are particularly clever ? or if the opposition is particularly not so. You don?t suffer fools gladly, after all.
Yet in the blogosphere, there?s always a bigger fish. Despite your wit, irreverence, and sizable vocabulary, you have yet to achieve a national readership ? until now. You?ve been handed a golden opportunity in the form of the upcoming WTO conference, which you?ll be covering live alongside the local news team. Finally up on the national stage? and they?ll probably be fact-checking, too. This is it, Henderson. Prime time. The big leagues. The deep end of the pool. The ? wait? those are all sentence fragments. Oh God, I?ve been monologuing about myself in the third person again. That?s what I get for being up at 4 AM with coffee.
Switching off your laptop, you slide your slippers on, pour the rest of now-frigid coffee into the sink, and head to bed. You?ve got big days coming up, after all.
BLOG: Your blog is at the-stillest-words.blogspot.com. The account is [email]odessazero@gmail.com[/email] and the password (to the blog and email account) is ****. Please do not change this password. On this blog, you may post anything you want related to the game or not that isn't illegal - however, please do not delete any comments or change the settings. It's intended as a sounding board for you (and by extension the players in the game). The mod will reference your blog in his flavor to attract attention. The rest is up to you. You are allowed to continue maintaining the blog after your death.
ABILITIES:
Slander (Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Post Action -- In your blog or in one of your posts, post "X is an idiot and should not be taken seriously by anyone". That player loses all passive abilities he or she has permanently. This ability cannot be countered by passive abilities.
---
MOD NOTE: To increase the paranoia meter, the mods will recruit a few people outside the game who will spam the board on occasion with anonymous or strange characters (making sure they know absolutely nothing about the game's setup).
Slander counts as a post action even if posted in his blog.
Lucas Finch
OCCUPATION: Pawn Shop Owner
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The ticks of the clock on the wall are like cracks of a whip across your brain. Your vision is swimming, just ever so slightly at the
edges. You rest your head against one of your hands, attempting to conceal the fact that your right eye is twitching at irregular
intervals. Yeah, you definitely should have stopped at three margaritas last night.
??next election cycle. After that, we can reassess our priorities and see where we stand. Sound alright to you, Marcus??
Your eyes widen and you stare at the two men seated on the other side of the table. Your mind races. ****, was he talking to me? He said Marcus? yeah, he must be.
?Yeah? I mean, yes. Yes, that should be fine,? you sputter. ?I mean, I?ll get back to you if any problems come up??
?Excellent,? says one of the men. ?Oh, before we adjourn, I meant to ask you: what do you think about the people protesting prop thirty-eight??
Prop thirty-eight? How the hell should I know? I didn?t even know there were props one through thirty-seven?
Fighting to keep your eyes focused, you wrack your brain for a pithy response. ?I?d say? **** ?em.? The two men blink, and then stare at each other for a few seconds of awkward silence. To your immense relief, they then burst out laughing.
?God, that?s what I love about working with you, Marcus. **** ?em. Great stuff.? They rise from their seats. ?Same time next week, then??
?Yeah,? you mutter. Once they?ve left the room, you finally let your head hit the table.
You?ve heard that younger siblings often have a hard time living up to the accomplishments of older ones. Most of them, unlike you, don?t have to deal with an older brother with an identical appearance and more talent in every area that counts. You may only be twelve minutes younger than your brother Marcus, but just being in the same room with him is enough to make you feel twelve years younger. He?s a state senator; you run a pawn shop. He graduated *** laude from Yale; you dropped out of Radford after five semesters. He?s got a hot wife; you?ve got a nigh-endless string of ex-girlfriends.
Perhaps it?s not so curious after all, then, that you spend a lot of your weekends pretending to be him. You handle the dull parts of his job while he takes time off for golf, or whatever it is that wealthy people do with their free time. In exchange, he keeps you on the good side of the LAPD despite any little transgressions you might commit. It?s a pretty good arrangement, on the whole, but for the fact that it reminds you every day of the life you could be living.
After fumbling around for your keys and opening up your shop again, you collapse in the dilapidated office chair behind the counter. You can still hear their voices ringing in your ears ? your brother, your parents, your exes ? each and every one whispering how you weren?t good enough.
Staring into space, you whisper to no one in particular: ?**** ?em.?
ABILITIES:
Repair (Active/Any/One-Shot) - Send in the name of a discarded item. You will take that item. All abilities of that item become One-Shot.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
Suit of Armor
Ancient Protection (Active/Day/Permanent) If you are targeted with a kill, instead Suit of Armor is discarded.
Syringe of Adrenaline
Acceleration (Active/Night/One-Shot) You may use two additional abilities. You cannot be protected against kills tonight.
Amphetamines
Spike the Punch (Passive/Night/Permanent) Activation - After you activate Amphetamines, players may post during the Night. (You may activate and deactivate the item at any time. When an item requiring activation changes hands, it is automatically deactivated.)
Note on Items: Abilities of items in your possession do not work.
---
MOD NOTE: If the player Syringe of Adrenaline is used on is killed, the kill method becomes acute pulmonary edema causing respiratory failure.
Asher Golta
OCCUPATION: Vice President of the International Division, the Terra Group
COUNTRY: United Kingdom (Great Britain)
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"But, you know... you know what the thing is about you that is so... beautiful..."
"What?", she asks, drawing close, face tilted back, expectantly, pushing her body forward like someone had kicked her between the shoulder blades, her tight Dolce & Gabbana dress like a shell she is being squeezed out of. First glance, maybe half of her is still real, her platinum tresses accented, her body toned artificially, her lips stuffed to decadence. As she draws closer, you can see in the harsh lighting of the club that her mouth is scarred from repeated insertion of her immaculately manicured nails into the back of her throat, and her back teeth look horrible. On the plus side, she does look attractive, drawn there, upon the lapel of your immaculate coat. You can see that look in her eyes that tells you she's lost, she's yours, take her oh you scurvy wastrel -
"You can see it, in the eyes" (making sure to highlight the accent, twist it, pronouncing it like oyes ), "the way they light up, like the heavens themselves ablaze". You take your women Aryan - blond hair, blue eyed, big breasts, white as the sun - they seem so much more vulnerable, like children lost in the woods, and Los Angeles is a perfect place to find them. The crowded nightclubs with their strobing lights and bass-heavy popular music remixes and flowing streams of alcohol are a haven for the oversexed. It isn't as if you need advantages - the accent is gold, plus you are charming, handsome, wealthy, and successful. At thirty-two, you are already head of a department of a multinational corporation, with nowhere to go but up. But, when on the hunt, it's always best to take every advantage. Your nose for business drew you to your first position at twenty-one, fresh out of Oxford; your first promotion, six months later, over men decades your senior; and to where you stand now, within reach of the wildest dreams of society.
America is a strange place, to be sure. As you take the girl by the hand, drag her toward the door, her bright eyes spinning, ataxia setting in, and (on close inspection) her nose red and dusty, from another kind habit, and the bouncer eying you with the eye of a man watching another man make a kill, proud of his species, a big black guy, quite a nice guy, really, well built and quite good at his job, you're sure, good choice on him, and you wave down your driver, who's been circling the block for the last half-hour, and take the girl to the nearest four-star hotel for a night of the loud and the proud.
The next morning, she will awake, to be sure, to find her clothing missing, along with her purse and any traces of you and a kind gentlemen at the front desk calling up to inquire about checking out and clearing the bill because the nice British gentlemen said the lady would cover it, and naked and embarassed, she'll stammer as he stands on the other side of the door, awkwardly insistent, and by then you'll be back at your own hotel, your real hotel, having a laugh at the fate she's in, boy, she's been ****ed, day and night. And you can feel the sensation crawling in your guts, like lightning, making you giddy, and you step to your balcony, like a high, and stare in awe at a lovely town, built for you. There for the taking...
You look down at your phone. A call from your programmer. " Is the file up?" you ask immediately.
"Yes. It's in your box."
"Good. You'll have your money tomorrow." You look down and end the call. Well then. Staring out into the sky, you consider for a moment. Then, turning, you look down at the swimming pool below - a twisting blue chasm. With a sigh, you drop your cell phone, watching it descend toward the pool. As you turn, you hear a splash, a fizzle, shouts. Then nothing.
ABILITIES:
Monitor Channels (Targeting/Any/Permanent) - Send in the name of a player. At the end of the period, you will learn if that player sent a PM to the mod during that period. You may not use this ability in subsequent periods. This counts as a tracking ability.
ITEMS:
Scoria Virus
System Error (Passive/Any/Permanent) Your abilities and abilities of other items in your possession do not work.
Reinstall (Passive/Any/Permanent) If this item would be destroyed, instead it is returned to its original owner at the end of the next period if he or she is still alive.
Note on Scoria Virus : The Scoria Virus is a software worm that releases its own Trojan to install botnet software in the victim's computer with the antivirus package. Your engineers estimate that it would take just five victim computers to reach a critical mass of virus-spreading computers. If five other players are affected by the Scoria Virus before the game ends, you will win.
Joseph Cazell
OCCUPATION: President of the United States
COUNTRY: United States of America
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The wood table is an antique, presided over by scores of men, each a prophet in his time, and you suspect that were there not many scores of men behind each one, there would be far more rings in it from glasses. Yours is wet, sloshing quietly to itself. The grin on your face would be described by the average passerby as goofy, your head askew, your hands held out crookedly in front of you as if suspended from the ceiling. "Well, hello there kids, my name is Joey the Jallopy! I'm here to teach you about the letter J!" The grin collapses, and you toss the glass across the room, where it joins the others. Wordlessly, an aide brings another, gleaming amber, and places it by your side before retiring again into the unseen corridors beyond. As he closes the door, the light escapes again from the room.
The greatest myth in American politics is that the presidency is an aspirational position. American children dreaming of growing up to become president, until they retreat to less hopeless positions as the titular characters in a perpetual game of Whack-a-Mole. At least they have respite, before they are drawn again to reckoning. The truth is that the president is little more than one mole in one hole that never goes away no matter how much you whack him, perpetually suffering the outrage of a hopeless populace destined to hate its own existence. Hence the glass garden steadily growing in the corner.
Six years running an inherited agricultural equipment wholesaler in Kentucky. Eight years in the state legislature, until you bumped up against term limits. Four years giving speeches at 4A meetings and churches. Twelve years in the United States Senate. Four years as Vice President. Four years campaigning for President. You run the numbers in your head: ...carry the - 38 years, since you graduated college, that means 59, right? fifty-nine years on the planet, plus one year in office, building to a moment where you can throw glasses of scotch whisky at a wall without consequence.
It didn't have to be this way. "My name is Joey the Jallopy!" Thirty-nine years, right, so that means 1969, junior year of college, watching your friends and colleagues drafted into the war that had been reduced to a series of young men operating the gears of a grand and expansive machine with many levers and exposed parts that would lop off a head from time to time, and one brief evening over cannabinoids you contemplated the fate of the world. This is a world led by many, right? And the many must make the right decision. Clearly they have not made the right decision in Southeast Asia, McNamara and his Best and his Brightest collectively drinking fine whiskey and throwing darts at a world map. Why should they, with the state of education in this world? Why, had they been taught as kids that this is right and this is wrong and this is yours and this is mine and when we share the world is a better place - had they been children at some point, rather than spawned from their collective sacs (all laugh, toke) - would we be in this position? What we need, you argued, coughing, is a new Best and Brightest - in education! Despite your state of mind, you were inspired, clarified.
You began teaching to kids at the local schools, first once a week, then two, three, four times, to the point where you were an employee in everything but title and wage. The kids, though - the kids loved Joey the Jallopy, the wise, friendly old pickup truck who taught the kids letters, numbers, but especially about Goodness. "What is Goodness?" the kids would ask Joey, and he would smile in the way only puppets can, and would reply that Goodness is the feeling you get when you do something for someone else that they would want you to do for them, or that they can't do for themselves. And, from above, you would get a small smile, as you manipulated Joey's, watching each child's eyes erupt with the light of a bright Goodness within himself. Such as your brother, who told stories over the kitchen table about Joey's latest visit, as your father and mother listened, politely stone-faced, occasionally casting a dark look in your direction, one asking this is the way you want to live?
One day, you discovered Joey in the garbage can, stinking of liquor. When you confronted your father about it, he turned to you with a dark look in his eyes, one perfectly mirroring the bright light in the children in the class, and without asking your question, you knew what the answer was. As his glass was pulled on a string back to his mouth, the audience applauded politely, and the curtain closed, ending the first act.
ABILITIES:
Head of State (Passive/Any/Permanent) Abilities used on you by non-Americans are canceled.
ITEMS:
Beacon
Evacuate (Active/Day/One-Shot) If you are two votes or less from being lynched, you may choose to instead summon a helicopter to pick you up. You will leave the game. Your lynch will not count toward the one-lynch-per-day rule, but your identity will not be revealed.
---
MOD NOTE: If he decides to Evacuate, the Beacon will go away. If he chooses to be lynched, the beacon will be passed off.
Drew Handler
OCCUPATION: A/V Technician
COUNTRY: Canada
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
I was drowned, I was washed up, left for dead...
Mick Jagger wails in your ear as you snap the last of the connections into place on the speaker system. The room is empty, save the tables, the stage, and the equipment you just set up, and silent, save your MP3 player blasting the Rolling Stones' greatest hits. Say what you will about the mother country, but she's produced some damn fine music in her day.
I fell down on my feet and I saw they bled...
Tomorrow, they'll come. World leaders, and assitants, and camera crews - filling up this room until it's just so much idle noise. But tonight, you and Mick have the place to yourselves. You sent the rest of the techs home hours ago, of course. If you want something done right, do it yourself. What's more, save thirty techs times five hours' worth of salary. You are, as they say, in your element.
I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread...
It's been a good run, these past couple times, you muse as you drum your fingers along with the piano. This will be your firm's third WTO Conference, courtesy of a buddy of yours with a peach job in the organization. Your job is to provide the circus; to provide the spectacle. Good work, if you can get it. Hmmm. "Hey now mister nothin's gonna come for free, I said playin' six string sounds good to me... It's good work if you can get it, good work..." Who was that? Bob Dylan? No... BoDeans, that's right.
I was crowned with a spike right through my head...
Inspiration strikes, and you grab the MP3 player from your pocket. You quickly disconnect your earbuds and swap in the jack that leads to the main speaker input, just in time for the next line.
But it's allllllllll riiiiiiiiight now, in fact it's a gas!
Mick Jagger's voice booms out of the surround speakers, filling the entire press-conference room. Somehow, you find yourself unable to resist leaping onto the stage and grabbing the microphone off the podium.
"But it's allllllllll riiiiiiiiight... I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas gas gas!"
Just for an instant, you can see the stage lights glowing and hear the crowd going wild. Every table in the room is packed, every camera centered on you. You dive across the stage, sliding on your knees and throwing your arms in the air. The stage turns out to be waxed a little better than you expected - a realization that comes too late as you careen into the flags lined up along the back wall, knocking several of them down in succession like dominoes. They land with a loud series of clangs, and the last one catches a suspended cable on the way down, disconnecting the amplifiers and unceremoniously ending the concert.
Working alone has other advantages, apparently. No one's around to see you make an ass of yourself.
ABILITIES:
Reverse-Engineer (Active/Day/Permanent) Choose a discarded item. You will learn that item's abilities.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
Sophia Guerrero
OCCUPATION: Reporter, NBS Nightly News
COUNTRY: United States (form. Mexico)
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"There's room at the top, they're telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill."
"Recently, the city of Compton, California, made famous by the N.W.A. album Straight Outta Compton , has experienced a rebirth, spurred by the collaboration of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office and local residents. Sophia Guerrero has the story."
You look up from the notes in your hand, tossing them aside. "Thank you, James. I'm standing in front of the Martin Luther King Memorial here in Compton. Once a city torn apart by gang warfare, this city, while still ravaged by poverty, is making a tentative step toward the American Dream..."
It's amusing, really, almost ironic. You could say the same about yourself. As the cameraman signals a cut while they play the report, you turn away, looking at the memorial. There aren't many of these anymore, symbols of the past and its promises. There's nothing particularly notable about the memorial itself - it is a series of bent shapes, pulled together and attached to resemble a mountain, or perhaps a throne - it isn't clear. But more and more, this kind of pride is lost. Its abstraction aside, the memorial holds some strange power, its hands thrust toward the heavens, bearing all toward its peak. No wonder the city uses it as its symbol of change.
The cameraman signals at you, frantically, to get your last bit in. You quickly jump in front of the camera and say your line. He gives you the thumbs up and you walk away, again. The crew starts packing up their equipment, discussing the Lakers' recent successes. You aren't in the position to appreciate such carefree delights, but you can reflect on your successes, how you got here.
Four years ago, you worked for Canal 56 in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, on the border with El Paso. It was a decent job, and you were skilled at it, covering local news. Granted, the job didn't pay well, but compared to your surroundings, it was a blessing. Ciudad Juarez is a wasteland, a battleground for drug cartels, a jumping-off point for desparate immigrants. But these pale in comparison to its most horrifying aspect: over the past sixteen years, over six hundred women have been sexually violated and killed, with another thousand still missing. Few people have been apprehended, fewer convicted. Some have linked these crimes to the cartels, but it's far more likely that these acts are the works of depraved individuals, writ large in a city without a pulse. One day, you received a call from a detective in the city to "come in and identify a body". You couldn't go, however. Couldn't bear the sight of whatever he had to offer. When your sister didn't come home, you put two and two together, but still didn't go down to visit her remains, and she became one of the many victims who merely disappear. You were horrified of your actions, but couldn't bear to see her, not even her grave, to bring yourself to face the city head-on. Your work suffered, and as people continued escaping the city, you decided to do the same. Scraping what little money you had saved, you paid one of the many human smugglers operating around the city to get you across the border - first to El Paso, then, to get away from the sight of the hellhole you had escaped, west, into California.
You had skills to offer, of course, but that didn't make it easy to find a job, even in a city growing exponentially from immigration. Eventually, you found a job with a small Telemundo station, KWHY-TV 22. You quickly poured your time and energy into learning more English, and earning enough money to go back to Mexico to cross the border legally, so you wouldn't have to look back every moment of the day. However, as you were noticed by the best in broadcast journalism, you rose quickly through the ranks, first joining KABC-TV 7 for "interest" pieces, then regular news. You quickly became popular for hard-hitting pieces, including an expose of a McDonalds which paid illegals substantially lower wages, even nothing at all at times, and rose in renown as a "friend of the people". You met and shook the hand of Mayor Villaraigosa after a particularly successful piece. Soon, you were picked up by the national NBS Nightly News program. And, as you earned fame and fortune, you forgot about citizenship. Success waits for nobody, and even if (as some have rumored) you were picked to "diversify" the network, you couldn't care less.
As your crew get into their van and drive off, you look at the memorial again. Strange how fate pulls the strings. Your sister died to get you out of Ciudad Juarez, and you drove here in a rented Mercedes. Some in the Hispanic community have suggested you run for political office, and you have shrugged them off, disguising your origins. Your bosses have tapped you for the WTO conference here in a few days. After that, I'll go home and come back. Simple as that. You're wealthy now, and if you have learned anything, it's that wealth and privilege go hand-in-hand in this place. Removing your cellphone from the pocket of your suit, you call your director. "Hey, Harv, it's Sophia. Yeah, it went without a hitch."
ABILITIES:
Sudden Developments (Targeting/Day/Permanent) Post Action -- Post "I'm getting word that X is scum". That player will be killed by a mob. Doing this more than once per day will do nothing. Note that items of players killed in this way will be completely destroyed and will not be identified.
Note on Sudden Developments: While infamy may be undesirable in most businesses, you see an opportunity to profit from it, provided you can get out of here. If you are involved directly in the death of four townies (by participating in their lynches or using the above ability on them) you will lose your current win condition and alignment and gain a win condition of "You must survive until the end of the game."
---
MOD NOTES: If she triggers the survivor shift while a member of the cult, she will pull out of the cult as a survivor. The cult leader won't be told of this. However, she will still be a member of the New India Alliance (due to Kilari's occupation-changing effect), and if he subsequently uses his mass-protection, Guerrero will be affected by that protection.
Items of players killed are permanently removed, rather than being placed in the discard pile. They can't be targeted, and will not be identified. Golta will still get his item back if it is destroyed in this way.
Dr. Samir Hasan
OCCUPATION: Director-General, World Health Organization
COUNTRY: Lebanon
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The letterhead is unmistakable, the chairwoman's signature floral and dramatic, the lettering curt and precise. Your right hand trembles, and the paper waves like a white flag. No funding increase. Fiscal crisis, more important issues, etc. etc., many apologies, etc., appreciate everything your organization does, etc. Emphasis on developing international trade during a period of economic depression. Translation: no money for the dying.
Over your long career, you've adapted to letters of rejection, especially from those in power. And yet each hits hard, the thin pages cutting through you like so many blades, whittling away its tax of flesh until, one day, you expect the last piece of you is lopped off. But this one is different because it is so catastrophic. Without an increase of funding, your organization can't expect to expand its programs - especially devastating because, with more people in developing countries finding themselves cast back into poverty, your programs are more important than ever.
You drop the paper, watching it waft gently down onto your desk, and slump into your chair. As you stare at the light pooling on the floor from the window behind you, your shadow equally dejected, you remember the last time you saw your doppelganger so dismayed - six months ago, in Beirut, sitting in a hotel cafe, as the then-Director-General explained to you patiently that your pet project, health care for victims of gender discrimination in the Middle East, was being denied additional funding. He didn't say the words; he merely slid the piece of paper with that statement across to you, watching with ersatz sympathy as you lifted the paper to your eyes to examine. He flew out to deliver a letter he could have faxed to show how deeply sorry he couldn't provide further assistance, Dr. Hasan, I wish it could be a better year. As you set the paper down gently on the table, your wordless mouth agape, he shook your shaking hand and exited the building to meet his driver out on the street, bumping into a young American man in a designer suit on his way out of a bus. You were too stunned to wonder why an American would ride a Lebanese bus before the missile descended on the bus.
You awoke minutes later, your hand still clutched where it had shaken the Director-General's, your briefcase and the letter of sympathetic rejection charred on the table. Shaking your head, you exited the cafe and ran toward the bedlam. Young office workers in shirtsleeves leaned from windows, and a few exited their buildings to run with you toward the wreckage. One grabbed you on the way there, said something that sounded like bleeding, but you paid him no mind, sprinting toward the Director-General's car, which had been torn apart by shrapnel. The Director-General himself was slumped in the back, a piece of a billboard advertising Coca-Cola embedded in his chest. You stopped, watching blood flow from his wounds, and turned away to help those who could be saved. Your claw-hand, finally, relaxed.
A scream pierced the chaotic calm, reverberating in your head. A young woman crawled from the wreckage, clutching a child, no more than five years old, to her breast. Her head was ringed in blood, but she would not allow anyone to treat her, even as they approached from all angles, instead crying for someone to help her child. Leaning in, you took one of her hands and drew her eyes to you, and she cried my child my child, and nodding numbly, you leaned in and took the child and began immediately applying pressure to its many wounds. In the distance, you spotted a crude sign hanging above a storefront, as a mirage suspended over the desert, conjured by a child: YANQUI HOPSITAL. With your head down to avoid the smoke, you started running.
ABILITIES:
Acquire Supplies (Active/Night/Permanent) You gain one point. If you have three points, you will create Emergency Supplies and receive that item, then lose three points.
ITEMS:
Emergency Supplies
Crisis Response (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player is targeted with a kill during the period, that kill is prevented and Emergency Supplies is discarded. If Emergency Supplies is not used by a trained doctor, the protected player will die at the end of the fourth period after the kill was prevented.
---
MOD NOTE: Dr. Samir Hasan is the only "trained doctor" here. Sigma's a doctor of philosophy, rather than medicine.
Miles Johnson
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Australia
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Two men in pristine designer suits stand, hands crossed over their abdomens, earpieces and sunglasses adorning their otherwise unmarked faces. They watch you as you stand up on your board, trying to catch your balance. The wave wobbles under you and you tumble forward into the cold water off Venice Beach. Coming up laughing, you motion to the two men, who speak into their pieces as you slowly swim your way back in, dragging the turquoise board behind you.
The conference you have been ordered to attend is not for two weeks now, but you can't resist the opportunity to experience American surf. Granted, most of Los Angeles' beaches are hazardous, littered with novice boarders who can readily crash into the more experienced while trying to right themselves, oblivious jet-skiers, and the occasional swimmer who looks like a rock floating on his stomach, staring into the murky fathoms below. But surfing is cathartic, one of the few pleasures left to you. Reminds of home.
Back as a kid, you would surf while your father and elder brother worked his salvage business, retrieving mostly boats that found the reefs less than hospitable. Riding an ocean littered with razor-sharp reefs is the true equivalent of riding the razor's edge; a single mistake can pitch one onto a reef, where at best you'll damage your board and at worse slash yourself open in the middle of the salty depths with no ready escape. You learned the ways of the ocean, studied its philosophy while journeying on its back - examining its ruthless efficiency and quiet persistence, always pushing and never giving ground for more than an instant.
Skills that serve one well when navigating the realpolitik. Australia is a vacant land, one scattered to its edges by another, drier ocean, populated by people who wear kindness on their sleeves occasionally to distract from the daggers in their cloaks. You learned this well the first time you ran for public office, as a comptroller, and discovered your opponent more than willing to cut you down for his own benefit. He unleashed a bitter smear campaign, attacking your friends, your family, and everything you'd ever done, and through it all, you let it push through you, as if expecting the political plateau to push you to the summits of its own free will. When you lost by thirty points, you vowed to never get pushed around. Next election, when the incumbent resumed his attacks on you, you came prepared, bearing a weapon. And you never lost again. Like the sea, you swallowed the world whole, spitting it out as so much fine sand, cast against the endless tides and worn down to nothing.
You learned well.
ABILITIES:
Sabotage (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. All of that player's items are discarded. This ability can't be blocked by abilities of items.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to a local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period. ---- MOD NOTE: Items in the process of being passed can't be destroyed, since they aren't held by anyone when his ability resolves.
Samantha Flores
OCCUPATION: Administrative Volunteer
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"So, that's... good. Good."
"Q"
"They've been fewer and fewer, I think."
"Q"
"Yeah."
"Q"
"I don't know what you -"
"Q. Q..."
"Look, I don't know what you expect of me. I don't want to be here. Can you just give me the prescription so I can get out of here?"
"Q"
"No, I don't want to do any volunteer work. I can't sleep, remember? How the hell is that supposed to -"
"Q"
"..."
"Q"
"I went to see him at the prison last week. He looks leaner, like a tightly-wound spring. The guard repeatedly needed to assure me the glass couldn't be broken."
"Q"
"Maybe for you. Now you see why I want Xanax?"
"...Q. Q"
"...****. Fine, I'll volunteer. Just give me the damn scrip."
"Q"
"Of course you think so."
ITEMS:
Oleoresin Capsicum Spray
Self-Defense (Passive/Any/Two-Shot) Activation - After you activate this item, if a player would target you (based on timestamps) , that ability is canceled. (You may activate and deactivate the item at any time. When an item requiring activation changes hands, it is automatically deactivated.)
Harry Milton
OCCUPATION: Counterintelligence, FBI Los Angeles
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"When does he get it?"
"He doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because he broke the rules."
Who is that man? That man, that Thorn guy. Who is that man? He seems familiar, and in the dream, he seems to walk toward you, but his face is blurred out, leaving an impeccable suit with limbs, a headless horseless man. The cloud-head's lips are moving, with resulting reverborations of fog and smoke echoing out from the etched hole there... you nod, and that seems to satisfy Thorn, who turns and leaves. As he goes, the cloud over his face seems to expand, and by the time he turns toward his office, in the brief moment he lingers in your vision, the cloud seems to swallow him completely, leaving a dark blur at the edge of the hall. After his body leaves the cloud, the latter remains, glowering at the edge of the wall. As you watch, peering over the edge of your cube, it seems to pull away again, sprouting arms and legs, a torso, everything but a head again, a body clad exactly as Thorn was, which dusts itself off and walks back your direction. Quickly sitting down, pretending to be busy, you watch out of your peripheral vision as the new headless Thorn walks past and disappears down the other way.
You stand up, looking again at the cloud, which had latched itself against the wall, glowering. From behind you, a voice rings out, sending icy chills down your spine less from being discovered than from recognition of the voice itself. Turning back around, you discover the second Thorn, standing with an arm leaned over the cube's wall. The cloud has dissipated, revealing the head of your father, as you last saw him: skin worn away to reveal the hauntingly angular skeletal quality, framed in his silver hair and eyebrows, giving him the persona of an ancient Byzantine king. He raises Thorn's normal, young hand to his chin and scratches his beard, the furrow in his brow neatly splitting his face in half. "What are you looking at, kid?" You stammer, unsure how to respond to the phantom. He steps into your cube, and directs you to your chair with Thorn's hand and a violent stabbing point. His lips move, but no words are coming out, just the hissing of a balloon loosing its air. You cower in your chair, watching him, jabbing at you with his finger. As you lean away from him in your chair, the cloud swallows up the pointing finger, and as it disappears, the finger has been replaced by a needle, long, slender, and sharp, connected to a syringe filled with a cloudy fluid, that he shoves toward your chest. Grabbing his armwith a roar, you swing his arm back at him. The needle stabs him in the other arm. His frown lines bulge, wrapping his face in bandages of flesh, and his face erupts, his gaping lips emitting a screeching hiss, eyes rolled back in his head. Pulling back the needle, blood rushes out, pouring over your desk in a fountain. You back away, shocked, as his every pore begins leaking blood, and the cloud reappears, pressing in on you, and as you scream, a real, piercing scream, it flows into your mouth, nose, and eyes, choking you, and you collapse forward into darkness, ears filled with your cries that reverborate in your skull.
As you fall through the dark, Gregory Thorn's head floats toward you, a look of petrification on his face. "Pardon me, sir, but can you tell me the way?" You try to respond, but the only thing that comes from your throat is a raspy hiss. This doesn't perturb the head: "Yes, that's it. Do you know the way?" Hissing. His invisible arm removes his hat, tipping it in thanks, and he turns to go, and as he disappears, you feel the ground rush up to meet you, and your eyes open. Your computer flickers in the dark of the office, the only light available. Rubbing your eyes, you blearily return to work. The air system whispers above your head.
ABILITIES:
Override (Active/Day/One-Shot) Post Action - Quote a vote count and make any number of corrections to that vote count, followed by the word "Fixed". Those corrections will be enacted for the day.
Experiential Learning (Passive/Day/Permanent) If you were targeted by an ability in the previous day or night, you have three votes.
Yuri Nobakov
OCCUPATION: President, Gazprom
COUNTRY: Russian Federation
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your father once told you a story that flows through your mind every time you stop moving. It was a dark night, but it was always dark that time of year. You grew up in Salekhard, in the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug. Your father was an oil worker, up in the dark, amongst the grime of society and the few Nenets too stubborn to leave their land, so outnumbered by Russians they are strangers in their own homes. Salekhard is on the Arctic Circle, nasty place, and in the winter, the sun almost never shines, it's always night, polar night, and you lurk on the periphery of life, constantly, watching for shadows that never appear, some brief flicker of light. Longest night of the year. The streets are lined with light boxes to replicate the sun, people are constantly taking Vitamin D.
Once, your father was out on his station, supervising drilling, when he spots a woman standing out on the ice in the distance, wearing a swimsuit. He shrugs it off as a hallucination from too little light, but the persistence of the image rattled his brain. She persists, standing on the periphery, smoking a cigarette, it seemed, in a swimsuit. The light of the day wrapped around his mind, around the woman, everything seems to disappear - the men, the machinery, the darkness. She turns, shrugging, and walks off toward the edge of the world. Blinded, he follows her. He sees nothing in the world but her: no promise, no future, nothing but a slight moment spent in the void. As he walks, the snow beneath his feet melts away, turning to ash, then nothing, just air. The entire world sinks into itself, fades away. Unbearable lightness.
She stops, waiting for him, still out on the edge of his vision. Her hair is silver, dancing in a cold wind flowing off the sea, but she doesn't shiver. Her eyes radiate light, the only thing he can see in the dark. He knows not where he is, and doesn't care. He reaches out, and as his hand grasps for her, she glowers and recedes. He looks up, starts running into the dark, but she is gone, gone, gone into the ocean. Everything is gone, and he is alone. No light. No future.
As he turns, looking for a hope, he feels a hand massage the back of his neck, cold and bitter. He turns, expectantly, but nobody is there. But he can feel her... he's back home, lying in bed, suffering from a head cold, and she sits over him, her eyes warm and her hands soft, and in the distance, snow begins to fall, the sky pallid. He looks up at the sky, and it all falls away again, he sinks into his mattress, and as he turns over in the dark, he can see her eyes glaze over, turn the color of the void, and she backs away, and everything vanishes, leaving him alone.
He never finished the story. Didn't need to. You could see it on his face, every time he had a second to pause.... The next chance you got, you escaped the Circle, headed south, chasing the sun. Ten years ago, your father froze to death working a station, or so you were told. Really, you know he never left that void at the edge of the world. And, standing here in this damned city, with the sun beating menacingly on your neck, you grimly understand the cold pull of the dark that took your father. Shrugging your shoulders to beat back fate, you turn away.
ABILITIES:
Survey (Targeting/Day/Permanent)
Send in the name of a player. Your associates will stand watch outside that player's room and will provide you a list of all players who targeted that player. Once in the game, you may choose one of those players and block his action that night.
Lodewijk Dutroux
OCCUPATION: Great Overseer, the Order of Epigenitus
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die, and you must have collected three souls for your overlords by the end of the game.
BIOGRAPHY:
Each breath is heavy as you hustle down the street, cursing as you
soak the right leg of your pants up to the ankle in an ill-placed puddle. You kneel down briefly so that no one can see you spit, then
sprint across the intersection to your destination: a dingy, smoky,
and thoroughly unremarkable tavern in an underdeveloped quarter of Los
Angeles. You're already running five minutes late, and you have
learned from experience that the person with whom you're meeting does not take kindly to being kept waiting. You check over your shoulder
nervously out of habit, then step inside.
The bartender greets you as you walk past the counter. "Back again so
soon?" he asks, a bemused smile on his face. You spare him a glance
but are still panting too heavily to respond. Just barely dodging a
barstool, you stagger to the back of the room where you contact is
waiting. As usual, you're the only two customers in the place. As
you sit down, the man tips his hat up ever so slightly to acknowledge
your presence. "Lodewjik," he says, his voice betraying no sign of
emotion. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, his face in shadow -
his masters must be remarkably well-versed in the conventions of the
genre.
Glancing behind you one more time to confirm that the bartender isn't
paying you any significant attention, you being to sputter: "I'm
really sorry for being late today, I just -"
"Enough." With a single word, he silences you. Your stomach knots
itself just a little bit tighter. "As you may be aware, time has
little relevance to myself or to those I represent. Your presence
here is sufficient."
"Uh... good. That's good. I'm glad to hear that." Somehow his
reassurance fails to make you any more comfortable.
"It was our own carelessness that made this arrangement necessary,
after all. In fact, I believe it is time you were made fully aware of
the details. You are familiar with... what was it... Wales, are you
not?"
"Y-yes. Was that really you?"
"On what you would refer to as the eighth day of June, in the year
2008, at forty minutes past midnight. This planet was nearly ended at
that time - an inconvenience to you that we sorely regret. As it is,
we may ultimately be unable to prevent your people from becoming a
casualty of our conflicts. That is why we have approached you."
"Me, specifically? Just me? But why?"
"Because you are remarkable among your species, in ways that would be
difficult to explain to you in terms you could understand. That is
why we require your help to avert mutual disaster for your people and
my own. There are tasks you alone can complete - tasks that are
necessary... for salvation."
Fifteen minutes later, your head snaps up suddenly. Panicking, you stand up sharply from the table, knocking your chair over backwards.
Did you doze off? Is he gone? Where are you, anyway? You feel a
hand on your shoulder and spin around in terror. "Easy, friend," says
the bartender. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I... you... what?" You strain to piece together the events that led
you here. "Did you... did you happen to take note of when the other
man left? The man at my table?"
"The other man...?" The bartender gives you a curious look as he
stoops down to set the chair right. "Friend, you're the only guy
who's been in here in the past hour." He dusts his hands off and
turns to face you again. "Are you sure you're alright?"
You hear your friend's last words echo in the back of your mind. "I'm
fine, thanks," you say, this time assertively. "I'm... remarkable."
As you turn and begin to walk towards the exit, you feel an energy
spreading through your body. Purpose. This must be what it feels
like. You turn to face the bartender one more time before leaving.
"I may not be back here after this. There are some things I need to
take care of." Your eyes narrow as you step outside and stare
defiantly into the sky. "Tasks that are necessary... for salvation."
COMMUNICATION: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address which we will use to add you to the Order of Epigenitus communication group. Once you have recruited members, you will be able to communicate with them in that group.
ABILITIES:
Indoctrination (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will be educated about your overlords and become a follower. This effect will end after the end of the second night after the player is indoctrinated unless you use this ability on that player a second time. This ability resolves immediately upon use.
Tribute to the Overlords (Passive/Any/Permanent) When one of your followers dies, your overlords will seize his or her soul. As a reward, you will gain that player's non-item passive abilities. Your overlords can continue to seize souls after you are dead.
---
MOD NOTES: With respect to the various Passive abilities he can gain:
Daniel Ben-Rabe - yes, if he gains the passive ability, he will be identified as the Israeli Ambassador if targeted with a kill. Derf.
Alexandra Weston - if she didn't lose Celebrity, he'll have the protection, and the flavor will be similar.
Joseph Cazell - yes, he can become President if Cazell doesn't bail or gets shot. Derf derf.
Katrien Darko - the ability "Chairwoman's Fiat" will be renamed "Chairman's Fiat", although he won't be Chairman in occupation.
OCCUPATION: Leader, New India Alliance
COUNTRY: India
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The majority of the players in the game must be members of the New India Alliance.
BIOGRAPHY:
"Our politicians fiddle as innocents die."
You pause, watching the crowds amassed below. They appear to be calm, but you can see the dancing thunder behind their eyes, each and every shimmering with a silent untapped fury.
"After the atrocious attack on our people, they offered us nothing but remonstrations and mediocre actions. Condemnations? Weak; unfocused; undriven; and ultimately fictitious. 'Our politicians fiddle as innocents die.' These are the words we offered in protest - seek revenge on those who killed our brothers and sisters. Pakistan has acknowledged their countrymen's responsibility in these atrocities, and yet we do nothing? 'Our politicians fiddle'; they do not act, they do not acknowledge our pain. Pakistan has done more for us to right this wrong than our leaders have. Pakistan! What blasphemy is this?"
A murmer goes up. A few of your members are out in the crowd, voicing their support - some loudly, to signal strength, and others quietly, to provide a convincing counterpoint. The good cop - bad cop of speechifying. You learned this from your education in the United Kingdom, reading the works of Thucydides, Bismarck, and Malcolm X - all men who recognized the quiet reality of the world. Take or be taken. Let your enemies thrive, and the roots of destruction will spread. Better to rip the plant from the ground to rot.
"One hundred thirty six. Say that number with me - one hundred and thirty six. Feel its weight on your tongue. That weight is not merely the sheer horror of the number, my friends, but that weight is literally the hands of the fallen, dragging your tongue from your mouth to drive you to speak, to action. One hundred and thirty six of our Indian brothers and sisters slaughtered by the Muslim snakes. Many of you have come here because you knew someone killed in the attacks, and my heart goes out to every one of you. I know you wish to speak, to voice the anger of the dead and to avenge their deaths, but you are unsure. Feel the weight on your tongue. That weight of death is also the weight of history, my friends, dragging you to action."
A few passionate cries, this time from non-members. It's slowly working.
"What I have come to offer you, my friends, my brothers and sisters, is an opportunity. An opportunity to make a difference in the world. An opportunity to tell the Americans that they cannot merely keep coming back to us with empty hands and a smiling mask and expect our assistance while they provide weapons to Pakistan; an opportunity to tell Europe to stop overlooking us; and an opportunity to tell the world that we are not afraid to take our place as the world's new masters. Nehru, on the eve of our nation's birth, told the world: 'A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out
from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a
nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.' We have come to that moment again, where India must decide its destiny once again. And I humbly ask that you will join me in fulfilling that dream."
The crowd finds its voice, first slowly, coming from its belly, a deep growl rising to a roar. As you raise your hands to conduct a human orchestra, you smile, wide and bright, and the people take your hand and lead you into their hearts.
ABILITIES:
Recruit (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will join your campaign and gain your win condition and a Neutral alignment instead of his or her other alignments and win conditions. His/her occupation will be addended to include "Member, New India Alliance". Members of the group will be told the other members of the group, but the members of the group may not communicate. Note that some are immune to recruitment. If you die, members of your organization will not revert to their original alignment, though your group will be unable to recruit additional members. This ability doesn't count as your one-ability-per-period.
Political Pressure (Active/Night/One-Shot) Abilities that target members of the New India Alliance (including you) this night are countered.
Surveillance (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player is targeted that night, you will learn the name of the action they were targeted with.
---
MOD NOTE: Immune to recruitment: Anti-WTO members, Daniel Ben-Rabe.
When he dies, the cult doesn't disappear - the recruits keep their new win conditions and will have to take out the rest of the non-cultists to win. This seems more egalitarian to me than the usual "if the cult dies, revert" or "if the cult dies, mass suicide" options.
If he wins, the endgame flavor will involve his party coming to power, nationalistic tensions rising in the region, culminating in the launching of a nuclear weapon by India at Pakistan, with the resolution left in doubt.
So the cult doesn't completely cut off information about its dead members to the town, dead cultists will be revealed as (for instance): Penelope Ayers, Canadian Interpol Liason to the World Trade Organization/Member, New India Alliance, Neutral turned Neutral . This ensures the town has some general idea of how many townies are dead.
Daniel Ben-Rabe
OCCUPATION: Mossad Undercover Operative
COUNTRY: Israel
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: Eliminate all other players
BIOGRAPHY:
The man bound to the chair spits in your face, calls you "kafir". Renouncer; heretic. Turning on your heel, you exit the room, slamming the door behind him. You are twenty-two, on the tail end of your duty to the Israeli Army, and secretly counting down the days. On the other side of the wall, your commanding officer pushes his hands down, emphasizing caution. The man in the room is important, a member of Hezbollah. It is 2006, twenty days into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Stepping into the room, your commanding officer steps in front of the door back into the room, putting his hand on your shoulder. He sees your hand twitching by your gun. The officer is only a few years older than you, a career soldier. He is trained to see the hatred in your eyes. "Be patient. He will crack eventually. He is just angry."
"What right does he have to be angry?" you snap at your officer, who looks away briefly.
"You are also angry. Perhaps he is angry for the same reason you are?" His eyes are piercingly bright, and you pause, looking over his shoulder at the man glowering on the other side of the two-way. "These men are witnesses to destruction, as we are. We have no right to judge."
"Destruction?" You laugh and turn away, and his hand falls off your shoulder. "They are killers; we are merely avenging the deaths of our dead brothers and sisters. Not destruction; cleansing."
"Yes, but... consider where he comes from. He may see those rockets as destruction, and view the ensuing retaliation as cleansing. You understand the cycle?" He walks up to you and puts his hand back on your shoulder. "Now, let's go back in there and ask him the questions we've been assigned." Nodding quietly, like a child being lectured by a parent, you walk past your officer and back into the room. At the first sight of you, the prisoner begins shaking in his chair, less out of fear than anger. The officer moves to the corner of the room to supervise, while you begin interrogating the man. However, it is quickly clear he is not cooperating, and you are frustrated. You grab the prisoner by the collar of his shirt and lift him up in his chair, and he quickly starts shouting panicked obscenities.
Dropping him heavily in his chair, you begin undoing his restraints. "Go get the serum," you tell the officer. He looks perturbed, but curtly nods and goes to retrieve the material. After he leaves the room, you remove your gun from your belt, and with a roar, swing it towards the prisoner's jaw.
The officer looks down at you with a frown plastered on his face, radiating wrinkles. "What are we going to do with you, Matthew?" You don't answer - it was a rhetorical question. "This organization does not approve of torture, even of enemy combatants. Especially visible torture! What were you thinking?"
"I don't know, sir. I was angry; I overreacted."
"Yes, I read your report." He drops the manilla file on the table and runs a hand through his graying hair. "You did overreact, overreact grossly. Israel's legitimacy in the region is contingent on conforming to the public vision of Israel, and the war with Hezbollah did not help that at all. And then to have one of our soldiers torture an enemy combatant. Every American news network is calling this Israeli Abu-Gharib. Despicable. And then the fate of your commanding officer -"
"I told you, sir, he had nothing to do with my actions. I performed my actions all my own."
"Don't be stupid, Matthew. Your actions reflect on us all. That's why your officer did what he did - because he was ashamed to be your commander. You may have acted alone, but that doesn't change how it affects the rest of us." He drops a series of photographs on the table, including one of your officer with the vial in his arm, a look of fear on his face. "He was one of our most promising recruits to Mossad. At least the news networks haven't heard about his fate, either." His eyes level with yours, and you look away quickly, ashamed. "And what are we going to do with you?"
"I have a suggestion, sir," you mumble.
You tell him, and he looks puzzled, then angry. "No, that's unquestionable. It goes against everything this organization and our faith uphold. You would be betraying your commanding officer to eternal scorn."
"It sounds to me like you don't have much of a choice if you want to solve your problems. Sir."
He coughs, scowling. "If the mission wasn't so urgent, considering... damn. Alright then" Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out Daniel Ben-Rabe's dog tags and drops them on the table. "But you cannot make a mistake."
You take your officer's tags from the table and place them around your neck. "I will not, sir."
ABILITIES:
Liquidation (Targeting/Day/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will be killed. Your kill method is a snapped neck. You will receive that player's role PM. You may not use this ability during the first week of each day.
Diplomatic Immunity (Passive/Any/Permanent) Whenever a player tries to kill you, that kill will fail. That player will be informed you are the Israeli Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization (in the flavor).
ITEMS:
Malfunctioning PDA
Procure (Passive/Any/Permanent) - You know of a local anonymous messaging board people at this conference are posting to. You will receive copies of all messages posted to this board, but you may not post messages of your own.
Penelope Ayers
OCCUPATION: Interpol Liaison to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Canada
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: Lynch the Serial Killer.
BIOGRAPHY:
He's shouting, but the words aren't there. You can see his lips, though, and he seems to be shouting about a child. She's shouting, too, but there's nothing there, either, but pleas and supplications. He's holding something in his hand that's out of view, down by his leg, away from the camera, but you can see his arm shaking, playing out the motions in its mind, weighing the options, dancing to its twisted rhythm. The only sound in the room is coming from the turntable in the corner, playing a song, over and over, but not the entire song, because the album is scratched, and it skips, over and over and over again, and the scene seems to play over itself, he shouts and she pleas and the arm shakes and the record shakes and the ground seems to tremble so slightly under the weight it bears anew.
The record has a motto: "It's just a shot away. It's just a shot away. It's just a shot away."
The camera then turns slightly, of its own recognizance, toward the door, where a frantic pounding echoes over the image iterated. The man doesn't move, though, save for his arm and his mouth, and neither does the woman, and the camera seems confused, panning back and forth, as the pounding becomes more insistent. The pounds are a crescendo, but in this space they become individual notes, like bullets, capping the record's fears. "It's just a shot away."
The camera withdraws, slowly, watching the scene unfold, but unmoving, as if its eyes are pulled backward through its skull into the wall behind. As the scene trembles, the pounding rises, encasing everything, including the brutal chorus of the record and the silent screaming people, until it was replaced by a predatory tearing, scraping, shouting, dragging, banging, an antichorus of hyenas at a boar, a joyful ravaging sound, pulling at itself, seemingly calibrated to bear down upon its tail and bite. And where'd ya come frome, childr-? The door fails to reply, and soon, its sheer discord rends it, it disappearing into the quiet void of the skipping world. The man and woman notice the sound bearing down on them not, still silently remonstrating as the sound's champions pull them into the floor, and they disappear, leaving the room ravaged and lonely.
The camera watches, witnessing but unmoving, and slowly pans back and forth, looking for where everyone had gone, but nothing is to be found, save the record and its cries. The world is still. The earthquake has passed. The camera pitches forward, lapses into consciousness.
ABILITIES:
Decisiveness (Passive/Day/Permanent) If the deadline is 72 hours away or less, you have three additional votes.
Information Request (Active/Any/Two-Shot) Ask the mods a yes-or-no question. This question will be answered truthfully, guaranteed, even if another ability would say otherwise.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period. --- MOD NOTE: She must be on the wagon that lynches the SK. If he's lynched after he's dead, no dice; same goes for missing the wagon. If she accomplishes her WC, she wins the game.
Charles Zenebech
OCCUPATION: Commissioner for Economic Affairs for the African Union
COUNTRY: Ethiopia
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: All four people on your list must be lynched.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your aide calls you. "Darko said no. I am sorry, commissioner."
"Thank you, Arthur." Hanging up, you stare out the window. Your hotel room is small - luxurious, but not as luxurious as some of the other delegates' rooms, with their expansive lounges and bars and swimming pools. They are scattered in penthouses across the city, while you are stuck inhabiting this small hovel. You should have seen it coming. Katrien Darko is nothing if not shrewd. Inviting you helps her demonstrate to the General Council the importance of African issues, helps her solidify her chances at keeping her position, but what would it cost her to actually allow you to speak? Instead, you've been cast aside, to inhabit sub-committees and to prowl along the corridors of the conference center, like a jackal. Then why did you have to arrive?
In the corner, you see a small ornamental lamp, the one token you brought here to brighten up the room. It's simple, an antique gas lamp with a wooden base, in which a scene is carved: a young man standing on a savannah, surveying his domain. The kind of piece one might sell to a tourist - indeed, the kind sold to Westerners every day on the streets of Addis Ababa by starving peasents looking for a coin to spend on the next meal. You have prided yourself on promoting policies aimed at getting these beggars off the streets, into jobs, homes. Addis Ababa has a long way to go, but you can be proud of what you've accomplished. And your leadership in the AU has been noticed. People have been speaking about you, been thinking about you. Parliament, maybe even Prime Minister or President, they say.
So to be shunned by these American and European cowards? Why? They say they favor change, but the WTO is stagnating, with the Americans pushing "globalization" (wretched beast, indeed, driving power back into the hands of the wealthy) and the Europeans pushing nothing. And with this recent crisis and the stagnation of the global economy, you fear that another meeting of the WTO will pass with nothing being accomplished. Shaking your head, you grab the vase on the table next to you and throw it out the open window. A few seconds later, a crash, down at the street below. You ignore it, grabbing a piece of paper on the table your aides had provided you, smiling.
It's a list of the members of the special committee assembled. 24 names. Pulling out a fountain pen, you load it, and circle four of them with a flourish. Picking up your phone and calling your aide back, you admire your work. "Change of plans. We're creating some vacancies."
NOTE: Night 0, send us the names of four players in the game. If one of those players is killed in a way other than lynching, you may send in the name of another player as a substitute.
STATUS: You are a member of the game. However, your name will not appear on the list of players. You also will not be counted in the official number of live players, and you will not be counted to determine the simple majority. However, you will still count against the mafia's win condition.
POSTING: Once each day, you may either post in the thread or PM a message to the mods which will be posted anonymously. You may in addition PM votes to the mod, which will also be registered pseudonymously (if you vote in your in-thread posts, they will be registered under your name and the pseudonymous vote will be removed). If you post in thread, your status will be neither confirmed nor denied by the mods.
ABILITIES:
Elicit Sympathy (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. Until the end of the next day, you may vote for that player in the way described above with the following format: " Xyre Votes arimnaes ". That player may not unvote votes you make for him. In addition, you may send that player a message, either with or without your name on it. That player will be permitted a single response.
---
MOD NOTE: Charles Zenebech is, for all intents and purposes, a member of the game; he's just not listed, and not a townie. He can be voted, lynched, targeted, etc. if his identity is revealed. The mods will neither confirm nor deny his existence.
Stolen votes are registered to their owner.
Zenebech's pseudonymous votes will be registered under the name Jack Thompson. Because I need at least one piece of bastard moddery. :-p
Note on the Anti-WTO Faction: Certain important information about the mechanics of the mafia are not included in the role PMs and were instead given to all players in the mafia group forum; see the page "Mafia Group Letter" here or "A Letter to the Mafia" there.
Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
OCCUPATION: Terrorist
COUNTRY: France
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
" Je n'ai jamais ?t? un saint, et je s?r que l'enfer ne sera pas demain ."
Your words peel out of your mouth, floating on stitched wings, into the emptiness of the motel room. It is 0430, and even Los Angeles' frantic soul has lain down in a drunken stupor for a few hours. Only the occasional car passes on the street below. The only light in the room comes from the neon lights, from fast food eateries, late-night shops, pornography stores, theaters, gas stations, and shopping malls, all sitting below, brooding silently as the lights stay on with nobody left to see them. The only sound comes from you, sitting on your bed, talking into a tape recorder clenched in your hand. Your other hand rests on a cell phone, waiting for the call.
Six hours earlier, you stepped off a plane at LAX, caught a cab here. In that time, you've killed three people, mostly for kicks. There's much made of being a hitman, a terrorist, these days, but few people consider the fact that a terrorist is no better than a sociopath with a gun and a will. By the time you've left the city, there will be enough bodies that someone will propose that a serial killer is on the loose in Southern California, and a news reporter will publish that in the paper, citing an "anonymous source", and they'll try to solve the case, the LAPD, and perhaps another sociopath somewhere will emulate the crime, maybe, and maybe he'll get away with it, or maybe he'll get caught. It's irrelevant. You will be back in Paris, away from it all.
What will matter is how the public views your acts. Maybe most people will see the story in the newspaper and ignore it. But there will be a few people who see the story, and feel the petrifying feeling in their spine, one of fear , icy and forboding, lacing its hands on the intestines, leaving you unmoving, unfeeling, and you can stand up, drink some coffee and drive to work, but it won't be the same, your eyes lingering on every vagrant and dark alley and dumpster, expecting to find a body every time you go into a quiet room, or worse, become a body in a quiet room, and you will not stand alone, avoiding staircases and overpasses and taxis. Motels.
With a pause, you set the recorder down on the bed, walking over to the desk, on which you've set your briefcase. Your ironically small overnight bag lingers, set carefully in the corner. Opening the briefcase, you pull out another cell phone, one with more security measures than most small countries' intelligence mainframes. Next to it rests a letter from Patrick Ryan, the activist. He's asked for your help here, at the conference, and when people ask you for help, you know what they mean. But he made you a promise no terrorist could ignore: one job for one suitcase nuke. It didn't require a second request. Anyone who knows who you are who can promise a suitcase nuke knows what they are looking for, and it isn't your job to question the motivations of your supporters. You are professional and successful enough to expect nothing from those who would ask of you. Your resume is impressive. Indeed, twenty-four hours previously, you had left the president of France, Michel Buchard, bleeding from a stiletto left in his jugular vein as you stepped from his apartment to catch a cab to the airport to catch a flight here.
Walking to the corner, you pull a small case out of your bag. An impossibly small case, out of which you pull several pieces, impeccably polished, packed in foam, precisely. You had sent it to the motel by mail a week earlier, having it delivered at precisely the time you walked in the door. Pulling out the pieces, you begin assembling them. The pieces look innocent upon inspection, but once they begin coming together, they resemble what they really are: an M40 A3 standard American Marine issue sniper rifle. Carrying it to the balcony, you look out over the sleeping city, your eye settling on a young man, sitting at a bus stop, wearing a red bandana. Perfect. Lying down, gun pointed through the slats of the wood making up the railing, you watch him sit, idly, foot bobbing slightly.
You're not like most sociopaths. Most sociopaths want to kill and move on, but you're a humanistic killer. You like to consider the people you snuff out. Perhaps this kid went to school in a tough neighborhood, got good grades, but had a brother who joined a gang, a brother who had a tremendous impact on the kid, he worshiped him like a god, and when the brother was shot, the kid felt obligated to do something, and so, with a heavy heart, he dropped out of school and put on the bandana. Or perhaps he's just a drug dealer, never had a care in the world beyond it, and deserves death. Across the street, the edges of the world refract into a million iterations of the same moment, all with the potential of life and death. All snuffed out.
The muzzle of the gun roars, resounding across the street, and the bullet catches the kid in the head, through the bandana. You pause, looking at your work through the gun's scope. It will take a while for someone to figure out that the clotting hole in the bandanna isn't a design perk, but a bullet wound, and it will take longer to rouse the police to bring them to what appears to be a drive-by shooting. Perhaps they'll perform an autopsy, dig out the bullet, check the caliber, do ballistics trajectory analysis and recognize that it was fired from a large rifle from a distance similar to the one you are at now. It doesn't matter. In four hours, you will be away. Your fingerprints aren't on file anywhere, and you paid cash. And the police will pass it down to the gangs division, who will do nothing with it, and nothing will change.
Quickly disassembling the gun and storing it back in its case, you return to your tape recorder and hit the record button with your thumb. You don't speak... you just listen, as the tape picks up the quiet of the black morning.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Assassination (Active/Night/Permanent) You will carry out the mafia nightkill against the target chosen by the mafia each night. This does not count as your one-ability-per-period.
Threat Negation (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. You will follow that player during the night. If he or she uses a nonpassive ability, you will intervene and the ability will be countered. If he or she does not, you will not act, and that player will not be informed he or she was blocked. You will be informed if an ability was blocked in this way.
Alexandra Weston
OCCUPATION: Actress/Member, Green Nation Movement
COUNTRY: United States of America
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players , and one member of the Green Nation Movement must survive.
BIOGRAPHY:
The overwhelming burning scent permeates your mind. Your vision is constantly shrouded, wanderings through the old-wood forests of your youth as quiet chatter echoes from the fog-cast edges of the consciousness. But this scent is different, unusual. You wake up, and immediately recognize it: your servants' coffee, carelessly left about in cups that emit the noxious vapors that resemble burnt ****.
Shaking your head to remove the last lingering images, you shower and dress, pausing briefly to take your morning pill - the small blue ovoid dot of sertraline hydrochloride. Your cellphone, lingering by your purse, features a message from Patrick, with the meeting place. Nodding to yourself, you examine the planned route, then delete it. While he may value traveling incognito, you have always taken some quiet solace in driving through the most crowded streets. Your large Bel Air estate, product of your success, is frequently empty and isolating, with grim quietude that lingers like an unfulfilled promise, lounging on your recliner with a teacup in hand, whispering secrets to nobody in particular while disappearing into the dawn, rising again to drag through the day.
Taking a clandestine side exit to avoid the paparazzi who camp outside your front gates, you massage the Porsche 911's accelerator, feeling the road scatter beneath the vehicle's power like so many mice. The tinted windows provide privacy, allowing you to survey the throngs gathered on Sunset, moving about their business as if dragged by unseen beasts pulling invisible chains. Celebrity may be slavery, but there is some pleasant schadenfreude in the reversal.
You are the first to arrive at the warehouse. The rest - Patrick, Raymond, Trevor - file in, taking seats on a set of stiff chairs set out in a corner. The warehouse is populated by cars, most stripped clean. You sniff, tempted to reach for the handkerchief you keep on hand for this kind of situation. The place is filthy, even by chop-shop standards; no wonder Patrick was so drawn to it. The odors - car exhaust, gasoline, and various unidentified industrial scents - form a haze that, though transparent, distorts your surroundings.
The plan is simple, so the meeting is short, but Patrick, you know, is a stickler for efficiency. He has been invited by Katrien Darko personally to speak on his efforts on environmentalism. You will enter disguised as his aide, while Raymond will join his protege, who is undercover as an FBI agent. Sartori will join the president, and d'Avignon will arrive in disguise. And the rest of the plan to lock the facility down is up to Raymond, who assures that his people can "handle it." Knowing what little you do about his organization, you still feel a lingering doubt about him. Something isn't quite right... he's a schemer, a power-player, and cares little about your movement. Still, though, in crisis any ally is a friend and confidant, no matter the danger they pose.
As your group disembarks, Patrick walks up to you, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. "So, we will -" You nod sharply, and he turns without another word and exits the warehouse, shutting the door quietly behind himself. By the time you exit into Los Angeles' choking smog, he is long gone.
MAFIA GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will receive further instructions there.
ITEMS:
Cellular Phone , Cellular Phone , Cellular Phone
Communiqu? (Passive/Any/Permanent) The two players with the Cellular Phones can communicate via PM whenever they like. Copy us on all PMs. (Upon receipt of a Cellular Phone, the recipient will learn who the other bearer is.) --- Kill method: Ceramic knife
Patrick Ryan
OCCUPATION: Musician/Leader, Green Nation Movement
COUNTRY: None (form. Republic of Ireland)
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
As the man in the Armani suit moves to greet the President's helicopter, you stride toward the stairs, taking them three at a time, and descending to the lower level. Your cell phone is out in an instant, calling up Alexandra. "We're on," you say, before immediately hanging up. As you approach the elevator, the office assistant whom you avoided on the way in spots you. You try to lower your hat and walk past without being identified, but she spots you.
"Mr. Ryan! Mr. Ryan!" she shouts. You think, ****. "Mr. Ryan! I'm such a fan of your work!"
You turn, an awkward half-smile on your face. "Well, hello. It's nice to meet a fan." Your hand moves for the felt pen you keep in your pocket for such emergencies.
"If it isn't too much trouble, Mr. Ryan, would you mind signing an autograph for me?" You nod, and pull out the pen, whipping it across the piece of paper she pushes across the desk. Thanking you profusely, she tries hanging onto you for a longer conversation, but you excuse yourself and head into the elevator, waving jerkily as you escape. You quickly tap out a message to your driver, and as you exit the elevator, watch him pull up to the entrance. Quickly getting into the vehicle, a blacked-out Escalade Hybrid SUV, you motion to your driver, who wordlessly pulls away, onto the 110 South, toward the meeting point. You listlessly look out the tinted window, watching the world peel away.
It's been a long time since that day in 1991. Back then, you weren't Patrick Ryan, you were Padraig O Caoimh, a lowly foot soldier in the Provisional Irish Republican Army. It was a normal mission: proxy bomb. Take a westbrit, tell him to deliver a car bomb to a British military base, else his family will be shot. Not too troublesome, happened all the time in the Troubles, until the guy's son sneaks up behind you and hits you with a brick. Last you heard was some gun fire, then black. Woke up six days later in a ditch outside Omagh with the gun of a British soldier pointed in your face.
Fortunately, you didn't have your identification on you, so they let you go, But that whack on the head made you consider yourself. Here you were, standing in a ditch in Northern Ireland with a nasty bump on the head - for what? For Ireland? Why Ireland? What makes Ireland different than the world? From that moment, you were a changed man. You renounced your citizenship through a legal loophole, and set about preaching your new faith: environmental awareness, peaceful action, and socialism - the Green Nation Movement. What separated you from the average paranoid whack was your gift for guitar, picked up begging for pennies in the streets. With a new Anglicized name, you were ready to capture the world.
As you pull up to your meeting point, your eyes readjust, returning to the present. Alexandra's car is parked out front, but nobody else's. Funny. Usually, she's never more than fifty feet from throngs of her worshippers. Chuckling, you step out. Gesturing again to your driver, you knock on the door to the warehouse, which is quickly opened, revealing a cross Alexandra Weston.
"You told me they'd be here by now," she half-shouts, half-whispers at you. Motioning for her to enter, you grab the door and slam it shut behind you. "Trevor, John, and Ray"
You wince. Hard to believe she's a member of your organization with that lack of respect for others. "I don't know where Sartori or McNulty are, either. We've got a bit of a setback with d'Avignon."
"What kind of -" she starts, still shout-whispering despite the privacy of the warehouse, when McNulty steps into the building, brushing off his jacket and adjusting his specs. "Ray! Took you long enough."
"I'm sorry, dear. A man my age can't just hustle about. The people here," he chuckles, "they're in such a rush. Asses honking at me on the highway. Ridiculous." He points back at the door. "Sartori's outside taking a phone call. I think that's everyo-"
"No, it's not, but it'll suffice for now." You cough, rubbing the stubble on your jaw. You stick your hand into your pocket and pull out a lozenge. "Let's get started."
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Black-label (Active/Any/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote a player and post :dontoverusethis:. When that player dies, if you are still alive, that player will reveal as Anti-WTO . When you die, that player's true alignment will be revealed.
ITEMS:
Suppressor
Quiet (Passive/Night/Permanent) When using Assassination , you cannot be watched or tracked. If you are the mafia leader, you will not lose your kill immunity by performing the nightkill.
---
MOD NOTES: Kills made with Suppressor have the kill method of shooting, even if an ability says otherwise.
Kill method: pipe bombing
Trevor Sartori
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
As the man in the Armani suit walks with the President off the helicopter pad, the helicopter's other passengers disembark. The President's chief of staff follows him, dutifully taking notes, while another intern carries various bags and accoutrements. The pilot steps out, wandering away to get the helicopter set up to take off again, leaving you alone on the landing pad, staring at the ocean.
Sigma's an old bastard, but he knows the rules of this game. His peons are capable enough, and whatever the kid's name is certainly knows how to play people. But you get a rotten sensation whenever you're within ten feet of anyone from The Associated Press. They're your allies, but not by choice, no. Were this mission feasible without the resources and opportunities the Associated Press has to offer, you would set out alone. Unfortunately, treason requires a more dedicated approach. Cazell may have the trappings of an old hand, but he's weak. You've seen it in your four years under him. Your position was the result of an elaborate compromise established between Cazell's Democrats and your Republicans to "reach across the aisle" and "collaborate with the Republicans". It makes you gag just thinking about it. Political theory aside, very little in politics has to do with cooperation. Most major successes in history have left bodies in their wake.
To be fair, before you were picked for this job, you were the Governor of New Jersey - certainly a fine position, though considering that state's history, one fraught with peril, and one you were happy to sacrifice. Of course, if there's an opportunity, better to take it. Which is how you are here, working with these people. They clearly don't respect you, or your savvy, or the risk you're taking to be here. Ryan, Weston, and Kilari are all just silly idealogues, unfit for true action, and Sigma is too engrossed in his subterfuge to truly enjoy the spoils of his sieges. Shame, really, that so much talent might be wasted on someone so short-sighted. You are here to demonstrate the error in their ways.
Which isn't to say that their other name for you is incorrect: "profiteer". That's fair, even appropriate. You're taking advantage of them, and they know it. What they don't know is that you could care less what they think, provided they do their jobs. If the September 11th terrorist attacks made anything clear to the American political establishment, it's that truly powerful action first requires a reaction, and while the many paranoids speculating about specks on photographs of the towers are deluded, their paranoia does indicate an as-yet untapped source of power: paranoia about terrorism. While the Bush administration merely took advantage of a ripe opportunity, you are more pragmatic. You create your opportunities.
When, days from now, the American public discovers a terrorist attack in a major American city, at the site of a major international conference, your partisans will be perfectly aligned to make their move, criticizing lax counter-terrorist policies by the Cazell administration. And you will be perfectly set up to take the credit for your leadership here. Who knows... you might be able to leverage your actions here into a nomination for Vice President. That sounds superb.
As you stare at the blue of the ocean, you smile. It all looks so small from here, like you could reach down and pull a skyscraper from its roots in the ground and throw it like a stone into the depths. Satisfied, you turn and pull out your phone. It's time to get started.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Supervise (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. The first ability that targets that player this period (based on timestamps) will be countered. You may not use this ability in subsequent periods.
Political Connections (Passive/Day/Permanent) If you end the day voting for a player that is not lynched, you will learn that player's alignment.
---
MOD NOTE: If a player has multiple alignments, he will learn all of them. He doesn't learn what the alignments mean, though. For the various neutrals, he will receive the appropriate color ( Neutral (Cult), Neutral (Serial Killer), Neutral
(Other))
Kill method: Disguised zip gun
Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
OCCUPATION: Member of the Board of Directors of the Associated Press
COUNTRY: United Kingdom (Northern Ireland)
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players , and you must have received more faction votes than Patrick Ryan at the end of the game.
BIOGRAPHY:
You step out of the warehouse, shaking your head and polishing your glasses. Alexandra Weston's a nice girl, but she's a wreck, you can tell, at once obsessed with and reviled by this noxious city. And Patrick Ryan... ah, old friend. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly , eh? He may act like a genuine saint, and he certainly styles himself one. But there is no time for saints in a fiery land, and there's smoke enough here for a thousand fires. As your associates from California like to say, something is always burning in Los Angeles. Always you bite your tongue before you note where else that occurs.
No, Patrick Ryan is a criminal. He styles himself a saint, but he is a fine sinner. Utilitarianism is always just a mask worn by the true radical, willing to destroy everything for a sliver of "good". How archaic! Why ought one wear a mask to accomplish good. Why ought one accomplish good at all? How antiquated!
As Patrick Ryan returns from whence he came in his car, and Alexandra does the same, you watch, standing in front of the warehouse, hand in your pocket, idly toying with your pocketwatch. Those two have no idea of your capabilities or connections. Indeed, people who know of the Associated Press - the syndicate, not the journalism outfit, though the latter does provide a suitable cover for your operatives - are few and far between, especially in comparison to their corpses. Curiosity is overrated; knowledge is only important if it suits your needs. This is why the international community values intelligence so highly. Nobody gets top secret clearance to spend their afternoons with a file and their favorite armchair. Something your organization's collateral damage should have learned more fully.
From behind you, the man in the Armani suit walks up, not speaking. He knows his place, good student. "Is everything ready?" you ask, eyes locked on a mural across the street of Michael Jackson. He affirms. "Then go, meet up with them at the hotel. Pass on that everything is going according to plan. I will drive myself." He nods, though you cannot see it, and walks back around the building. Turning around, you pick up what he had quietly left on the ground - a key to the surveillance van. Good kid.
You've been in this business - the knowledge business - for a long time. Working intelligence for the British Army in Northern Ireland, for a long time. You watched your country peel and rend, as you quietly watched and learned, for a long time. Until a young kid walked into your door and turned your life inside out. That was long ago, but the image is a still frame in your memory, always lurking on the wall of your consciousness' small apartment. Your country, your livelihood, all gone away. And you learned something in the process. But no need to linger in the past. Death comes to everything, including history.
As you climb into the van, you pause to look at your reflection in the window. Your graying hair has still kept its thickness, and your face, in spite of age and wear, still shows its youth through. You have sought and largely achieved revenge through years of investigation and hundreds of thousands of American dollars. Once, you asked yourself why you did it, and eventually, as you crossed one of the last names off the list, you discovered the answer - a reminder of what you have lost, to spur yourself further into the future. Once everything you've known has been washed away, one finds himself standing on the edge of a vast ocean, born again in the image of a squalling child, forever free of any past knowledge, ready to begin again. Forgiveness is difficult, but forgetting is simple.
As is the world, you recognize. For the life of you, you have never understood why power, privilege, control, and the very fundamentals that drive humanity, are the simplest of concepts. It defies reason, as does the world itself. At your age, a man learns simply to stop pushing and let go. A lesson Mr. Ryan could use himself, were his life measured in more than days. But your organization recognizes the obstacle he poses. He hides behind his political and social connections, safe from his old enemies who would happily greet him with bullets. Were those connections to vanish, he would be at their mercy, and the ensuing conflict would ensure a revival of the Troubles back home - just the sort of motivation needed to get the Irish to sign on to the Lisbon Treaty.
That suits your organization, but what motivates you? Well... you know how it is with old friends.
You turn on the equipment, and the monitor displays an image from your meeting in the warehouse, taken by remote camera. Patrick Ryan's furrowed brow, glaring at you. You expected more from him, to be honest. He is not a worthy foe, not in the slightest. But he will do.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Quid Pro Quo (Targeting/Day/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote another player and post :fish:. You will receive that player's role PM. That player is unlynchable today.
ITEMS:
Remote RFID Reader
Identification (Passive/Any/One-Shot) If a player is killed holding this item, that player's role PM will be posted. (If a mafioso is killed with it, the names of their associates will be redacted.)
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
--- Kill method: Ricin poisoning
Mafia Group Letter
The below has been copy-pasted from the mafia group forum.
Lady and gentlemen,
Welcome to the mafia group. I trust you?ve
all had an opportunity to familiarize yourselves with your documents.
Before we begin, just a few special points of interest. Please read them
carefully.
The Mafia consists of Patrick Ryan
(Jobie), Alexandra Weston (Deaths_Vampire), Dr. Raymond McNulty
(RobRoy), Trevor Sartori (AlphaInsidious), and Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
(Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa). Unfortunately, the latter has a notorious
disregard for collaboration. He has been given access to the Google
Group, but is not allowed to post. It is up to you to communicate your
intentions to him. Speaking of which,
The Group ?
It?s a nice, cozy little place. It?s also your hub for discussions. You
may post here whenever you like, while alive. We ask that if you are
sending your message to the entire mafia, you post the message here, for
the sake of simplicity.
As opposed to what, you ask? That?s a
good question.
Private Communication ? In addition
to the mafia group, you may send PMs to individual members of the
mafia. (Please forward copies to the mods. Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon is
not allowed to respond to PMs sent to him by mafia members.)
Why
might you want this ability, you ask? That?s also a good question. You
ask a lot of good questions.
Mafia Factioning ? As
in all democracies, the balance of power in a mafia is constantly in a
state of flux. And power, as each of you knows, is everything; having it
can save your life, and lacking it can cost you the same.
During
the pregame and each game night, each mafia member must submit the name
of a member of the mafia (with the exception of John-Baptiste
d'Avignon) in the form Vote: arimnaes . These votes bear no
resemblance to the standard votes to determine lynch. The player who
receives the most faction votes in this way will become the leader of
the mafia for the following day and night. In the interest of progress,
we suggest you discuss your votes during the previous day.
Being
leader of the mafia has certain privileges. The leader of the mafia
gains the following abilities during the following day and night
(overlapping with the next night's vote):
Leviathan (Passive/Any/Permanent) You
are immune to all kills except for the lynch so long as you do not
perform the mafia nightkill.
Target Selection (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send
in the name of a player. That player will be killed. This ability
doesn't count as your one-ability-per-period.
You all are very
highly motivated people, but there are some things people will not do
unless necessary. Murder is one of those things. Fortunately,
Jean-Baptise d'Avignon is more than happy to oblige. It is just a matter
of instruction. While he is alive, he will automatically perform all
kills on targets chosen by the above ability. If he dies, each of you
will receive an ability for making the nightkill. While choosing the
target does not take the godfather's night ability, performing the kill
will take the ability of the chosen assassin. Keep this in mind while
planning your activities.
In conclusion, we will offer you
the following advice from Niccolo Machiavelli:
"A prince being
thus obliged to know well how to act as a beast must imitate the fox and
the lion, for the lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox
cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to
recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves."
Good luck.
arimnaes
and Xyre
Actions
[Note: Players in red have been killed in this period.]
Day 1
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Christopher Exodus - blocks Nom Anor
kpaca - Jorge Sur - Activate Sawed-Off Shotgun to kill Nom Anor
Zionite - Xu Tao - Activate Syringe of Sodium Thiopental to learn whether zindabad's "Yes, I am town" is true (Answer: Yes)
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni - Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom - Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - PDA message sent
Nom Anor - Sophia Guerrero - attempted to daykill loran (blocked by loran)
Penguin of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
desCoures - Miles Johnson - PDA message sent
RafaelK - Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux -
Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa - Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon -
Deaths_Vampire - Alexandra Weston -
Jobie - Patrick Ryan -
AlphaInsidious - Trevor Sartori - Received results for Charm_Master3125
RobRoy - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty - PDA message sent
Ged - Talin Bhav Vijay Kilari
Cyan - Daniel Ben-Rabe - kills Ged, gets his PM
Charm_Master3125 - Penelope Ayers - Information Request: "Is kpaca the SK?" (Answer: No)
Bilbroxain - Charles Zenebech -
Night 1
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Gives Rafaelk the Scoria Virus
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - PDA message sent
Penguin of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan - Acquires supplies (point total: 1)
desCoures - Miles Johnson - Sabotages Rafaelk
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov - Watch Pale Mage
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - Indoctrinates Jobie
Deaths_Vampire
- Alexandra Weston - Gives zindabad a Cellphone
Jobie - Patrick Ryan - Chooses to kill desCoures; elects self to commit kill
AlphaInsidious -
Trevor Sartori - Supervises himself
RobRoy - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty -
Cyan - Daniel Ben-Rabe -
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Day 2
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Used Monitor Channels on Charm_Master3125
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - Reverse-Engineers Oleoresin Capsicum Spray
Penguin of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan -
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux -
Deaths_Vampire
- Alexandra Weston -
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
-
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori -
joboman (r. RobRoy) - Dr. Raymond "Sigma"
McNulty - used Quid Pro Quo on Cyan; PM revealed due to Identification
Cyan -
Daniel Ben-Rabe - Daykills joboman. Unlynchable this day due to Quid Pro Quo. Took Remote RFID Reader off joboman
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers - Asks "Are any of the following people the person I need dead: Charm_Master3125, Cyan, kpaca, joboman" (Answer: Yes)
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Night 2
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus - blocks CM
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch - repairs Sawed-Off Shotgun
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan - gets second point
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores - passes Scoria Virus to Charm_Master3125
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov - watches Zindabad
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits Cyan
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
- kills Ecophagy
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori - supervises self
Cyan
-
Daniel Ben-Rabe - gives Remote RFID Reader to CM
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Day 3
Syrenz - Katrien Darko - makes Cyan unlynchable
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite
- Xu
Tao -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta
- receives Suppressor
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - REs the Sodium Thiopental
Penguin
of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan -
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton - Has extra votes
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - receives Jobie 's soul (no effect)
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
- Black-labels Cyan
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori -
Cyan
-
Daniel Ben-Rabe - shoots CM
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Night 3
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas Finch - Passes Sawed-Off Shotgun to Niv
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom - Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - sends PDA message
Penguin of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - tries to get third point; Blocked by Dancing Mad
RafaelK - Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - watches AI
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits AI
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - Passes Syringe of Adrenaline to PoD
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Gives Zionite the Virus
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - Protects Zindabad
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - Watches Syrenz
Guardman -
Lodewijk Dutroux - Indoctrinates Zindabad
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - Supervises himself (no kill)
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - passes PM the Amphetamines
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - passes Niv the Virus
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - gets point, protects AI
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - watches PoD
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits __, loses AI
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - kills Calvin
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
Day 6
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux -
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori -
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
Night 6
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
gives AI the
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - gives Guardman the Armor
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - gives Syrenz the Amphetamines
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - protects Zindabad
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits AI
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - attempts to kill Guardman, blocked by his inherited protection
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
----
Appendix I - Bilbroxain's List
players are listed here in the order in which they were selected
red means player was lynched
blue means player was killed in a way other than lynch and replaced on list
Niv (r. kpaca)
joboman (r. RobRoy) - Daykilled Day 2
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Daykilled Day 4
Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa - Lynched Day 1
Penguin of Death - added Day 2
shibui
(since Jobie is the tiebreaker, AlphaInsidious is the leader)
From this point on, since he's the last one alive, AI is permanent Faction Leader.
----
PDA Message Board
Messages Submitted via PDA on Day 1:
shibui (Drew Handler):
The following is a monthly test of the Emergency Alert System. This is only a test.
*silence*
This is a coordinated monthly test of the broadcast stations in your
area. Equipment that can quickly warn you during emergencies is being
tested. If this had been an actual emergency such as a tornado warning
or severe thunderstorm warning, official messages would have followed
the alert tone. This concludes this test of the Emergency Alert System.
desCoures (Miles Johnson)
"RafaelK is likely scum. Pale Mage may be scum."
Night 1:
shibui
Pete turned to him and said, "You know, outside of the toe-tappin' hits,
I really don't know or care for them."
It hit him almost as an insult, "... but it's the stones! Paint it,
Black is an all-time great!"
"I'll sing along to Jumpin' Jack Flash or Satisfaction
with a drink in my hand, but they're just anthems and nothing all that
special. I'd rather listen to something current that rocks, like Lady
Gaga."
"You disappoint me, Pete... you really do."
Night 4
shibui
"I don't see why everyone isn't accepting MMoD's information since we're
yet to have anyone's information disproved or circumvented."
Additional Flavor (PMs and Ending)
Additional Flavor PMs
These PMs are designed to two purposes: better inform individual players about complexities in their characters' stories/backgrounds, and to avoid (in the mafia's case) posting these in the main thread, where the identities of the mafia would be revealed. In the case of Sophia Guerrero and Christopher Exodus, they both play significant roles in the game's side-story and the mythology of it all, requiring more development than one could fit into a single role PM.
Contents:
[1] - Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
[2] - Patrick Ryan
[3] - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
[4] - Alexandra Weston
[5] - Sophia Guerrero
[6] - Christopher Exodus
===
[1] - JBDA
--
November 1997
"Q"
"Believe me, if I knew more about him, I'd be working with Interpol personally. As it is... well - off the record? - in my profession, we have less facts than 'guesses'. It isn't as if I know where he is or now, or what he is like in person. Obviously, nobody who has met the man has ever come forward, so... well, I don't know what to tell you. But I strongly believe what I've hypothesized to be true."
"Q"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Q"
"Well, that's an interesting thing. The Amsterdam affair was, I believe, the first time Mr. d'Avignon was forced to improvise on the job. The CIA keeps its operations tightly under wraps; indeed, had it not failed so spectacularly, we probably never would have heard about it. But, so Mr. d'Avignon had to respond to what he encountered, the opposition. The forensic evidence suggests that he could have very easily been captured."
"Q"
"No, I don't know why he was there. It has long been speculated that he is a mere mercenary, but I have postulated (as I'm sure you're aware, having read my book Jean-Baptiste: The History and Motivations of Europe's Greatest Assassin ) that he -
"Q"
"Well, I figured your viewers might -"
"Q"
"He is driven by a primeval desire to kill. Little evidence has turned up to prove one way or the other, but there are many murders which many criminal psychologists, and indeed Interpol itself, want to classify as 'copycat killings' or merely coincidences, which I would argue are really personal killings by Mr. d'Avignon. Which isn't to say he gets a psychosexual thrill out of killing, as some of my colleagues whom I will not mention by name have speculated, and to that effect, I do not know why he was in that brothel. I do believe, however, that he kills for sport, and that he works as an assassin merely because that allows him to utilize his... particular skillset for profit."
"Q"
"Well, that depends on whom you ask. It's been speculated that he's been in the market for greater and greater weapons - decomissioned Soviet weaponry, mostly. It's largely unclear as to why, and the Freudians among my colleageus won't shut up about it, I'm afraid to say. They've argued that he's looking for a greater level of destruction, kind of related to his twisted conception of Christian morality, like he's trying to communicate with his mother. Merde , if you ask me."
"Q"
"Very little, I'm afraid. We know that he was born in Avignon, obviously, son of a local prostitute. We know little about the family, although it's speculated that his father was a member of the French Foreign Legion. Personally, I think that's a myth, but we know nothing to refute it, so..."
"Q"
"Oh, sorry. His mother died in childbirth. Eclampsia, most likely. We don't know why she took him to term, either, rather than get an abortion. Apparently, he was raised in a Catholic orphanage, but disappeared from there at fifteen. We believe that's where he took his name, 'Jean-Baptiste'."
"Q"
"Nobody knows why he chose John the Baptist. At one point, an article was written speculating about its metaphorical purpose, the 'cleansing' of souls, perhaps, but nobody gives that theory any real credibility. It certainly is ironic, though."
"Q"
"Well, the first kill classified as a Jean-Baptiste kill was 1994, in Strasbourg. A hotel manager was garotted with piano wire. It wasn't until more of these kills started cropping out across the Nineties that the pattern was made back to that point."
"Q"
"As with much of his actions, nobody's really sure. Myself, I think it was an impulse kill. That, and the guy was Muslim. There's a bit of evidence to suggest Jean-Baptiste has a problem with non-Christians, especially Muslims, maybe related to his upbringing. This was before he got into more of a pattern... a few years later, he started to crop up in Munich, and there were a rash of killings there that have been linked up with his M.O. as we understand it today. None were religiously oriented. By then, I think he understood the scope of his range."
"Q"
"Deep seated anger over the Crusades? Hell if I know."
"Q"
"That's a good question. In fact, it comes mostly from matched forensic evidence, and the accounts of scattered people in the vicinity of his crimes - people who had passing encounters with him, especially back in that Munich period. In fact, we only know his name because he was arrested at one point, by Munich police -"
"Q"
"Oh, no. Petty theft, allegedly. They let him off with a warning. It wasn't until the tenant of the apartment two floors up was found dead, with security footage placing Jean-Baptiste outside at the time of the killing, did they put two and two together. It's strange, indeed, that he doesn't seem to go by a nom de guerre anywhere he goes. People probably figure the name is common - which it is - or just haven't heard of him, which is a shame. But what can you do? Much of this evidence is confidential, so it isn't as if he's a household name, especially not here. He's not a Unabomber, I can tell you that. But it isn't as if he's rash, or cocky, or inattentive. It ties into that theory that he's trying to, well, 'cleanse' people. At one point, there surfaced a document, kind of like a d'Avignon Manifesto - y'know, like Kaczynski - that claimed that he was doing it to liberate their souls from humanity's fiendish designs for the future. As if he felt like he had been tasked by God to, well... for lack of a better term, 'return to sender'. Or as if he's God's hand of vengeance, cleansing mistakes in his grand design. Obviously, the thing was total hoax - full of contradictions, a very clever forgery, probably by some college student somewhere. But, well... it does seem a bit convenient."
--
[2] - Patrick Ryan
"Did you-"
"Yeah, I saw it."
"And?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"It's a disaster. If the other networks pick this up... well, you know the stakes at hand. We're doing some good here, and this NBS ***** wants to pull it back."
"..."
"Well, she seems to have her facts in order."
"**** no she doesn't. She talks to one person who's known me before and thinks she has the entire picture. I've been nothing but forthcoming about my associations with the PIRA, and have made it clear that I've moved beyond that. If she thinks getting a bastard who thinks he can earn a lesser sentence with media frenzies will be enough evidence to destroy my campaign, then screw her. She's got nothing, nothing at all." A pause. "Screw her."
"What about the other part?"
"..."
"I quote: 'In addition to these accusations by Mr. Drayke, Mr. Ryan's organizations' financial records have been under scrutiny from some members of the IRS. Said one official who spoke on condition of anonymity, "While there is no evidence of wrongdoing, much of the evidence points to money where it shouldn't be. Of another man, we would say that money laundering may be the cause of it, but because of Mr. Ryan's reputation, this office does not wish to proceed further into this investigation." However, this doesn't mean that...' and she goes on."
"Anonymous source. What a joke."
"..."
"On the other hand, this kind of publicity is bad for our cause, Jay. I assume that's why you called? So... what do we do?"
"It's your choice, sir."
A pause. "What about a condemnation? Demand a retraction."
"Already in the works. But this isn't something we can stand around and take lightly..."
"I'm not going to authorize an assassination of a journalist, Jay. No matter what she says, and especially not some unfortunate network news reporter."
"Well, it's your choice."
"Yes, it is." He hangs up the phone, and grabs a bottle of water. Walking back into the main room, he looks at his bandmates expectantly. "Well? Shall we get started?" Without waiting for an answer, he turns and heads toward the stage.
---
[3] - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
The man in the Armani suit looks at you expectantly. He knows not to ask until he his prompted, but you can see he has something on his mind. You take a sip of your beer and nod.
"Sir, I must ask. How do you know Patrick Ryan?"
You sigh, your eyes flitting back and forth between the man and your beer. The man in the Armani suit is a nice guy, a good soldier. He is loyal, knows his place. Has an eye for fashion. He's not touching his vodka tonic. You're on your second stout. You know your limits, though, and this is your last for the evening. "I know him from back in the day. I suppose that's the best I can give you. It was a long time ago, and he's forgotten..." Pause. "Any word from the intel teams?"
"They're still having a hard time making progress with infiltrating SIC. But we expected this. SIC is a hard nut to crack, but we always get there." He finally takes a sip from his drink, which by now has gone warm, its ice melted away long before, and winces. "What kind of drink do they think this is?" He pulls a blacklight out of his pocket and shines it on the drink, which faintly fluoresces. "Not enough tonic water, not good tonic water... and the vodka's mediocre at best, Skyy or something, the kind of vodka you put pineapple in."
You clear your throat, taking another sip of your beer. "That's good to hear." You look away for a moment, eyes locked to the bar's obligatory throwback, an antique cigarette dispenser in the front of the building. It's strange to see such an item in a place like this, and you half-expect to look away and see the room festooned with red glass candles and red-and-white tablecloths. But nothing changes, the room still a dark and morose place. You turn back to your associate. "Any progress on getting your gun?"
He shakes his head, and you can tell this is a sore subject with him. "Which isn't to say I haven't passed the tests. It's just that I can't get anyone to authorize a weaponless kill for me. Marksmanship, maintenance, identification..." he recites, "then a hand-to-hand kill, then two gun kills." He shakes his head and finally takes a sip of his drink, and his eyes close briefly as if to block out the pain of an inferior drink. "Can't get any traction with these guys."
You nod, taking a sip from your bottle. It's nearly empty. "You're a good kid. I'll get you a job."
He looks up. "Thank you, sir." Leaning over the bar, he tips his drink into the sink behind it, and washes it flow away with a look of satisfaction on his face. As you watch him, you recognize that you haven't seen your sons in decades now. They think you're dead, and the better for it, too. Sitting here, you feel the closest you have to being home since the day you were dragged from it. You consider for a moment, then flag down the bartender. This calls for a celebration: "Another Guinness, sir."
---
You watch the man in the Armani suit peal away on his motorcycle, as you stand outside the bar, waiting for your bartender. It's been a while since you had your third beer, but you can still keep a firm hand on your senses. Everything around you seems ever so slightly distorted, though, like it's all sliding sideways. Your head tips, considering. Yes, that's definitely it. Los Angeles is finally meeting its fate, tipping over the brink and capsizing into the Pacific Ocean. And who here to bear witness?
Alpha walks up, watching the kid pull away. You hadn't expected him, but you aren't surprised. Alpha is an old man, even older than you, and you're surprised he still has it in him to pull away from his apartment at which most meetings of the Associated Press occur. If the FBI or Interpol were aware who he was, they'd never be able to associate so openly, but they've carried out meetings in Central Park without anyone batting an eye. Alpha is an old man, to be sure, but he has willpower, or, failing that, a callous disregard for natural law. "Nice to see you're enjoying the morning," he intones, his eyes measuring the angle between your ears.
"Good to see you too, Avery."
He grimaces. He doesn't enjoy being recognized by any identity, particularly one that is his own. "Raymond, please. This isn't the time. We're still here for business." He looks down the street, at the emptiness that replaced the kid. "He's good, isn't he."
"Who, D____? Yeah. He shows potential."
Alpha turns his head to match your tip. "That's clearly not the reason you're drinking with him at oh-dark-thirty before a mission. Especially not three beers." He knows you too well. "Feeling a bit of an association, Sigma?" You look away, embarrassed. He keeps up the pressure. "Remind you a bit of your chi-"
You turn, lashing out at him. "What the hell do you care?"
He raises his hands, exposing his thin wrists. "No reason. Relax. I expect nothing but greatness from D____ in the future. Any results from your other job?"
"You mean Ryan? We've decided on a hands-off approach."
Alpha grimaces, almost in pain from your plan. "You do realize that the longer we wait on this, the longer we have to set back our expansion plans, and the longer the risk that the motivation won't take. You know EU politics - you've been involved in them long enough to know that they're erratic over there."
You nod, chuckling quietly. "And you Americans have a better system? Took you long enough to elect a minority." He laughs, feeling his throat with his hand, looking away. "I know the risks. If the Irish see what happens to their native son and do nothing, then obviously we've wasted resources, time, money, and potential. But I believe we have a rather open window. Provided it happens at this conference, we should be set."
He sticks a hand in his pocket, removing a cellphone. "I suppose that's fair. But, Raymond, I expect nothing but success. However..." he says, pointing the phone at you, "I must ask: why are you doing this?"
"I don't understand."
"It has nothing to do with revenge, right? Because if you..."
His cellphone buzzes in his hand, and he grins. "Well then. Always another person. We'll discuss this later." He turns and wanders back into the alley he had come from, leaving you alone.
---
In 1995, fifty months after waking up with a bump on your head and blood on your face, you first encountered Alpha. Back then, he was the American special ambassador to the World Trade Organization, then a fledgling outfit with little influence under the Marrakesh agreement. Alpha was positive the organization would go nowhere, and he told you so the first time the two of you met. It was at a conference on European intra-national trade and the future of European currencies in Strasbourg. He was younger then, with a shock of black hair that was just beginning to turn and a perpetual scowl. He had a grudge against then-President Clinton dating back to a decades-old business arrangement, and knew Clinton had given him the position as backhand thanks for his assistance during the election, knowing full well he'd despise the job and retire quickly. So far, Alpha had survived three years, but was carrying around his resignation letter in anticipation of the day he'd finally fax it.
You were invited as an expert on Irish and UK politics, though mostly you found yourself in the nearby bar drinking and examining those around you. On that day, Alpha pulled up a seat next to you. He was drinking a vodka martini and staring with his piercing eyes at the resignation letter, as if trying to shred it through sheer force of will. After a while, you had to ask him about it, and that's when he told you about his business. He was a member of the board of directors of the Associated Press, the journalistic collective that always found itself first at the scene of every major accident, along with, he said with a smirk, Reuters and every aspiring Zapruder with a camera. However, this wasn't his true business. Without another word, he gave you his business card and told you to call him later. You didn't know it then, but Alpha had a knack for picking out the most likely mercenaries of any group, and he could see instantly in you your own dissatisfaction. Within an hour, you met him again in a hotel room outside the city, where he introduced you to his fledgling operation. As he began, you could see the letter he had been examining pass out of a fax machine stationed on the bed.
According to him, the advantage of the Associated Press and its global access was that he could infiltrate nearly any country, organization, or government building under the facade of international journalism. This in turn allowed access to classified documents, illicit materials, and individuals who would normally be off limits. He told you that the promise of endless information would make it possible to gain an immense stranglehold on international relations. He offered you a job, and, considering your options, you took him up on it immediately. Emailing your boss a short, concise resignation note, you boarded Alpha's chartered jet, headed for Amsterdam and your first assignment.
On the jet, Alpha disappeared into his cabin to make preparations, while you sat down next to a young kid playing on a Game Boy. He looked up and smiled, his glasses and dimples glinting in the harsh light of the dawn over Strasbourg. "What are you playing?" you asked.
"Super Mario," he responded.
"That sounds like a good game," you said. Putting out your hand, you introduced yourself.
"It's nice to meet you, Mister. I'm David."
"It's nice to meet you too, David." The boy nodded, then looked back at his game system, leaving you alone.
---
It was 2007 when Alpha first broached the subject of Ireland to the Board. This was in the months leading up to the vote on the Treaty of Lisbon, and it was clear to almost everyone that Ireland wasn't going to take the tonic. The Troubles had been over for a decade, though there was still the occasional unrest on the border - PIRA mentions, occasional attack by the CIRA - and Northern Irish home rule had begun to signal the end. You were sure there was little to be done, but Alpha wagered there was still some discontent in that country. At the board's summer quarter meeting on Martha's Vineyard, he laid out the case to you.
"It's clear that the European Union is the way of the future, Raymond. Not just from a political perspective, mind you - from a practical business perspective as well. We've positioned our allies to attain major positions in the EU Parliament and the commission, and from there they'll have a hand on the entire budget. Imagine the possibilities for contracts. There's major money to be made for any company that can become the major supplier to the entirety of Europe. We'll get everyone else out of business."
"Except, Avery, there's no way Ireland will go along, and without Ireland, the treaty can't work. How do you suppose they'll change their minds?"
He stared out into space. On the beach, David was talking to a young woman, a daughter of another Board member. She was quite beautiful, eighteen to David's twenty. Taking a sip of his gin and tonic, Avery looked at you. "Who do we need to manipulate to get the referendum passed?"
"Well, there's Sinn F?in, the tossers. They aren't going to support any policy that they thing endangers Irish republicanism. There are a few other groups, too, the usual suspects - Socialists, Libertas, and the like - but I wager they're not important. It's Sinn F?in you need to worry about."
Avery coughs. "I'm not well-versed in Irish politics, I'm afraid, but if I remember correctly, you said once Sinn F?in has a history with the PIRA, right?" You nodded. "And Patrick Ryan used to be a member of the PIRA, right?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"Two birds with one stone, Ray. Patrick Ryan is a national hero. If he were killed and you claimed the credit for Northern Ireland, the PIRA could be motivated to kick the cease-fire to represent their martyred soldier. A few prods in the right direction on both sides, and we could easily restart the Troubles."
"How does that help get Ireland into the fold? Sinn F?in probably would fall in line behind the PIRA, and war might frighten even the right-wingers."
"Precisely - we want them frightened. Make the Irish think their country will collapse without solidarity with Europe. A few companies tell them they won't do business with a collapsing Ireland, and I think the Sinn F?iners will realize that a destroyed Ireland can't possibly be a republic. They'll negotiate to soften up the Lisbon Treaty a bit, and presto, the Irish will pass the referendum."
David walked up, arm around the waist of the young woman. "Hello, dad. I just wanted you to meet Molly."
"Ah, yes, Molly. Your father has told me so much about you." She nodded, smiling, hugging David tightly. "If I could borrow my son for a moment, I have something to ask him. I'll return him quickly." Molly looked at David quickly, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and wandered into the hotel.
"Talking business, I assume?" David asked. His father had pulled strings to have his son succeed him. He'd be the youngest member of the board ever, if his father's influence held.
"Mr. McNulty and I were just discussing our organization's future and growth potential, son."
David grinned. "And who killed the Kennedys?"
The two of them laughed, then Avery gestured toward his son. "Raymond, I wanted to ask you. My son will begin his operations in the field next year, and I would hope you could supervise him. Make sure he stays on the path to success. Can you do that for me?"
His eyes glowed expectantly with a flickering, undying fire that filled you with dread. But unless at his side, you could not protect the boy from his fate. With a grin smile, you quietly accepted, and Alpha smiled, as if holding the contract in a burning hand with the other pointing into the depths. As the two wandered off to retrieve Molly, you wondered quietly as you sipped your beer: How did I get here?
---
[4] - Alexandra Weston
She stood alone, on Mulholland Drive, overlooking the city. It writhed in the dim glow of dusk, its bright lights already starting to erupt. The woods from this point were a mass of green, but as darkness swelled, they seemed to recede, becoming another blur of shadow against the wall of bulbs that Los Angeles erupted with, as the children of men wandered out to clubs to disappear a bit more.
Aloud, she asked, looking back: "Why am I here?"
Behind her, the hills gave no answer, and the setting sun cast a light off her car, and she pushed her glasses off her head onto her eyes. Satisfied, she looked back out. Why am I expected to deliver the world? her mind generated, its gears whirring and grinding, creating a slight buzzing noise like a monstrous mosquito behind her ear. I'm not here to be a messiah. I believe something, so someone else must believe it?
Only on Mulholland could she disappear for a moment. Within the city, within Beverley Hills, around her apartment, at the studios and restaurants and clubs, there were people, strangely old men with cameras, young women with hopes and dreams and autograph pads, men looking for the next fix and women looking for the man of their dreams, bartenders, valets, maitre d's, drivers, personal attendants, and entourages - friends of old, hangers-on of new. Nothing changes, it just takes on a new title and buys new business cards. But this small piece of land off the road, amongst the foliage and houses, was a place to escape, if momentarily. She reached into her purse and removed her cellphone. Five missed calls. With a sigh, she opened the back of the phone, removing the battery and pulling out the SIM card, before turning and throwing it out into the abyss. Briefly, she considered the odds that someone has been collecting her cell phones down below, wondering who kept tossing them away.
A man came up from behind her. She knew he was there. "Am I making the right decision?"
Patrick Ryan shrugged. "I don't know about you. But I know that this is the right decision, period."
She stiffened slightly at his voice, even though his response was unsurprising. "But why destruction?"
He nodded, considering. He stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder, lightly turning her around. "You need to understand. Were there another way, were there anyone willing to listen, we wouldn't need to do this. We wouldn't need to have this group at all. If people understood the error of their ways, of humanity's cruel ironies, of the decay of their world, if they could see between the buildings to the grass growing through the concrete, a parking garage of hands, all the potential..." He trailed off. He'd made his point. Their eyes locked, the eyes of the young at heart worn to nothing.
She turned, taking his hands and pulling his arms across her, staring back out into the world. His arms are warm, even through bareness and the strange cold of the hills. Her mind conjures up a memory, of months ago, of ages washed away. Three people are with her, in a bar, at four in the afternoon. Nobody else is present, even the bartender is gone, and the place has the musk and dustiness of a world abandoned to nature's inevitable pull, much as antique shops seem ready to be reclaimed by time. One of them, her childhood friend, the only member of her entourage she'd spend time with before eight at night, a young woman named Jill who also aspired to be an actress but found herself nowhere, doing commercial spots for phone sex lines, before she retired to live off Alexandra's wealth. The second is her fiancee, a nice young man who started a company that designed new computer fonts, and the third is his brother, the man Jill had dragged to meet Alexandra. Four-in-the-afternoon double dating not being Alexandra's idea of a good time, she nonetheless tried to be cheery.
The brother does consulting for a technology firm she forgets the name about - all she knows is they get "government contracts" - and is talking, telling a joke. Jill laughs before he gets to the punch line, her eyes fixed on Alexandra, and occasionally she bobs her head slightly toward the brother. The joke has something to do with a rabbi and a schnauzer. The fiancee is checking his phone every minute, trying to stay engaged, and occasionally Jill will kick him under the table, loud enough for everyone to hear but quiet enough for them all to ignore it.
The schnauzer talks. That's an important part of the joke.
The bar is a restaurant, apparently, during the day, quite a successful one at that. Alexandra gets the impression that they pull out these chairs and tables before seven and is a restaurant. American Bistro cuisine, mostly, although there's the occasional touch of elegance and panache, like the foie gras with black and white truffles served with a cucumber-and-berry salad. This is what the fiance is eating, although Alexandra immediately recognizes that he's a foreigner in these parts, trying to not make a face at the foie gras' texture and consistency. Jill said he worked in Silicon Valley, but Alexandra knows Jill is from Baltimore because Alexandra is from Baltimore, and begins to suspect that the fiance is also from Baltimore. The brother rather quickly established himself as "from New York", although it's plausible he's also from Baltimore.
The only other person in the building who isn't an employee is a young-looking man, drinking what Alexandra can tell is a vodka tonic (Ketel One, having spotted the large red K on the bottle the bartender refilled the man's drink from) in a suit. He seems to be engrossed in a file he's diligently staring at. He's a few tables down, his table pointing him about forty-five degrees away from witnessing Alexandra's group. Alexandra considers him out of the corner of her eye. Possibly a lawyer. Certainly more interesting than this (mentally pointing toward the brother, talking about his work at "TFC" as he emphasized, producing a business card as if by habit) this guy . She has half a mind to excuse herself to go talk to him. After the fourth grimace by the fiance, whose eyes are locked on Jill, whose eyes are locked on Alexandra, whose eyes are nowhere, she stands up and excuses herself to go refresh, and catches the other man flinch slightly. She passes by his table, on route to the bathroom, and drops a piece of paper on his file, as if by mistake, as she goes.
As she stared out onto Los Angels, Alexandra quietly spoke. "Did you..." (she asked Patrick, silent behind her) "...have you ever heard a joke about a rabbi and a schnauzer?"
He thought for a moment. "No, I can't say I have. Why?"
She turned, removing his hands from her belly, eying him momentarily. "No reason." With that, she headed toward the car, as her bemused Irish friend watched, turning the question over in his head.
---
[5] - Sophia Guerrero
Excerpts from a Los Angeles Police Department police report, dated 4/29/2005
...At 0320 hours, officers responded to a 246 in Santa Ana. 911 caller reported a shout followed by two shots fired in a house across the street from his own. When officers arrived, they discovered a car parked outside and took down the license plate number and model before looking inside to discover approximately fourteen large legal files filed with unidentifiable documents and six boxes of .380 Auto ammunition, unopened. While one officer checked the information on the car on his squad car's computer, the other three responding officers approached the building, knocking on the door and announcing their presence. After no response, the officers opened a nearby window and entered, while the fourth officer joined them through the now-unlocked front door. Officer's firearms were brandished per protocol for potential violent episodes.
In the kitchen of the building, officers discovered a human body, male, early-to-mid 40s, with GSWs to each eye. Officers reported the 419 and secured the perimeter while they waited for the medical examiner and crime scene investigators. Wallet in the victim's pocket contained driver's license in the name of Donald Waterston, DOB 3/15/63, and was identified as the victim. Also contained one hundred forty dollars in twenty dollar bills and two credit cards. Officers Hernandez and Blidson exited to investigate the 911 caller while Officers Marks and Tretter filled in the newly-arrived medical examiner, who took liver temperature and examined the GSWs, determining that one bullet exited through the back of the neck, while the other did not exit and was fired from an upward angle. This was chosen as the preliminary COD.
...Officers Blidsen and Hernandez apprehended one Mr. Samuel Vine, the owner of the car found outside the crime scene, three blocks away at a convenience store. In his possession were an antique Walther PPK handgun and various unidentified literature. After officers discerned Mr. Vine did not possess a CCW license or have appropriate licensure for the weapon in his possession, he was arrested for the appropriate firearm violations and booked. Subsequent ballistics tests confirmed a Walther PPK was the gun used in the murder of Mr. Waterston, as matched to a bullet recovered from a cabinet door at the crime scene and from Mr. Waterston's skull (see attached ME report on the autopsy). Examination of the striations of Mr. Vine's gun's barrel indicated a defect resulting from the gun's use and age that made it very probable that the gun in his possession was the gun used. In addition, fingerprints that were identified as belonging to Mr. Vine were discovered on a windowsill in Mr. Waterston's house.
...Upon examination of the contents of Mr. Vine's car, Officers Marks and Tretter discovered in the aforementioned legal files an assortment of transcripts of the news reports of one Ms. Sophia Guerrero, a journalist for KABC-TV 7. The discovered transcripts covered a variety of stories by Ms. Guerrero, including one about a hit-and-run accident in Santa Ana that left one unnamed victim in a coma, dated approximately 1/17/05, and alleged that a car belonging to one Mr. Waterston had been seen leaving the scene, but that the crime was not investigated sufficiently by the Los Angeles Police Department due to, quote, "agreements between the Assistant Chief of the LAPD and Mr. Waterston's corporation, which provides heavily-discounted kevlar vests for on-duty police officers". Subsequent investigation of Mr. Waterston's car under UV light revealed high velocity blood spatter in the car's radiator, though crime scene investigators have not been successful in obtaining a DNA profile at this time.
Ms. Guerrero refused to answer questions from our officers after being told she was not being charged with a crime, citing "work". This is not the first time Ms. Guerrero has been associated in a crime committed against a recent subject of her news reports, but no direct correlation between Ms. Guerrero's involvement and these crimes has been discerned so far, and no investigation into such a matter is open.
...Mr. Vine waived his right to attorney and, upon being confronted with the evidence, reached a plea agreement with the ADA assigned to the case. As Mr. Vine's provided medical history indicates potential mental illness, Judge Roger Davies has ordered examination, pending sentencing. The case has currently been closed, and detectives have been reassigned.
[6] - Christopher Exodus-
"Look, I just don't understand what the big deal is. They're just burgers."
You turn and look at your partner, mousy transfer from some mountain state. "Just burgers? You can't qualify In-N-Out as 'just burgers'. No, my friend, In-N-Out is nothing short of a transcendental experience."
"But the fries -"
You nod, watching the street disappear under your vehicle, listening to the sirens blaring. "True, the fries are often limp and cold. That's not the point. You take a double-double in your hand, with all the fixings, onions - even Animal is good - it is religious." You put your hand on your heart and point up to the sky sardonically. "My mouth to God's burger, my friend. My arteries may clog up and I may lose my limbs, but I'll still have Mr. In N. Out to keep me company in my limbless world. Tell you what," you say, looking over at him, "on the way back from this stop, we'll stop by an In-N-Out, and I'll prove it to you." He doesn't respond, just continues flipping through the transcript of the call - a possible 164 out in San Bernardino, some college kid from the sound of it - the caller, middle age woman, spent more time asking how long it would take to remove the body than the rest of the call combined. Suicide watch is the worst task in the department, and you can't help but recognize the twin insults of body collection and being tasked with the least interesting transfer in the department. Your mental rolodex rattles as you list off every officer you could have pissed off to deserve such a miserable fate.
The crime scene is a small apartment off Cal State's campus. The odor lingers around the door, and your partner covers his nose with his sleeve. "You idiot," you mutter just out of earshot, "that's not going to help if you can smell it out here." You unlock the door with the landlord's key and push it in, unleashing two weeks of decomp that sends your partner reeling toward the nearest railing to excise his stomach. Breathing through your mouth, you step inside and flip on a light switch. The resident is suspended from his overhead lamp - skinny kid, explains why he didn't break the damn thing, but the light switch is connected to the fan, which begins spinning, rotating the ghastly sight. The flesh isn't taut yet, but has turned a sickening black color and has started attracting flies. Your partner wanders back from the edge and nearly goes there again. Right on cue, the rotating body tears the ceiling fan from its proper place not on the floor in a dusty, rotten heap. Shaking your head, you turn off the buzzing fan socket and whip out your flashlight.
The room is barren, with only a chair and a table, the former of which is awkwardly tipped on its side about a foot from where the victim's body had hung. The only other object in the room is a laptop computer, still plugged in and humming along. Walking over, you turn off the screensaver, revealing the kid's last project - a long document. You turn to your partner, whose eyes are locked to the sight. "Hey." He turns to you, face ashen. "You didn't expect to see bodies in this line of work? Go out and call for the ME before you taint the crime scene any more." As he tentatively nods and leaves the room, you sit down in the victim's chair and begin reading:
Stepping back outside, your hands instinctively move out for something to steady yourself against. Your partner is leaned against the railing, his face ashen. It's clear he won't be interested in those burgers later. "You look terrible," he says quietly to you. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"I got a fiver says shoeshine and bus fare, a ten says two martinis and a clown's face in your pillow tomorrow," you return sardonically, mentally adjusting yourself.
He shrugs and focuses on a particularly interesting section of the floor. "Maybe should call it in?" he asks after a while. You nod, and he wanders off toward the squad car while you stare out the window. Outside the building across the street, two kids are absently kicking a bottle around. The bar down the street holds the afternoon drunks in quiet reverie, praying to their longnecks, while its owner idly counts rumpled bills of every denomination, some still wet from spilled drinks. The windows of the restaurant next door are open, revealing two waiters talking about sports scores. In a corner, an elderly woman reads a genre novel and waits for her son to get off his patrol. For a few more hours, before the world removes itself from its service to itself and dresses for distraction, boredom peers around every corner and asks the time of day, and you look down at your watch only to discover time has started moving backwards and you're younger and lost in the reverie of childhood again. Your mother scrubbing your clothing in the sink of the bottom-barrel motel you've moved up to, while your brother swims joyfully in the overchlorinated pool below and you stare out the window, lost in reverie. Your mother mentions something to you, something about watching your brother, but you aren't paying attention, too wrapped up in the sight across the street -
Your phone rings. It's your brother. You let it go to voicemail.
Down on the street, your partner steps gingerly around his bile and into the squad car, reporting the body. The sun appears from behind a cloud, and the light reflects off the squad car into your eyes. Squinting against the day's harsh glare, you turn and look back into the darkness of the crime scene, your heart pulling against your ribcage.
The last time you felt this way about a case was in November 1997, when the first victim of the Glaswegian Sunrise killer appeared.
He was a student at UCLA, nineteen, Caucasian, found in a drainage ditch just off
campus. Body was in moderate state of decay, but it was clear what had
happened to him; the killer had left his mark very clearly. Back at the
time, it looked like a horrifying prank. The body was propped up
against one of the concrete walls, as if waiting for a hangover to
escape him, but it was clear he was dead from the killer's mark. The
man's mouth had been sliced from ear to ear, and into his mouth the
killer had stuffed a tennis ball.
You briefly turn to remind yourself that the corpse in the apartment isn't marked in the same way.
The victim's parents were despondent, reassuring the officer tasked with the interview that their son was a good kid, not mixed up with drugs or gangs or anything like that. The interview had been handed off to a member of Community Resources Against Street Hooligans (CRASH), who at the time had a disproportionate percentage of the officers in Rampart Division, where you were assigned. The officer, a red-nosed bruiser by the name of Richardson, had written in the column of his interview questions the word "drugs"; next to it sat a black spot where a question mark had recently resided. At the time, CRASH had received a major influx of resources from Mayor Riordan and his recently-appointed Chief of Police Bernard Parks, and there was a tendency to investigate gang angles first.
Officer Richardson and his partner conducted a search of the victim's dormitory, which turned up two ounces of street-quality cocaine. Interviews with students who knew the victim noted that he had a rumored reputation for being a drug dealer. Following this revelation, your superior officer ordered that the homicide investigation be taken over completely by CRASH. You pointed to the lack of evidence for a gangs connection, the lack of definitive evidence that the student participated in gang activity, and the mode of the homicide, which indicated the crime was intended to send a message. Richardson said a preliminary lab analysis indicated the drugs were the same quality as those trafficked by the 18th Street Gang, as shown by a comparison with recently-seized material. The killing could be directed at other potential drug dealers on the campus. You asked to see that lab report. Your superior told you that would not be necessary, it was clear the student dealt drugs, and ordered the files to be turned over.
A small pebble clatters on the landing. You step outside the crime scene and look down at your partner, who is standing with paramedics. With a nod, you descend to meet them.
---
Later, after declining the proposed burger run, you take your partner to a bar. The body was en route to the ME's office, and the laptop with the rest of the victim's possessions in evidence. "So," he asks cheerfully, trying to make conversation, "how'd you end up on suicide runs?"
You sigh, take another sip of your beer, and look at him sheepishly. "I punched a cop."
You tell him about the Glaswegian Sunrise case. After the case was handed over to CRASH, it disappeared for a few months, as the department unsuccessfully pursued the gang angle. Then another body turned up, this time an aspiring actress named Kellie Averton, 27, from Wichita, Kansas, found in an alley outside a nightclub. Like the previous victim, her mouth had been cut open, and inside was another tennis ball - "a Penn", the report noted specifically. Her bloodwork revealed she had ingested MDMA and a large amount of alcohol. Four hours after the body was discovered, the first photos of the crime scene were received by the Los Angeles Times via email from an AOL account created that same day from a public terminal. "Considering the similarities to the Black Dahlia case, it was inevitable that the media would turn it into a sensation," you mutter, spinning the beer's cap like a coin on the bar.
However, you note, that first toxicology report disappeared after leaving the lab, replaced by a second one indicating that cocaine, rather than MDMA, was in the victim's system. "It wouldn't change anything in terms of the outcome, but it was all Richardson needed to argue that both crimes were the result of a new push by the 18th Street gang to seize territory. The lab tech who produced the original result, upon later questioning, stood behind the result until threatened with jail time for perjury, at which point he admitted he forged the report for Richardson."
"When did that happen?"
You pause. "2003. Anyway, the case continued in CRASH's hands. The media buzzed about it for a few more months, wondering about serial killers on the loose in Los Angeles, while the LAPD continued to chase a drug crime angle. Suspects were brought in, charged. A few were beaten. Nobody really thought about it. CRASH produced results - fantastic results."
"So how'd you..."
"I punched Richardson after the forged report business. Cocaine didn't make sense, since the victim lacked the sinus damage associated with repeated cocaine insufflation and no cocaine was found on the victim's clothing. Anyway, accusations flew, he brought up my mother, and I punched him." You laugh. "Six months later, Richardson would be picked up in the CRASH scandal for stealing cocaine from the breakroom - the same type of cocaine, incidentally, that was discovered in the college student's room. He did five in prison. Hundreds of criminals appealed their convictions, most unsuccessfully. And the world moved on. But punching a cop is quite the scarlet letter. Hence why I shepherd the dead."
He nods, less in sympathy than in recognition. He turns to the bartender, a middle-aged woman sipping a cocktail at the other end of the bar. "Where's your bathroom?" She vaguely points, and your partner stands up and excuses himself. You turn back to your beer, which has become empty.
"A refill, honey?" You look up at the bartender, who has appeared at the first sign that you need a new drink. You nod limply, and pull a few bills out of your pocket to pay your tab so far. She takes the bills and hands you another. A hundred.
"I think you gave me the wrong amount, ma'am," you interject.
"Nope. That's exactly the amount you need." Frowning, you turn it over in your hand. Over Benjamin Franklin's face is a bloody fingerprint.
"How'd this get here?" you ask, looking down at it. When you look up, you jump away from the bar with a start.
Your mother the bartender takes your empties in her hands and drops them into a bin beneath the bar. "Why does that matter, Chris?"
"I... what?"
"How is your brother doing? I had such high hopes for him... he was so smart, you know. Always got straight As." She takes a cloth and begins wiping down the bar, with her eyes locked on yours.
"He... he faked those reports... with white-out." You feel faint.
"He did?" Her smile does not fade for a moment. "What a smart boy... knew exactly what to do to succeed..."
"He drinks, you know... he stole a bottle of vodka once..." You flail in space, looking for a chair into which to collapse. Not finding one, you decide the floor is a fine replacement.
"So clever too... always did the right thing. And with such a fine role model, too! He's going to be president someday, I just know it." The bar has vanished, along with the rest of the building, but her arm continues to swing in space, polishing a nonexistant piece of furniture.
Her eyes are vacant, glistening holes.
"He's an... alcoholic, mom. He's failed!"
"No, no, no... he's just... looking for himself." Your mother's vacant eyes begin to expand, consuming her sockets with darkness, as if punched through to the blackness behind.
"He's a failure, mom! I couldn't save him! I couldn't save..."
"Oh, Chris..." your mother murmers as her head vanishes completely. "Chris..."
"I..." you whisper in response, your eyes unmoving.
"Chris... Chris!"
With a start, you pull yourself up from the bar. You feel your partner's hand on your shoulder. "You were talking to yourself, man. I'm cutting you off. Pay the poor lady and let's get going."
You try to nod, your eyes locked on the fresh hundred dollar bill in your trembling hand.
"I..."
---
He stands up from the bar, his head tilted sharply sideways, toward a man at the end. You hadn't heard what they had said, but the man at the end of the bar looks angry, pointing, and J stands up and starts heading over, fists at the ready. Pulling yourself back, you try to hold him back. The bartender has stepped away for a moment for a smoke. "Hey, you!" J shouts, as you try to pull him back. The man at the end of the bar laughs and heads over, shouting in Dutch at J. J waves his arms frantically, fighting against you, but he's a big guy, and you can't hold him well enough. With a start, he bursts free, grabbing the Dutchman and throwing him against a wall. He slumps slightly, but stands up, ready to engage. In the brief moment, as the world seems to shake under the feet of the participants - your brother and his opponent yelling and swinging, you standing away, trying to find an opportunity - you glimpse of the ghost of a woman sitting in the corner, drinking a martini. She looks like your mother, starting idly into space. She catches your eye briefly, but only looks away again, as if in acceptance. Do what you will, my child...
Jumping in, you grab the Dutchman by the neck and shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pulling out your handcuffs. Words escape your mouth as if dragged by a dark wave back to sea, and you read him his rights and leave him in the corner. Walking back, you survey your brother, who looks petrified. "Hold still. It has to look authentic." He looks at you, for a moment, with an expression split between fear and gratitude, then nods. You close your eyes, for a moment, then swing your fist.
It connects with your brother's nose, and you hear a slight crunch. He falls backward, and in a brief instant, you see your mother's expression flicker in the corner, as if distorted, like a television picture fading to white noise. Then your brother falls head-first into the bar stool, and a snap emanates off the walls. Your brother, his nose broken, his face dressed in twin rivulets of blood, bracketing the look of acceptance locked on his face, slides to the floor like a sack of sand.
You step back, a look of horror replacing your calm fa?ade, grasping at anything to stabilize yourself. You put your hand down on the bill you left on the counter to cover your tab, grab at it, and continue falling backward, until you fall loosely onto the floor. The Dutchman is unmoving, equally petrified. "I... I..."
Your mother looks down at the broken body of her younger son and stands up, dusting herself off. She walks toward you, stepping over Jason's form, and looks down at your frozen, trembling form. She is dressed like Lauren Bacall, and her head is ringed with light. Looking down, her eyes accusatory and cold, she whispers, "You realize who you are now?"
All the warmth has gone from the building. Your breath jumps lightly in front of you, like the ghost exiting the shell. "Is... is he dead?" you whisper. Smiling, your mother leans down and kisses you on the forehead, before adjusting her dress briefly and turning. Without another word, she walks out the door, into the dark.
In the distance, sirens begin to echo. You weakly open your hand, revealing your hundred-dollar bill, with your fingerprint in your brother's blood ringing Franklin's eye. Pulling yourself along the floor, you crawl toward the Dutchman, who shies away from you, as if to escape your pull. Leaning into him, you grab him by the throat. He barely resists, as if half-asleep. As you lean in to him, you whisper into his ear:
"Let me tell you a story..."
----
Ending flavor for various factions/players
(use all that apply)
MAFIA
- Sigma alive, Patrick Ryan dead: Sigma returns to the Associated Press triumphant, but the man in the Armani suit has begun his decline, having witnessed the effects of his crimes. A few years later, Alpha will die, and Sigma will become the new head of the Associated Press, taking the title of Alpha. When the incident at the Fiasco Corporation occurs a few years later, McNulty will be corrupted by his power and dominance, and the man in the Armani suit will be a murderous shell; their father-son relationship shattered, as Avery's was with his son after he joined the organization.
- Sigma alive, Patrick Ryan alive: Sigma returns to the Associated Press defeated. The AP is a more fractured organization, due to its losses from the position it took, but it survives. Eventually, Sigma succeeds Alpha, bringing in an era of relative prosperity, but he no longer has the respect of the man in the Armani suit - their relationship is broken by the latter's success and the former's failure (in the latter's eyes).
- Patrick Ryan alive: European Union fails to solidify as Ireland remains independent and staunchly pro-republicanism, and more nations follow suit, which leads to the rise of the United States following the passage of President Cazell's environmental agenda (either by him if he makes it to the end and Trevor Sartori is dead, as nobody will be able to assassinate him, or posthumously under his Vice President). The World Trade Organization's influence is hopelessly fractured.
- Alexandra Weston alive, Patrick Ryan dead: EU unified under the banner of environmentalism, and the US and EU's strength leads to another century of Western dominance at the expense of the World Trade Organization and a Third World trying to push its way up without the strength of the EU and US
- Trevor Sartori alive: Becomes a major candidate in the 2012 presidential election. If President Cazell is also alive at the end, he will assassinate the president, which will be blamed on the "terrorists" and will only help solidify his political strength.
- Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon alive only: WTO dealt a blow, but eventually recovers; globalization loses strength in the First World, solidifying the position of the Western world. Essentially the same as the above, but with fewer player-specific characteristics.
CULT
- Cult wins: Indian nationalism takes hold, which leads to major conflict between Pakistan and India. As the world takes sides again in their conflict, India fires a nuclear weapon at Pakistan, perhaps signaling the beginning of a new Cold War. Ending left vague.
SERIAL KILLER
- SK win: Israel receives renewed backing from the United States, and begins planning the use of nuclear weapons against the Middle East, which suddenly finds itself on the back foot against a Western world firmly behind Israel. A fuure of (somewhat uncertain) prosperity.
NEUTRALS
- Ayers succeeds: Leaves the game. Flavor given of her overcoming her demons that have plagued her since the deaths of her parents, believing she has helped prevent murder and thus avenged them.
- Zenebech succeeds: Leaves the game. Later becomes the President of Ethiopia and Chairman of the African Union Authority, bringing a new period of legitimacy to Africa and (if the town wins) hastening the continent's path to prosperity.
TOWN (ALT WIN CONDITIONS)
- Guerrero survivor win: Continues her rise through the ranks of American journalism, though she continues to dip into sensationalism, which damages her credibility with the elite in the long run.
- Golta alt win: Leaves the game. The Scoria Virus does a significant amount of damage to the world economy, until Golta has Terra release the fix. His success here leads to his rise to become CEO of the group.
TOWN
- Town win: WTO gains prestige and power, leading to the rise of "new" First World nations such as India, China, etc; globalization fulfills its destiny as the major force of the 21st century, which threatens the existence of cabals like the Associated Press and its associated corporations
(Erratum to these rules noted where applicable)
GAMEPLAY RULES
0) All of the following goes unless stated otherwise. PMs are written correctly, except when they aren't. Rule of thumb is that when PM and rule disagree, PM wins, but don't be afraid to ask us if you're confused.
1) arimnaes and Xyre are co-mods for this game. Make sure you send your PMs to both mods. This makes our lives easier, and prevents miscommunication.
2) A player voting for himself/herself will be considered the day's lynch, and the game will immediately progress to night. This rule will be ignored for the first 100 posts.
3) When a player needs to be replaced, rather than take the first person off the list, the mods will instead PM the replacements, and the first replacement to respond will take the role.
4) In the interest of progress, this game will use a modified version of the deadline system from Unreal City. Day 1 will be deadlined for 4 weeks after the mod's first post. Subsequent days will last 3 weeks. Extensions of one week will be considered in extraordinary cases.
5) Players who may communicate via PM may do so at any time.
6) Players may not use two abilities in the same period (meaning night and day), unless otherwise stated. The only type of ability exempt from this is a Passive ability (see "PM Structure", below).
7) With respect to Day actions and Post actions, timestamping (when the PM activating the ability was sent or when the post activating the ability was made) will be used to determine the resolution order of abilities. Night actions resolve as normal unless otherwise noted.
8) In this game, the Town is the Pro-WTO faction and the Mafia are the Anti-WTO faction. These terms may be used interchangeably.
8b) As always, the town win condition is "The scum must die".
SPECIAL RULES
PM Structure
Abilities have names and keys. The keys are (Type of Ability/Period of Use/Number of Uses).
Type of Ability: Passive, Active, or Targeting. Passive means the ability works by itself; Active means the ability requires activation submitted to the mod, and Targeting means the ability requires activation and a target or targets for the ability submitted to the mod.
Period of Use: Day, Night, or Any. The period or periods in which the ability may be used.
Number of Uses: Permanent or #-Shot. The number of times the ability may be used. Permanent means the ability has an unlimited number of uses (although other rules of use still apply). Note that if an ability has a limited number of uses, and one of those uses are blocked in some way, that use is still lost.
Items
Items have abilities associated with them. You may give away one item as a night action. Players that are untargetable can still be given items. Giving away an item resolves immediately upon use, but the recipient will not receive the item until the beginning of the subsequent day.
Whenever a player with an item is killed, the player who caused that player's death (including the last person to vote that player on a lynch) will take that item. If that player has more than one item, the killer will receive a list of the names of the items the killed player had, and will be able to choose one to take. (ERRATA: This will be implemented after the death-post in the thread.)
ERRATA: If a player triggers Rule 2 (the "suicide rule"), the player who caused the lynch's death for the purpose of item-acquisition as defined above is the last other player to vote for that player.
If an item has only limited-shot abilities, that item will be discarded after all those shots are used. Discarded items will be listed by the mods similarly to dead players. Abilities of discarded items will not be revealed.
Post Actions
This game uses a type of actions known as "post actions" - actions that are triggered by posting a specific phrase, image, or other component in one's post. Whenever you use a post action, please send us a PM indicating the post in which you did so to make our jobs easier. If this PM is not sent, the action may be missed.
Note that post actions count as your one ability for a period as defined in rule 6.
Pregame
"Welcome to the Pregame Show! I'm your host, Bradford DuPont! We've got an exciting game ahead of you, so let's meet our first contestant!"
"She's a thirty-four year old elementary school teacher from San Bernardino, CA. She loves kids, hates dogs, and is ready to win a lot of money! Let's hear it for Jeneanne Carlton!"
(APPLAUSE)
"Jeneanne, it's a pleasure to meet you. Are you ready to play the Pregame!"
"I sure am, Brad!"
"I'm sure you know the rules, but for those of you at home, the rules are simple: as long as you don't say anything before I start the game, I won't have to press this button" (shows red button) "that will send you through a pit in the floor. I'm sure you don't want to be sent into the pit, Jeneanne?"
"I sure don't, Brad!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, you seem to have said something. Well, Jeneanne, I'm sorry we must part this way, but" (CLICK)
"But I fWOOOAHAAHAAHHHHH."
"Alright, everyone, give it up for Jeneanne!"
(APPLAUSE)
PMs will be sent out tomorrow morning or afternoon, depending. Please confirm you've received them via PM. Once everyone has confirmed, we'll begin day.
The West Pico Diner has fallen into ruins. It once had a reputation, standing shimmering in the darkness of a young Los Angeles, serving new migrants from the East, arriving in droves in their cars from the Big Cities, and young men stepping gingerly from the ships discarding them onto land after weeks, months, year at sea, fighting the Japanese Empire. The town in 1945 had grown up quickly in the waste of the world, serving as a hub for great mechanical behemoths to charge upon each other and dash to pieces on the dust of the desert, catching soldiers in their wake and leaving the survivors battered but ready to retreat back to land and never leave... find a place with a good drink and settle down for a century of earned rest. For the wanderer, there was the West Pico Diner, with "The Best Biscuits in Town!" and black coffee to match. As the city evolved around it, the Diner remained the same, with the timelessness quickly picked up and reproduced by a thousand similar diners built by men born in the sixties and seventies, men whose fathers had been born when the soldiers first stepped into the city, men who entered the world as their fathers left it half a world away never witnessing the horrors of war.
The owner of the diner had bought the land for pennies on the dollar, picking up a parcel from a saloon that lost its business after its the Zoot Suit Riots convinced the Latino youth in the area to avoid caucasians when drinking and the previous owner, Louis Brenner, decided it wasn't worth the trouble. The West Pico's owner, Jose Alma, bought the place and was able to wager an uneasy peace between the white soldiers and Latino kids with his food, a slight miracle in the barren land, and slowly the neighborhood pulled itself back. Unfortunately, the neighborhood grew away from its past, and as Alma wiped the counter for the next sixty years, as his hair bleached and then disappeared outright, the land around the West Pico Diner was bought up by developers, building freeways, shopping malls, parking lots, and eventually the two twin colossi residing a few blocks away, the Staples Center and Los Angeles Convention Center. With those two buildings came hordes of new entrepreneurs, who sought to acquire Alma's small and now rundown diner, but he politely declined after offering the developers a cup of coffee for their troubles. His deed to the property and resistance of local unrest prevented the property from being bought up, at least as long as he stood guard behind the counter. But he's been fighting a slow war with an adrenal ganglioneuroma for years now, and his doctor has told him that there isn't much more time. Soon, he will die, the deed to the property will be picked up, and the world will tip the scales back to where he had met them, restore the world's natural state of disorder.
The only customer today, Jesus Ivante, sips his coffee and takes a bite of his huevos con chorizo, munching quietly. Ivante was born the day Alma opened the diner, and his father considered that a sign from Dios that this place would be his biblical rock. The man worked construction for forty years, quietly persistent in a city that for a long time made it plainly clear that he was not special or important, a city so blended and churned it resembled less a melting pot than a puree, worked until he retired when arthritis finally took his last strength from him. Despite it being an hour out of his way from his job working for Merrill Lynch, Ivante still journeys here every morning. Alma wipes his counter absentmindedly, not expecting the sudden rush of cars down the block, all reinforced black sports utility vehicles. Ivante, sitting at the counter, turns and looks at the cavalcade, eyebrow raised. "Were you expecting this?"
Alma shakes his head, eyes not leaving the parade of cars. "Never a good sign when you see that many cars. Means one of a few things."
"What are those?"
"Well, I've seen this kind of cavalcade for gangs, mostly a show though occasionally if they want to move down on others. Sometimes, for political events, big ones, or concerts, or Michael Jackson's funeral. Usually, though, it means sports, basketball. Players traveling with their friends, colleagues, their séquito.And it's always a war after sports. People drink, and the team wins, and they celebrate riotously; people drink, and the team loses, and they mourn riotously. Break windows, make noise." He shakes his head mournfully. "Have to get swept up."
"You ever seen soccer on television?" Ivante asks him, through a bite of chorizo. "European football? Man, those people know how to riot." Alma considers that, shrugs, and focuses his attention on a particularly noxious spot on the counter. The parade of cars peters out and disappears down the block, returning the street to the mutter of traffic.
Outside the convention center, police officers part the throngs gathered. Many of them have come to protest, with signs, banners, artwork on automobiles, clothing, posters, and bodies, and chants, all comingling into a crescendo like an ocean folding in on itself with a guttural crash that dissipates immediately into its endless depths. Some have come to witness the celebrities, officials, and other notable personas in attendance; a few in the crowds have come to fight with the protestors, their shouts disappearing into their enemies' muddled roar. Field reporters speak to their cameramen about the sight. Most were not granted entrance to the facility itself, forcing their network to stake out space in the parking lot and silently pray someone inside has smuggled in a cellphone. The police have established a perimeter around the facility with their cars, barricades, and their own bodies, all carrying imposing sidearms and seemingly daring the public to tempt them to utilize the tear gas canisters and tasers on their belts and the beanbag rounds in their shotguns.
From the roof of the center, a man in a gas mask watches these two throngs converge and regress. He is busy typing instructions into his computer's console, crouched behind a duct, but he still can't resist sneaking glances at the crowd and chuckling to himself, a sound which from behind the mask sounds like a death rattle. From behind him, the man in the Armani suit, who had excused himself from the president's presence to coordinate the Associated Press' next move, watched the crowd, ignoring the young man busily working in front of him. They seemed so fragile, the crowds, rippling with uncomfortable energy, challenging their bounderies, daring the universe to lash out. Opening the briefcase in his hand, he removes a series of small mounds, which he begins distributing around the edge of the roof, followed by small transmittors. "How long until the code is downloaded, T.?" he asks the masked man.
"Four minutes," he responds, without turning.
The man in the Armani suit nods. "Send it to my phone when you're done, then get out of here. Go back to the safehouse, and you'll be debriefed." Turning briefly to glance at the crowds below, with a small knowing smile, he wanders back down the stairs, to prepare the next step. The man in the mask turns as he goes, shrugs slightly, then returns to his work.
Stepping into the vast expanse of the conference center, the man in the Armani suit replaces his earpiece and wanders toward the Secret Service agent he had abandoned back here. "There you are, Mr. Thorn. We were worried you had gotten lost. The attendees will arrive in approximately ten minutes. Have your men examined the building?"
"Yes, we have." The man in the Armani suit removes a folder from his briefcase. "Here are the specifications of the building, recommendations for placing your men and the President, and the security capabilities of the Center. Is there anything else the Bureau can do for you?"
"No, this is sufficient. Thank you, Mr. Thorn." The agent turns to go, but briefly pauses. "I wanted to ask, Mr. Thorn... if you don't mind me asking, you seem quite young for your position. How old are you?"
The man in the Armani suit stiffens, and his eyes narrow into slits. "I do mind, sir. Is there anything else you need?" The agent shakes his head and quickly wanders off, leaving the man in the Armani suit alone to brood in the cavernous hall.
The helicopter descends again, and inside, Joseph Cazell, POTUS 44, silently broods. The security measures taken by the Secret Service have been nothing short of extravagant. At one point, he asked the Secret Service guard keeping his shoulder at all times whether they had enlisted a small army to carry him the short distance from hotel to the convention center, but the man stoically replied that they had taken all necessary steps to protect your safety Mr. President, and Cazell grinned idly and returned to staring out at the scene below.
Already, the crowds are beginning to gather. In response to the disaster that was the 1999 World Trade Organization conference in Seattle, any time a city holds a large political event guaranteed to draw protesters, they produce miniature armies. At the 2008 Democratic National Convention, in Denver, the police erected a veritable maze of steel fences surrounding the meeting place and filled the city with armed police officers, and the results seemed to be rather positive. Taking a page out of that book, the Los Angeles Police Department is reported to be out in full force, with all officers on the premises or working to control protesters out on the street, with orders to curtail violence and to keep people in designated areas. And the chatter has been low, according to Cazell's advisers, who report that many major organizations with a bone to pick with the World Trade Organization, tentatively optimistic about the Cazell administration's promises to collaborate with the World Trade Organization on effective and efficient environmental policy, are waiting. But the usual rabid flock are out in droves, and the entire scene is still tense, tipping on the edge and awaiting a good pull or shove.
Looking down at his speech, Cazell coughs nervously, getting a flickering glance from the Secret Service agent, who then returns to burning a hole in the back of the pilot's chair. As the helicopter quickly touches down on the pad, the crowds seem to acknowledge the arrival with a roar. "I thought I told you to approach from an angle they wouldn't see," the Secret Service agent shouts at the pilot. The pilot turns back and responds angrily, but it is drowned out by the rotors. With a shrug, Cazell opens the door, but is quickly pulled back by the Secret Service agent. A young man, visibly startled, stands over a laptop. His face is a blur in the harsh light of morning cast about by the glass paneling of the building. Shouting in fright, he grabs his laptop and runs toward the exit, with the Secret Service agent in hot pursuit. Cazell remains with the pilot, looking at him with an expression of So how's your day going.
The man in the mask overshoots the door and keeps going toward the edge, as the agent gives chase. With a shout that comes out like a howl, he removes his mask and leaps off the roof's edge, as the agent pulls up and looks on. As the crowd below watches, aghast, as a Secret Service agent seemingly throws a helpless protester off the roof, they take up a new roar and begin attacking the police, who push back with force. Two other officers, ants from this height, look up from the body, prostrate on the ground, in a shroud of blood, and shake their heads, as the Secret Service agent, stone-faced, stares down. Visibly disturbed, Cazell walks up and looks down, turning away almost immediately. "You didn't..."
"No, Mr. President. Let's go." Without another word, Cazell lets the agent lead him away, chased by the cries of those below.
The two agents sit together at a booth in a small bar. The bartender listlessly wipes the counter, scrubs glasses, occasionally calls someone. The agent with sunglasses on looks over his shoulder, at the bartender, his lips pursed. "Do you think he's listening?"
The other agent frowns slightly. "Hell if I know. And besides, why would it matter?" He takes a sip from the bottle in front of him. His partner is on his second cream soda. "Hey, I never asked - why do you drink that stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"That cream soda ****."
Glasses shrugs, looking out into space. "Did I ever tell you about what I did before I came here?"
"Nah."
"I used to work as a cop. DC, mostly traffic, simple things."
"Why?"
"It wasn't the prestige, I'll tell you that. It... well, you'll think it's crazy."
"Shoot."
"I... well, in DC as a traffic cop, you're usually just sorting out broken lights, heavy traffic, crashes, things like that, pretty mundane things, and it's certainly a thankless job, you've ever seen traffic on the Beltway? crazy, filled with suits heading in, thinking about things other than the car in front of them, anything but that, like the radio or some such, and, well, it can get pretty rough, the weather, know what I'm sayin'? so anyway, but I did the job, because once in a while, you'd get called in to direct traffic for the President or someone proper, or even be part of the procession, leading the way, or bringing up the rear, and - well, do you know what that's like, knowing you're mere feet away from the President? Knowing you're a crucial part of keeping him safe? That's serious honor, man."
"Okay..."
"But, well, obviously, you deal with some pretty awful things, people getting shot in cars, and, well... there was one time, I saw a kid, couldn't have had his license, got shot driving an SUV, swerved, crashed into an elementary school. Terrible things, and obviously, we got called in on it, to look at where exactly the car swerved, how it plowed through the fence, and... But anyway, there was one time, it was the middle of the night, night of the 4th of July, I think it was 2001, and we were called in on a DUI, and well, it's like any other DUI, so we pulled ourselves out of the station and drove there, it must have been the 395 south toward Virginia, and I remember seeing the mess, this guy had swerved out of the left-hand lane, and by some dumb luck hit another car's back corner, flipped over the median, and right onto another car, couldn't have been more unfortunate, and, well, the driver of that car was this pretty young woman with a child in the backseat, and the car was crushed, killing them. Awful mess."
"So?"
"So, well, the guy who was driving drunk, he was unconscious when we got there, bloody and scraped, but he would live, wearing his seatbelt, had been pushed up against his wheel but didn't get punctured by it, he'd be alright, but I noticed something about this guy, y'know, that, well..." The agent took off his glasses, exposing his eyes' colors - one blue, one brown. "The guy looked like me. Like, eerily similar. Beyond the scratches and such, his hair was the same color, his face looked the same... ****, man, the guy's eyes. I noticed it - his eyes were just like mine, blue and brown, but it was like he was my... well, you heard about doppelgangers?"
"Doppelgangers?"
"Well, it's like, it's an image, but it's an image just like you. Like, your clone. And, the more I thought about it, it was like I was reporting to the scene of my own accident, like I was driving the car, crashed it, got out, and started taking notes on it. And, well, I couldn't repel that thought. You know that sensation, whenever something benign happens around you, but you can't shake it off, like, say, you decide to go to lunch at a different restaurant than you usually go to, and someone at that usual restaurant gets food poisoning and dies and you're like 'could that have been me who was supposed to die?' and while it had nothing to do with you, you're still like 'I could have died today' and it tears at you? You ever had that? So, but anyway, I couldn't stop thinking about that."
"..."
"So, anyway, soon after the accident, I decide to go to see the husband of the woman who'd died. They lived in Alexandria, a small, quaint little townhome, and I introduced myself as the officer who'd reported to his wife's death, and he let me in, and the guy's a nice guy, kinda bedraggled, but he's surprisingly not distraught, he seems almost neutral, and I feel the sweat rising on the back of my neck, what does this guy think he is, he's supposed to be mourning, it's almost obscene how little the guy seems affected, I want to punch him, but I don't do anything, and instead I noticed the pictures, the building was filled with 'em, you know, and so but I couldn't get over how it felt and at one point, the guy's asking me if he can get me anything to drink, and so but I'm looking at this picture, it's of the family, the man, the woman, the child, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and I look at it, and it must have been something strange about the light in the picture, or something, but it looks like it's all been washed with red paint, the marble in the memorial, it's not white, it's red, and, well, the family's just standing there, all smiles, and the people are walking around, minding their own business, and but they're all red too, come to think of it, everything's red, all red, all but the family, and I don't know what to make of it, until... I notice, in the corner of the picture, in the red margin around the family, I can see an image of, I swear, what looks like me, but must be the doppelganger, looking over their shoulders, right past the camera, as if he's, kind of, watching. And the guy hands me a bottle, sees me shaking there, tells me to drink, and it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted -"
"Cream soda."
"...yeah."
A long pause, as each considers the air over the other's shoulder.
"Did that actually happen?"
"..."
"I don't know what you're talking about. That bartender's not looking at us at all."
As he steps from the building, the man in the Armani suit steels himself against the buzz of the protests outside. Having shed his traditional attire in the convention center in exchange for a black bandana, shirt, and jeans, he approaches the police officers positioned at the edge of the premises. They are shouting at each other, trying to communicate over the crowd. The man in the Armani suit flashes his FBI badge at the men, who acknowledge him briefly. "What is the status in the building, Mr. Thorn?"
"Secure. We're just waiting for the delegates. How are things out here?"
"Apparently, there are reports that a protestor got up on the roof and was trying to hack into the building's mainframe with a laptop."
The man in the Armani suit turns, startled. "What? How?"
"We don't know, sir. According to early reports, the president's helicopter landed on the roof and the man was chased by a Secret Service agent, and he apparently fell off. Other than that, we -"
"Where?"
"Just around the corner, sir. We have pushed the crowd back to try to give our investigators some space. If you want, I can -"
"No, that's fine, I'll go instead." Turning abruptly, the man in the Armani suit jogs toward the scene, his phone out, dialing up Alpha.
He answers gruffly, likely still asleep at this early hour. "What?"
"Sir, we have a problem," the man in the Armani suit says, rounding the corner and confirming his worst fears. "T. is dead. The Secret Service got to him on the roof, and he chose to jump."
"****!" A moment of silence, as the man in the Armani suit finds a quiet corner of the building's exterior. Alpha returns, sounding more awake and alert, and more than a little aggravated. "Alright, then. I'll send the word to the Board. On the bright side, this should work rather well for us. Once I have heard back from the board, we will send you instructions on your next move." The man in the Armani suit confirms and quickly hangs up. Donning his bandana, he quickly steps past the police and disappears into the crowd. In the distance, the convoy makes the final turn, and the crowd begins to converge.
In the first vehicle, the two agents sit, tentatively pulling forward, awaiting the crowd's reaction. Gripping a cream soda nervously, the one in the passenger seat turns to his partner, who is holding the steering wheel like a captain fighting a torrential gale. Police officers walk alongside the vehicle, dispersal methods at the ready. "Where do you think we go when we die?" the agent with the cream soda asks. His hands shake, spilling soda over his suit. Ignoring the mess, he takes a sip of his beverage, which seems to calm him slightly.
"Well," the other agent says, then stops. His partner relaxes at his silence, and puts down his soda. "I was raised Greek Orthodox, and my parents taught me that there is heaven and hell. But everyone first goes to an empty place where the souls are judged. I always imagined this place was rather empty, devoid of anything but throngs of people, crowding the scales, eternally waging war to earn eternal rest. And as I grew older, and witnessed the earnest indifference of the world, I came to understand that very few people are good and deserve heaven; that most people are doomed to an empty afterlife to fit their empty lives. The ancient Greeks referred to this place as the asphodel meadows, a place destined for the ordinary. Purgatory. You understand?"
"I think so." As the throngs meet the vehicles with angry cries, the police slowly part the mass, and the endless stream of vehicles pull into the convention center. As the vehicles disappear into the convention center's perimeter, howls of execration rise up from the crowd as it closes the gap, setting the island of the convention center afloat again.
The agent awoke, his head throbbing, eyes covered in dust. Rubbing them anxiously, he shifted up. A pile of rocks on his chest rolled away, and their skittering echoed through the dark room. A small group of people are milling around in the middle of the room, shouting frantically. Several of them sport gashes from fallen rocks and glass. Rubbing his eyes, the agent walks up to them. "People, calm down. I'm Special Agent Xavier. Can any of you tell me what happened?" They looked at him fearfully. One of them quietly mentioned an explosion. The rest knew nothing.
From behind him, Xavier's partner walked up. "Oh, good, you're back." He pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. "I've been informed by the higher-ups that there has been some kind of attack, and they're not sure how to proceed. Until we hear back from them, we need to corral everyone we can find and sequester them to keep them safe..." Gesturing for his partner to lean in, he mutters, "and because the terrorists may still be here."
Xavier nods and turns back to the crowd. "People, this area is highly dangerous. Does anyone know where there might be an office or a conference room...?"
One person in the back raises their hand timidly. "This way, sir." He turns and wanders off into the dark. The rest of the group exchange nervous glances and follow. The man leads them to a small conference room in the back. One of the lights in the ceiling is still lit, revealing a long table and, grimly, a body, its head crushed by a piece of the ceiling. Several of your group turn in fright and protest, but the two agents hold firm.
"Alright, listen up, everyone," Agent Xavier shouts, which produces the desired effect. "We've been informed that there has been some kind of attack on the building, and there are fears that it may collapse. We need to keep you here until we receive further instructions, while we wait for the repair workers to try to break through to reach us."
"Who did this?" someone shouts.
"We do not know at this time..."
The crowd does not respond positively to that. "How do we know the attack is over?" "What if they're still here?" "We may still be in danger!"
Agent Xavier frowns and turns to his partner. "Are we?"
Day 1 has begun. With 24 alive, it is 13 to lynch.
Not sure how far I want to go on this. However, given my experience in my last two games, where town coordination wound up failing and resulting in their failures, I wish to do something the opposite here.
Let's start with this. Propose Full Claim From Everyone. One thing I've noticed with specialties is that people get so caught up with the craziness that they ignore the basics, the flavor, and well also just use their abilities beyond inefficiently. Town Coordination will remedy that. Also, it'll force the scum to false claim early (abilities), which is a benefit.
While a full mass claim is unlikely to break a game, i don't believe it's harmful as people think. It'll let us know what we're dealing with with extra special mechanics, and so we can get this game done right.
(I thought of going with just an item claim, but that'll miss some mechanics and might, depending upon item distribution, result in one side being better off than the other (scum can lie about items). whereas a mass claim is likely to evenly affect the board.)
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Well, Day 1 Mass Claim proposal with the second post. I do believe that might just be a record.
I don't think it's really necessary yet to get everything out there.
We're starting in day here. Literally nothing has happened.
By the way, I'm just astounded by the flavor in this game.
It's not even a game, it's reads like a really heady novel.
I love it, major kudos Xyre.
Vote desCoures
-Alpha
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Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
Not sure how far I want to go on this. However, given my experience in my last two games, where town coordination wound up failing and resulting in their failures, I wish to do something the opposite here.
Let's start with this. Propose Full Claim From Everyone. One thing I've noticed with specialties is that people get so caught up with the craziness that they ignore the basics, the flavor, and well also just use their abilities beyond inefficiently. Town Coordination will remedy that. Also, it'll force the scum to false claim early (abilities), which is a benefit.
While a full mass claim is unlikely to break a game, i don't believe it's harmful as people think. It'll let us know what we're dealing with with extra special mechanics, and so we can get this game done right.
(I thought of going with just an item claim, but that'll miss some mechanics and might, depending upon item distribution, result in one side being better off than the other (scum can lie about items). whereas a mass claim is likely to evenly affect the board.)
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
Wow that's fast. Cut your impulsiveness for once nom_anor? I'm not the dire warlock here, i can't stop you from being a total idiot and blowing up the game.
I'm not going to claim right now, and NOR SHOULD ANYONE ELSE until a mass claim is agreed upon. Unilateral claiming always helps the scum; (For example, your own claiming cop and wahali in ghost town was huge benefit to the scum.)
If you do have a daykill, revealing the possibility of it like that was stupid.
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
I am against a mass claim day 1.
I have poked my head into Joss Whedon mafia. That has turned out horrible.
Ouch didn't know Cyan hated me that much.
How do you know it's turned out horrible? Game's in progress, And they did lynch scum on day 1.
Besides here's the reason why: This is a XYRE SPECIALTY. There is almost certainly going to be hidden mechanics lying around, and interactions of roles. Coordinating them from day 1 will make this game much more level for the town, as it will eliminate role stupidity that players will do. (And they will do that).
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
The claim intrigues me, but mostly because my role interacts with multiple mechanics, and there are mechanics in the intro posts that it doesn't mention at all. There's definitely a lot going on, but I cannot think of something beneficial to claim.
There are inherent abilities, items to trade, post actions, and other things. Claiming one doesn't seem like a helpful thing (except maybe items), but I don't like the idea of claiming multiple things so early.
Wow that's fast. Cut your impulsiveness for once nom_anor? I'm not the dire warlock here, i can't stop you from being a total idiot and blowing up the game.
I'm not going to claim right now, and NOR SHOULD ANYONE ELSE until a mass claim is agreed upon. Unilateral claiming always helps the scum; (For example, your own claiming cop and wahali in ghost town was huge benefit to the scum.)
If you do have a daykill, revealing the possibility of it like that was stupid.
You want a mass claim, you claim first. I can think of a thousand reasons one might propose a mass claim at the start of day one, and only a few of them are good for the town.
If you'll come out and claim, I'll support your mass claim idea; otherwise I'm going to kill you.
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
No. Do you not learn from your own most recent mistake in your last game? I will not claim unilaterally before the town agrees upon a plan of claiming.
Shibui's talk about the hidden mechanics is EXACTLY why we should be doing this.
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Not sure how far I want to go on this. However, given my experience in my last two games, where town coordination wound up failing and resulting in their failures, I wish to do something the opposite here.
Let's start with this. Propose Full Claim From Everyone. One thing I've noticed with specialties is that people get so caught up with the craziness that they ignore the basics, the flavor, and well also just use their abilities beyond inefficiently. Town Coordination will remedy that. Also, it'll force the scum to false claim early (abilities), which is a benefit.
While a full mass claim is unlikely to break a game, i don't believe it's harmful as people think. It'll let us know what we're dealing with with extra special mechanics, and so we can get this game done right.
(I thought of going with just an item claim, but that'll miss some mechanics and might, depending upon item distribution, result in one side being better off than the other (scum can lie about items). whereas a mass claim is likely to evenly affect the board.)
How do you know it's turned out horrible? Game's in progress, And they did lynch scum on day 1.
Besides here's the reason why: This is a XYRE SPECIALTY. There is almost certainly going to be hidden mechanics lying around, and interactions of roles. Coordinating them from day 1 will make this game much more level for the town, as it will eliminate role stupidity that players will do. (And they will do that).
If the town had full-claimed on Day One of TFC I think my team might have won. I was scum that game.
You want a mass claim, you claim first. I can think of a thousand reasons one might propose a mass claim at the start of day one, and only a few of them are good for the town.
If you'll come out and claim, I'll support your mass claim idea; otherwise I'm going to kill you.
Nom, I don't really care if you've got a daykill or not, but this is a bad idea. Please don't shoot Loran based on this nonsense. Let's not shoot anyone without a proper wagon we can examine later, 'mkay?
@ Loran I guess you are right. I mean it might be best to try to figure out the roles/setup. After Cyan and your game proved that players are not really thinking outside of the box. I just don't like all of the WIFOM that it causes. I mean if you really want I can go crazy and start throwing out setup analysis(and I mean any plausible idea that pops into my mind) after we start getting information. But I am really against a mass claim. It just makes to much WIFOM.
@Pale_Mage, how? TFC is one of the few games i didn't read, (I hate xyre's writing, it's a massive turn off.....one can write good fiction without a wall of text, and it's not really suspenseful.)
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Nom, I don't really care if you've got a daykill or not, but this is a bad idea. Please don't shoot Loran based on this nonsense. Let's not shoot anyone without a proper wagon we can examine later, 'mkay?
I'd say the fact I've not shot him yet is a sign I'm not being completely insane.
No. Do you not learn from your own most recent mistake in your last game? I will not claim unilaterally before the town agrees upon a plan of claiming.
Shibui's talk about the hidden mechanics is EXACTLY why we should be doing this.
Except it's a completely different case than last game--rather than someone coming out and claiming, it's someone being forced to.
I'm not telling you I'm against a mass claim, I just think you need to show us your determination for it.
Tell you what Loran, you might think I'm bluffing and you might just not want to claim, but if you are town, it's better for you to claim and not die, and if you're scum, it's better for you to false-claim and not die.
I'll give you two posts--one more if you still want to convince me to change my mind and one to claim after it. Then if you haven't claimed, I'm pulling the trigger.
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
Except its no different. If someone in my game threatened to daykill you to come out, it would've been utterly stupid there as well (either shooting you, a cop-wahali role), and....of course, you'd be wasting a daykill.
If you really have a daykill, we should get 2 lynches in today, with the town controlling both. If you do not, cut it out.
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
@DV, I'd point out that Cyan daykilled me without claim in our last specialty together (Kraj's game - I forget the name.) on day 1. I'm not afraid of anyone daykilling me and i won't be threatened stupidly.
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
"Mothership, do you read me? It's day one here, how's it going up there? What? Really? Are you sure? What, you aren't sure? But he seems awfully shifty refusing to claim like that? Very well, understood."
Everyone, I'm getting word that Loran is scum. Prepare for impact in 5. 4. 3. 2....
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
Anyhow, others, since I'm obviously not dying here....let's keep talking mass claim.
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I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
I support loran's mass claim. Given what I've seen of the game (and my own PM), I think it is in our best interest to get everything down on the table. On other news...
Vote Nom Anor
Really you are overreacting. It is one thing to be against a claim. But to threaten to daykill loran over it, well you are neither kpaca, nor Cyan. Especially when you are asking loran to full claim or die before the town has even had a chance to decide or even really talk about this.
Also on the wall of flavor... tl;dr. It is one thing to have nice and interesting flavor, it is another to create a wall of text for it. The flavor could've been half to a quarter of that and been fine.
This game uses a type of actions known as "post actions" - actions that are triggered by posting a specific phrase, image, or other component in one's post. Whenever you use a post action, please send us a PM indicating the post in which you did so to make our jobs easier. If this PM is not sent, the action may be missed.
Note that post actions count as your one ability for a period as defined in rule 6.
Doesn't seem like baloney to me, Loran. I'd watch your back...doesn't seem like a ploy.
-Alpha
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Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
Wow that's fast. Cut your impulsiveness for once nom_anor? I'm not the dire warlock here, i can't stop you from being a total idiot and blowing up the game.
I'm not going to claim right now, and NOR SHOULD ANYONE ELSE until a mass claim is agreed upon. Unilateral claiming always helps the scum; (For example, your own claiming cop and wahali in ghost town was huge benefit to the scum.)
If you do have a daykill, revealing the possibility of it like that was stupid.
Hmm, something about this post bugs me.
You proposed a full claim. If it went through, NA would be revealing said daykill(if it's real) anyway, so, your reaction here doesn't make alot of sense.
Well i think the in-thread trigger is baloney. He could've pmed in a kill simultaneously.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
You proposed a full claim. If it went through, NA would be revealing said daykill(if it's real) anyway, so, your reaction here doesn't make alot of sense.
Was my original thought as well, that he was being hypocritical, but I realized Loran is talking about unilateral claiming being stupid, not mass claiming.
I happen to disagree, but that's beside the point.
I don't think Loran's going to be around for much longer at any rate.
-Alpha
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Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
You proposed a full claim. If it went through, NA would be revealing said daykill(if it's real) anyway, so, your reaction here doesn't make alot of sense.
Cyan, Mass Claims are beneficial IMO.
Unilateral Claims are not. If the town, as i suspect, rejects my plan (I hope they do not, but i fully expect it to get rejected), then it will, have benefitted no one to reveal said daykill then and there, unless he was willing to give it to the town to use as a second lynch.
Since he's clearly not willing to do the latter; this is solely an action that hurts the town.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Well i think the in-thread trigger is baloney. He could've pmed in a kill simultaneously.
What reason do you have for thinking it's baloney when Xyre specifically mentions that there are post actions in the game?
Are you just assuming N_A is lying? Surely you have some reason to disbelieve him, if that's what you think.
-Alpha
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Quote from TheFooFish »
Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
@Pale_Mage, how? TFC is one of the few games i didn't read, (I hate xyre's writing, it's a massive turn off.....one can write good fiction without a wall of text, and it's not really suspenseful.)
Knowing Cyan's role from the beginning would have been very helpful. (Of course, he probably would have lied, but then he would've had to justify that later.)
So, if you can come up with a limited claim plan of some kind, I might be up for it, but I think a full claim is more likely to help the scum than the town.
What reason do you have for thinking it's baloney when Xyre specifically mentions that there are post actions in the game?
Are you just assuming N_A is lying? Surely you have some reason to disbelieve him, if that's what you think.
-Alpha
He's mentioned they are in the game? Never mind then. I hate those things though...just stupid (basically if Nom's form is correct, he couldn't hide a daykill if he tried, which deprives his role, of whatever alignment of hiding the use of his ability and half of its options. Options=fun.)
Knowing Cyan's role from the beginning would have been very helpful. (Of course, he probably would have lied, but then he would've had to justify that later.)
So, if you can come up with a limited claim plan of some kind, I might be up for it, but I think a full claim is more likely to help the scum than the town.
Terrible opinions above are in strikethrough.
Vote: Arim
...just to be sure.
You like cheesy suspense with way too much details and text surrounding anything that could be useful flavor? jeez, bad taste. That's like liking Dan Brown books.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
I don't know if nom is town or scum. But I'd like to point out this type of behavior is his standard modus operandi.
Court Mafia: Day 1, hatch plan to KILL EVERYONE ELSE IN A SINGLE NIGHT, when the plan only allows him to hit 11 random players, ATTEMPTS TO FIRE ANYHOW (Roleblocked).
In other words....Nom is an impulsive player who doesn't think about planning long-term or listening to others. I wouldn't be surprised if he was town. At all.
Just as a reminder, any time you need to PM the mods, please PM both of us. Both for the sake of our record-keeping and for the sake of my self-esteem.
If that's true, it means Loran is either scum, or we have a town day-roleblocker.
-Alpha
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Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
If that's true, it means Loran is either scum, or we have a town day-roleblocker.
-Alpha
What you just said was the following:
Either we have a town day-RB....or we have a scum day-RB.
How very poignant. But if you are trying to say that the RB probably matches my alignment, you are probably correct.
@Nom, lucky? Hardly. I prefer to think that there's a player out there who realizes its a good use of a RB to prevent someone from daykilling a townie.
----------------------------------------------------------------
So back to mass claims.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Actually, just so we don't waste time speculating, I caused the day-RB myself. I will say no more about how the ability works and what it's limitations and shots are.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
As soon as the group is convened, Pale Mage starts panicking. "We need to get out of here! There may be other survivors who are crushed under rocks and stuff!" With a howl, he runs from the room and starts grabbing rocks from the large wall of debris blocking your way out, lifting them over his head with surprising strength.
Just as he lifts one extraordinarily large rock over his head, the agents walk over and grab him by the arms. "Please put the rock down, sir. You may hurt yourself."
"You're not my mom!" Pale Mage, wrestling with the hands on him while trying to keep the rock steady. Unfortunately for his skull, the latter goal is at odds with the former, and he soon finds his face carrying on important dialogue with the floor.
The rest of you laugh quietly, then return to your deliberation.
Vote Count (13 to lynch)
Penguin of Death - 1 (Ecophagy)
desCoures - 1 (AlphaInsidious)
Nom Anor - 1 (Guardman)
I'm going to ignore absurd stuff - daykilling loran, mass full claims, the like - and throw out a vote: Zionite because every time I see him it's on the wrong end of a mafia win.
Don't think I've ever played with Alpha, Ged, or Jobie, and definitely not the Triple Word Score gimmick.
Actually, just so we don't waste time speculating, I caused the day-RB myself. I will say no more about how the ability works and what it's limitations and shots are.
Isn't this a unilateral, unprompted soft claim?
Also, re: this flavor talk, obviously it's not going to appeal to everyone.
I just happen to find it seamlessly engaging and challenging, and I like that. I would read a novel written by Xyre. It's seriously impressive.
How much it improves the game itself remains to be determined, I suppose.
-Alpha (Actually it might be time to drop the "-Alpha" from my posts. It's starting to annoy me.)
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Quote from TheFooFish »
Lies! -I'm Buffy Summers, town tracker. I used my ability on you and saw that you didn't use any abilities before the game started. My flavor is I was sucked through a mysterious space-time portal and I'm here to kill all the vampires, and my tracking ability is a combination of my Slayer and Native American skills.
Also, re: this flavor talk, obviously it's not going to appeal to everyone.
I just happen to find it seamlessly engaging and challenging, and I like that. I would read a novel written by Xyre. It's seriously impressive.
How much it improves the game itself remains to be determined, I suppose.
-Alpha (Actually it might be time to drop the "-Alpha" from my posts. It's starting to annoy me.)
It's not unprompted. I don't want the town to be focusing on a mystery RB, his connection to me and his alignment. If they want to, they can talk about my alignment.
That said, the parameters of my role are not revealed, and thus the scum do not gain any advantage. What little they've gained is simply countered by the benefit of the town not going off on looking at or for the mystery blocker. As opposed to if i'd full claimed to Nom, or we went through under a mass claim.
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
Re: the full claim. Normally I would give some consideration to a plan which takes a specialty game in a direction the mod probably didn't expect. But this is an item game with all that implies. Claims with items has the problem that there's almost inevitably going to be a scum item stealer or something, meanwhile the scum don't have to claim their items and whatnot. Claims without items give a huge loophole to any scum needing to use an ability he/she didn't claim. It won't give us the information parity a full claim might give in a non-item setup.
Nom, did you really actually try to kill loran, and if so were you TOLD specifically that it was blocked, not failed for some other reason?
Re: the full claim. Normally I would give some consideration to a plan which takes a specialty game in a direction the mod probably didn't expect. But this is an item game with all that implies. Claims with items has the problem that there's almost inevitably going to be a scum item stealer or something, meanwhile the scum don't have to claim their items and whatnot. Claims without items give a huge loophole to any scum needing to use an ability he/she didn't claim. It won't give us the information parity a full claim might give in a non-item setup.
Well said.
Nom, did you really actually try to kill loran, and if so were you TOLD specifically that it was blocked, not failed for some other reason?
Do we need to know this one way or another at this point?
Unvote
(I don't recommend voting for the mods. The flavor scenes hurt the pride.)
You like cheesy suspense with way too much details and text surrounding anything that could be useful flavor? jeez, bad taste. That's like liking Dan Brown books.
Xyre's flavor doesn't remind me of Dan Brown. Brown is a clumsy writer, but an adequate plot technician, and his style demands that it be read quickly (once you force yourself past the awkward things towards the front). Xyre's stuff isn't fast-paced, and at it's best it has a noir feel to it imo.
Is mass claim the idea you've been wanting to try out you mentioned in the sign up thread?
@RafK: The items are a problem. But well, if there's an item stealer, there's just as likely to be a town role that can identify or steal items themselves, and then a catch of an item stealer or someone with an unclaimed item will result in a caught scum.
There is definitely going to be lying by scum as to abilities if we mass claim, and of course of items. But i think the benefit of getting certain mechanics out in the open will be worth it. (For example, if people do have a HP-like primary item, then it would be possible for the town to equip such persons with their items, if such persons were considered to be town).
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Quote from Seppel »
I love Joboman, Poggy, Niv, and Vezok, because, while they may not be the best players, they still try to win. Having fun is the most important thing to a game, but I've learned that if you don't try to win, then you're ruining everyone else's fun.
[ n1d2 | n2d3 | n3d4 | n4d5 | n5d6 | n6d7 | End ]
EDIT 4/10/12: Since Google Groups are now defunct, I have transfered the files for this game into the spoilers in this post and the next two. Note that they will undoubtedly spoil the game, so open them at your caution.
Sorry things are a little ugly - the text files I got were a little messy, and so the HTML conversion didn't work perfectly.
Katrien Darko
OCCUPATION: Chairwoman of the General Council
COUNTRY: Belgium
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your hands clench and unclench, unable to decide between massaging your temples, brushing dust off your suit jacket, or simply wringing themselves in stress. As your eyes scan over the schedule on your desk, your brain ticks through every planned minute, playing out the days to come in your mind.
?Add ten minutes here, before opening ceremony,? you say to the gaggle of assistants nervously hovering near your desk. One of them, a wide-eyed, clean-shaven young man, jumps visibly.
?Ah, ah, right away, ma?am. I mean, Madame Ambassador. Er, Madame Chairwoman, I should say.? He swallows as he pulls his own copy of the schedule and a red pen out of his pocket. ?Ah, what should I ??
?Agricultural subsidies,? you reply, not even looking up. ?We may as well spend ten fewer minutes on a discussion that hasn?t got a hope of being resolved in the first place.?
?Right, right, thank you, ma?am,? he says, scribbling furiously on his paper.
?The Americans are hogging the media workshops again, I see.? You thumb through another page, rolling your eyes to no one in particular. ?And apparently they?re just going to let the protestors wander through Los Angeles willy-nilly, overturning cars or God only knows what else.?
?Ah, right.? The young man?s voice quavers a bit and he allows himself a conspiratorial glance to the other assistants. Your staff has long since learned not to draw out conversations when Americans are concerned. You toss the papers back onto your desk and shut your eyes. How long has it been since I got a full night?s sleep? It must be eighteen days, now. No, nineteen. Elections in a week, no less. At least I?ll be able to sleep in once I?m unemployed. Not opening your eyes, or even budging in your seat, you growl out another instruction: ?Coffee.?
?Right, right away, ma?am!? The young man nearly lunges out the door, leaving the other assistants to slowly back their way out of the room amidst the awkward silence. Eventually, he returns by himself with a steaming mug in his hand. Wordlessly, you reach out and take it from him, immediately bringing it to your lips. After a single sip, you open your eyes again and set the mug down.
?What is your name, young man??
?Ah, ah, Leopold, ma?am. Named after the King.?
?I see. Would I be correct, Leopold, to surmise that you have never gotten me coffee before??
?Ah??
?I ask simply because I have to conclude that if you had, you would know that I do not take sugar in my coffee. You would know, in fact, that I consider sugar in coffee to be an affront to the natural order, an unholy abomination the likes of the plagues of Egypt. Tell me, Leopold, would you like me to offer you a nice hot mug of locusts??
?I, ah??
?Please go see my secretary for your debriefing.?
He blinks. ?Ma?am, you?re transferring me out because I put sugar in your coffee??
?Don?t be silly, Leopold. That would be entirely out of proportion to your offense.? He breathes a barely audible sigh of relief as you arrange the papers on your desk. ?I?m firing you.?
ABILITIES:
Chairwoman's Fiat (Passive/Day/Permanent) As long you are voting for the same person as another player, that player whom you are voting is -1 to lynch (effectively, your vote will count twice). This will not be reflected in vote counts.
Exculpate (Active/Day/Permanent) Post Action -- Post "X is a valued member of the international community and we stand behind him/her completely". That player will be unlynchable today. You may not use this on the same player on consecutive days. You may not use this ability on yourself.
Note on Abilities: Your government has become increasingly unpopular as of late. During Night 4, an election will take place in Belgium. If you have not been on one wagon that lynches a scum before then, it is likely your party will be thrown out of office. As a result, you will be stripped of your ambassadorship and will lose your abilities Chairwoman's Fiat and Exculpate .
---
MOD NOTE: If she loses her ambassadorship, her occupation becomes "Ex-".
If she succeeds in lynching scum, her government will lose, but by a small margin, and will successfully bargain to keep her as ambassador.
Christopher Exodus
OCCUPATION: Officer, LAPD
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"Jason, let me tell you a story..."
He's on his third beer, and you're starting to worry. His limits are never apparent. You know your brother enough to know that he has a fifth of Jack under the passenger's seat of his '97 Civic. He stashes alcohol where nobody will find it - in planters, in dense postmodern novels, in boxes of tissue - and you can't know for sure how much he's consumed today, but you can't tell him not to order them. It's his money, his body, and his decision, is his common thread, but you know your brother, know him well enough to tell that he's an alcoholic. He's probably really on his seventh, eighth drink of the night, and you can't really tell the difference, not until it becomes a problem.
And it isn't like he can afford the drinks anyway. You're drinking as far away from Hollywood as you can, even though your precinct is adjacent to Beverly Hills, because it's too damn expensive. Cops don't make **** if they make good, and your mother taught you not to steal. You would be living in a homeless shelter, and she would sternly tell you and J not to take a second helping from the soup line. "There's enough there for you, but there's no enough there for two of you," she reminded you every time your stomachs growled, and you bottled your hunger and pride and took another bite of saltines. There are cops who take drugs, money, and other paraphernalia from the evidence locker weekly, but that's not the kind of person your mother made you. But you and J can't really afford to drink. You're on your first, but he's on his third Guinness and throwing them back, disappearing as soon as they arrive, and you're starting to get fidgety, watching him, worried about dragging him away.
Your mum was diagnosed with Parkinson's fourteen years ago. At the time, you had a baseball scholarship to UCLA, but you needed money, because she couldn't work anymore and you couldn't put together enough money to care for her. So you dropped out and put your physique to work as a cop, to care for your family and your dying mother. And, in spite of it all, you've never regretted the decision. Fate deals you what you may, and you take your life and run with it. But J, he's in bad shape... can't hold down a steady job. He was fired from construction a week ago and hasn't found a replacement job. He has two strikes - once for a DUI that left its victim with a broken pelvis, and once for attacking a man in a bar fight with a broken beer bottle. If he gets in another fight, he's looking at significant jail time, and if he gets another strike, it's life. You've exerted influence where you can, but...
He stands up from the bar, his head tilted sharply sideways, toward a man at the end. You hadn't heard what they had said, but the man at the end of the bar looks angry, pointing, and J stands up and starts heading over, fists at the ready. Pulling yourself back, you try to hold him back. The bartender has stepped away for a moment for a smoke. "Hey, you!" J shouts, as you try to pull him back. The man at the end of the bar laughs and heads over, shouting in Dutch at J. J waves his arms frantically, fighting against you, but he's a big guy, and you can't hold him well enough. With a start, he bursts free, grabbing the Dutchman and throwing him against a wall. He slumps slightly, but stands up, ready to engage. In the brief moment, as the world seems to shake under the feet of the participants - your brother and his opponent yelling and swinging, you standing away, trying to find an opportunity - you glimpse of the ghost of a woman sitting in the corner, drinking a martini. She looks like your mother, starting idly into space. She catches your eye briefly, but only looks away again, as if in acceptance. Do what you will, my child...
Jumping in, you grab the Dutchman by the neck and shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pulling out your handcuffs. Words escape your mouth as if dragged by a dark wave back to sea, and you read him his rights and leave him in the corner. Walking back, you survey your brother, who looks petrified. "Hold still. It has to look authentic." He looks at you, for a moment, with an expression split between fear and gratitude, then nods. You close your eyes, for a moment, then swing your fist.
ABILITIES:
Blacklist (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player uses a Targeting ability, that ability is canceled. You may not use this ability in consecutive periods.
Arrest (Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Send in the name of a player. That player will be removed from the game for two game days and nights. He will not count for or against any win condition, but is still part of the game. He cannot be the target of abilities, cannot post, and cannot vote. You and that player may communicate via PM as long as he or she is in custody.
--
MOD NOTE: If Exodus uses Arrest on Sophia Guerrero, she will be exposed as an illegal immigrant and deported, causing her to lose the game.
Players RFGed with Arrest (sans Guerrero) will be placed in a separate "Absent" pile, akin to what I did with the jester after he was lynched in TGA.
Jorge Sur
OCCUPATION: Soldier, Mara Salvatrucha COUNTRY: El Salvador ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"I'm a fleabit peanut monkey
All my friends are junkies
That's not really true!"
The car is stolen, its plates swapped with those of a rusted-out hulk sitting in a scrapyard in Inglewood. You've been pulled over more than a few times in stolen cars, and since cops have computers and can quickly check plates against recent reports, switching plates is an easy way to avoid suspicion as long as you don't get pulled over. Besides, it's not like California doesn't have plenty of red convertibles.
Passenger seat is talking about a girl he met at a club last weekend to Left and Right Backseat, who are laughing along while you silently concentrate on street signs to avoid missing the turn-off. A few minutes late, and the contact might get spooked.
So I was talking to this girl, and she's got an ass out to here, and my buddies are watching my wings, chatting up her girlfriends, and she was all - and he makes a very suggestive gesture that cracks up Left and Right. Passenger Seat turns to you and asks so how's your chick, Jor? The pun is lost on the backseats, both because they are too busy grinning like madmen and because they're light on English, but you feel your teeth start inching closer together, looking to grind. What Passenger Seat lacks in rank, he makes up for in overconfidence.
"But I've been bit and I've been tossed around
By every she-rat in this town
Have you, babe?"
"We're here," you mutter, pulling over to the concrete trench of the Los Angeles River. The contact is barely visible under the pillars of a bridge, his hands twin tumors erupting under his jacket. Stupid blanco in his backwards cap and visible tattoos.
You step out of the car, and Passenger Seat follows suit, while the two backseats stay behind to watch for cops. As you walk toward the contact, his eyes turn up, and in the bright light resemble jewels, like the overtrusting punk that he is.
"You have the money?" he asks, shifting his weight anxiously. His hands are still firmly entrenched in his coat, though you can just barely make out a slightly larger bulge in one pocket than the other. You lift the backpack you carried down. He nods slightly and reveals the bag of opaque crystals, which he tosses to Passenger Seat per his instructions. Passenger Seat opens up the ziplock and takes one out. He removes a razor blade from his pocket and sets to work on the
product, quickly grinding it up and placing the line on a small piece
of cardboard in his pocket. Quickly, he leans down and the powder
disappears. Shaking slightly as he leans back down, he nods before pressing a pair of fingers to his nose. You unzip the backpack, stare into it for a moment, then remove the sawed-off from within and shoot the contact with one of the barrels in the chest.
The sound of the firearm radiates off the walls of the canyon, radiating down the valley. The contact falls, blood oozing over his ensemble, before collapsing. Passenger Seat moves toward the body to grab his wallet, but you stop him with your gun arm. "We've been told to leave a message. His wallet stays."
"**** you. I'm not getting paid enough." He pushes past you, and you sigh, before swinging the gun towards his head. The crunch of metal on bone isn't very loud, but is still eerie. He doubles over in pain on the ground, concussed, while you stand over him.
"You don't pay any attention, do you. Pick yourself up."
He collapses back, squinting against the pain. "You aren't going to tell them, are you?"
"No, not yet. Oh, and Ernesto?" you say, leaning over him with tightness in your brow. "If you say anything about my wife again, you can forget about how your employer will feel, because I'll kill you myself. Got it?" He meekly trembles on the ground, answering your question. Dropping the empty backpack on his face, you walk back toward the car, where the backseats still sit unawares. As you climb, you sing along quietly with the song in your head:
"Well, I hope we're not too messianic
Or a trifle too satanic
We love to play the blues"
ITEMS:
Sawed-Off Shotgun
The Gun (Passive/Any/Permanent) Whenever you are targeted with a nonkill ability, that ability's user will be prompted to target a different player instead. This will resolve immediately upon you being targeted.
The Shell
(Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Send in the name of a player. That player will be killed. Your kill method is a sawed-off shotgun blast. This ability cannot be blocked and the player cannot be doc-protected. Only the killed player's alignment will be revealed. After you use this ability, you will discard Sawed-Off Shotgun.
Xu Tao
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Republic of China (Taiwan)
ALINGMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
This country is so strange, like all the others. They all come from different places, and yet have little sense of memory. Each fights, to be sure, but fights merely for himself, pushing and shoving in the journey across life's bridge and only succeeding in sending themselves flying over the rails. You see no duty, no purpose, no family. Why would anyone ever want to live here?
You've never quite felt yourself away from home, despite being stretched between two worlds. Your father, an aide to Chiang Kai-Shek, fought hard to maintain the integrity of his homeland, his forefathers' culture, and his pride in his work. He left the army on the eve of the Second World War to serve his country to his best potential, and faithfully directed Chinese national policy. When the Communists seized control in the provinces, however, your father found himself in an unfamiliar place, on the island of Taiwan - his home under the control of the enemy, his national pride shattered. And yet he persevered dutifully under Kai-Shek, spending every breath in his body defending the man and his work. Three days after you were born, on the eve of the Second Taiwan Strait Crisis, your father was killed by a stray bomb crashing through the roof of his office. Not once did the government ever acknowledge his work and his life, but your mother always reminded you of the burden of pride and your father's duty. As soon as you could, you joined the military to fulfill that duty, and like your father have served with every breath available.
The People's Republic has grown, decayed, and been reborn again, and never once has stopped pointing a leery eye at the small island. In spite of its weakness, it has become a superpower, and you are positive it has sent agents to this meeting, here in this other superpower, to again assail Taiwan's freedom. You are now in your fifties, and your military training is beginning to evaporate, your body beginning to quake, and your senses beginning to cloud, but you still have a bright light in your mind - the light of your father's duty, burning like a solitary candle in the great fog of the world and its war. For him, for Taiwan, you know you will give everything you have left - the last breath, for your home. You could only just deserve that great and expansive honor.
ABILITIES:
Military Training (Passive/Day/Permanent) Post actions have no effect on you.
ITEMS:
Syringe of Sodium Thiopental
Interrogate (Active/Day/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote a portion of a player's post and respond with :confused2:. The mods will tell you to the best of their knowledge if that player lied in any part of the quoted section.
Mitchell Henderson
OCCUPATION: Professional Blogger
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short,
The cursor blinks idly on the screen as you stare into what must be about your tenth cup of coffee. He is? he is? damn, what is the phrase I?m looking for? You search through your mental library of scathing invectives, trying to find just the right turn of phrase to express your snark. He is? ah, I?ve got it.
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short, wholely without value as a human being.
Ugh, that?s far too generic. You hold down the backspace key for several seconds while further considering your options. Something? it?s on the tips of my fingers? yes! That?s it!
Mr. Limbaugh is, in short, as much a threat to our country?s ability to hold civilized political discourse as he is to our national supply of cheese fries.
Everyone loves a fat joke.
Mitchell Henderson ? lady killer, wordsmith extraordinaire, a juggernaut force for political and social change the likes of which
haven?t been seen since Martin Luther King, Jr. Well, sort of. Actually, you?re a bit of a dork, in your twelve-year-old daughter?s
words. A bit of a grammar fetishist as well, sadly also in your daughter?s words (you intend to find out which of her friends taught her the word ?fetishist? and make them pay dearly.) You are a fairly well-known blogger, however, and you like to think you defy the stereotype of your profession by generally avoiding histrionic ad hominem attacks on your ideological opposition. Well, unless those attacks are particularly clever ? or if the opposition is particularly not so. You don?t suffer fools gladly, after all.
Yet in the blogosphere, there?s always a bigger fish. Despite your wit, irreverence, and sizable vocabulary, you have yet to achieve a national readership ? until now. You?ve been handed a golden opportunity in the form of the upcoming WTO conference, which you?ll be covering live alongside the local news team. Finally up on the national stage? and they?ll probably be fact-checking, too. This is it, Henderson. Prime time. The big leagues. The deep end of the pool. The ? wait? those are all sentence fragments. Oh God, I?ve been monologuing about myself in the third person again. That?s what I get for being up at 4 AM with coffee.
Switching off your laptop, you slide your slippers on, pour the rest of now-frigid coffee into the sink, and head to bed. You?ve got big days coming up, after all.
BLOG: Your blog is at the-stillest-words.blogspot.com. The account is [email]odessazero@gmail.com[/email] and the password (to the blog and email account) is ****. Please do not change this password. On this blog, you may post anything you want related to the game or not that isn't illegal - however, please do not delete any comments or change the settings. It's intended as a sounding board for you (and by extension the players in the game). The mod will reference your blog in his flavor to attract attention. The rest is up to you. You are allowed to continue maintaining the blog after your death.
ABILITIES:
Slander (Targeting/Any/One-Shot) Post Action -- In your blog or in one of your posts, post "X is an idiot and should not be taken seriously by anyone". That player loses all passive abilities he or she has permanently. This ability cannot be countered by passive abilities.
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MOD NOTE: To increase the paranoia meter, the mods will recruit a few people outside the game who will spam the board on occasion with anonymous or strange characters (making sure they know absolutely nothing about the game's setup).
Slander counts as a post action even if posted in his blog.
Lucas Finch
OCCUPATION: Pawn Shop Owner
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The ticks of the clock on the wall are like cracks of a whip across your brain. Your vision is swimming, just ever so slightly at the
edges. You rest your head against one of your hands, attempting to conceal the fact that your right eye is twitching at irregular
intervals. Yeah, you definitely should have stopped at three margaritas last night.
??next election cycle. After that, we can reassess our priorities and see where we stand. Sound alright to you, Marcus??
Your eyes widen and you stare at the two men seated on the other side of the table. Your mind races. ****, was he talking to me? He said Marcus? yeah, he must be.
?Yeah? I mean, yes. Yes, that should be fine,? you sputter. ?I mean, I?ll get back to you if any problems come up??
?Excellent,? says one of the men. ?Oh, before we adjourn, I meant to ask you: what do you think about the people protesting prop thirty-eight??
Prop thirty-eight? How the hell should I know? I didn?t even know there were props one through thirty-seven?
Fighting to keep your eyes focused, you wrack your brain for a pithy response. ?I?d say? **** ?em.? The two men blink, and then stare at each other for a few seconds of awkward silence. To your immense relief, they then burst out laughing.
?God, that?s what I love about working with you, Marcus. **** ?em. Great stuff.? They rise from their seats. ?Same time next week, then??
?Yeah,? you mutter. Once they?ve left the room, you finally let your head hit the table.
You?ve heard that younger siblings often have a hard time living up to the accomplishments of older ones. Most of them, unlike you, don?t have to deal with an older brother with an identical appearance and more talent in every area that counts. You may only be twelve minutes younger than your brother Marcus, but just being in the same room with him is enough to make you feel twelve years younger. He?s a state senator; you run a pawn shop. He graduated *** laude from Yale; you dropped out of Radford after five semesters. He?s got a hot wife; you?ve got a nigh-endless string of ex-girlfriends.
Perhaps it?s not so curious after all, then, that you spend a lot of your weekends pretending to be him. You handle the dull parts of his job while he takes time off for golf, or whatever it is that wealthy people do with their free time. In exchange, he keeps you on the good side of the LAPD despite any little transgressions you might commit. It?s a pretty good arrangement, on the whole, but for the fact that it reminds you every day of the life you could be living.
After fumbling around for your keys and opening up your shop again, you collapse in the dilapidated office chair behind the counter. You can still hear their voices ringing in your ears ? your brother, your parents, your exes ? each and every one whispering how you weren?t good enough.
Staring into space, you whisper to no one in particular: ?**** ?em.?
ABILITIES:
Repair (Active/Any/One-Shot) - Send in the name of a discarded item. You will take that item. All abilities of that item become One-Shot.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
Suit of Armor
Ancient Protection (Active/Day/Permanent) If you are targeted with a kill, instead Suit of Armor is discarded.
Syringe of Adrenaline
Acceleration (Active/Night/One-Shot) You may use two additional abilities. You cannot be protected against kills tonight.
Amphetamines
Spike the Punch (Passive/Night/Permanent) Activation - After you activate Amphetamines, players may post during the Night. (You may activate and deactivate the item at any time. When an item requiring activation changes hands, it is automatically deactivated.)
Note on Items: Abilities of items in your possession do not work.
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MOD NOTE: If the player Syringe of Adrenaline is used on is killed, the kill method becomes acute pulmonary edema causing respiratory failure.
Asher Golta
OCCUPATION: Vice President of the International Division, the Terra Group
COUNTRY: United Kingdom (Great Britain)
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"But, you know... you know what the thing is about you that is so... beautiful..."
"What?", she asks, drawing close, face tilted back, expectantly, pushing her body forward like someone had kicked her between the shoulder blades, her tight Dolce & Gabbana dress like a shell she is being squeezed out of. First glance, maybe half of her is still real, her platinum tresses accented, her body toned artificially, her lips stuffed to decadence. As she draws closer, you can see in the harsh lighting of the club that her mouth is scarred from repeated insertion of her immaculately manicured nails into the back of her throat, and her back teeth look horrible. On the plus side, she does look attractive, drawn there, upon the lapel of your immaculate coat. You can see that look in her eyes that tells you she's lost, she's yours, take her oh you scurvy wastrel -
"You can see it, in the eyes" (making sure to highlight the accent, twist it, pronouncing it like oyes ), "the way they light up, like the heavens themselves ablaze". You take your women Aryan - blond hair, blue eyed, big breasts, white as the sun - they seem so much more vulnerable, like children lost in the woods, and Los Angeles is a perfect place to find them. The crowded nightclubs with their strobing lights and bass-heavy popular music remixes and flowing streams of alcohol are a haven for the oversexed. It isn't as if you need advantages - the accent is gold, plus you are charming, handsome, wealthy, and successful. At thirty-two, you are already head of a department of a multinational corporation, with nowhere to go but up. But, when on the hunt, it's always best to take every advantage. Your nose for business drew you to your first position at twenty-one, fresh out of Oxford; your first promotion, six months later, over men decades your senior; and to where you stand now, within reach of the wildest dreams of society.
America is a strange place, to be sure. As you take the girl by the hand, drag her toward the door, her bright eyes spinning, ataxia setting in, and (on close inspection) her nose red and dusty, from another kind habit, and the bouncer eying you with the eye of a man watching another man make a kill, proud of his species, a big black guy, quite a nice guy, really, well built and quite good at his job, you're sure, good choice on him, and you wave down your driver, who's been circling the block for the last half-hour, and take the girl to the nearest four-star hotel for a night of the loud and the proud.
The next morning, she will awake, to be sure, to find her clothing missing, along with her purse and any traces of you and a kind gentlemen at the front desk calling up to inquire about checking out and clearing the bill because the nice British gentlemen said the lady would cover it, and naked and embarassed, she'll stammer as he stands on the other side of the door, awkwardly insistent, and by then you'll be back at your own hotel, your real hotel, having a laugh at the fate she's in, boy, she's been ****ed, day and night. And you can feel the sensation crawling in your guts, like lightning, making you giddy, and you step to your balcony, like a high, and stare in awe at a lovely town, built for you. There for the taking...
You look down at your phone. A call from your programmer. " Is the file up?" you ask immediately.
"Yes. It's in your box."
"Good. You'll have your money tomorrow." You look down and end the call. Well then. Staring out into the sky, you consider for a moment. Then, turning, you look down at the swimming pool below - a twisting blue chasm. With a sigh, you drop your cell phone, watching it descend toward the pool. As you turn, you hear a splash, a fizzle, shouts. Then nothing.
ABILITIES:
Monitor Channels (Targeting/Any/Permanent) - Send in the name of a player. At the end of the period, you will learn if that player sent a PM to the mod during that period. You may not use this ability in subsequent periods. This counts as a tracking ability.
ITEMS:
Scoria Virus
System Error (Passive/Any/Permanent) Your abilities and abilities of other items in your possession do not work.
Reinstall (Passive/Any/Permanent) If this item would be destroyed, instead it is returned to its original owner at the end of the next period if he or she is still alive.
Note on Scoria Virus : The Scoria Virus is a software worm that releases its own Trojan to install botnet software in the victim's computer with the antivirus package. Your engineers estimate that it would take just five victim computers to reach a critical mass of virus-spreading computers. If five other players are affected by the Scoria Virus before the game ends, you will win.
Joseph Cazell
OCCUPATION: President of the United States
COUNTRY: United States of America
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The wood table is an antique, presided over by scores of men, each a prophet in his time, and you suspect that were there not many scores of men behind each one, there would be far more rings in it from glasses. Yours is wet, sloshing quietly to itself. The grin on your face would be described by the average passerby as goofy, your head askew, your hands held out crookedly in front of you as if suspended from the ceiling. "Well, hello there kids, my name is Joey the Jallopy! I'm here to teach you about the letter J!" The grin collapses, and you toss the glass across the room, where it joins the others. Wordlessly, an aide brings another, gleaming amber, and places it by your side before retiring again into the unseen corridors beyond. As he closes the door, the light escapes again from the room.
The greatest myth in American politics is that the presidency is an aspirational position. American children dreaming of growing up to become president, until they retreat to less hopeless positions as the titular characters in a perpetual game of Whack-a-Mole. At least they have respite, before they are drawn again to reckoning. The truth is that the president is little more than one mole in one hole that never goes away no matter how much you whack him, perpetually suffering the outrage of a hopeless populace destined to hate its own existence. Hence the glass garden steadily growing in the corner.
Six years running an inherited agricultural equipment wholesaler in Kentucky. Eight years in the state legislature, until you bumped up against term limits. Four years giving speeches at 4A meetings and churches. Twelve years in the United States Senate. Four years as Vice President. Four years campaigning for President. You run the numbers in your head: ...carry the - 38 years, since you graduated college, that means 59, right? fifty-nine years on the planet, plus one year in office, building to a moment where you can throw glasses of scotch whisky at a wall without consequence.
It didn't have to be this way. "My name is Joey the Jallopy!" Thirty-nine years, right, so that means 1969, junior year of college, watching your friends and colleagues drafted into the war that had been reduced to a series of young men operating the gears of a grand and expansive machine with many levers and exposed parts that would lop off a head from time to time, and one brief evening over cannabinoids you contemplated the fate of the world. This is a world led by many, right? And the many must make the right decision. Clearly they have not made the right decision in Southeast Asia, McNamara and his Best and his Brightest collectively drinking fine whiskey and throwing darts at a world map. Why should they, with the state of education in this world? Why, had they been taught as kids that this is right and this is wrong and this is yours and this is mine and when we share the world is a better place - had they been children at some point, rather than spawned from their collective sacs (all laugh, toke) - would we be in this position? What we need, you argued, coughing, is a new Best and Brightest - in education! Despite your state of mind, you were inspired, clarified.
You began teaching to kids at the local schools, first once a week, then two, three, four times, to the point where you were an employee in everything but title and wage. The kids, though - the kids loved Joey the Jallopy, the wise, friendly old pickup truck who taught the kids letters, numbers, but especially about Goodness. "What is Goodness?" the kids would ask Joey, and he would smile in the way only puppets can, and would reply that Goodness is the feeling you get when you do something for someone else that they would want you to do for them, or that they can't do for themselves. And, from above, you would get a small smile, as you manipulated Joey's, watching each child's eyes erupt with the light of a bright Goodness within himself. Such as your brother, who told stories over the kitchen table about Joey's latest visit, as your father and mother listened, politely stone-faced, occasionally casting a dark look in your direction, one asking this is the way you want to live?
One day, you discovered Joey in the garbage can, stinking of liquor. When you confronted your father about it, he turned to you with a dark look in his eyes, one perfectly mirroring the bright light in the children in the class, and without asking your question, you knew what the answer was. As his glass was pulled on a string back to his mouth, the audience applauded politely, and the curtain closed, ending the first act.
ABILITIES:
Head of State (Passive/Any/Permanent) Abilities used on you by non-Americans are canceled.
ITEMS:
Beacon
Evacuate (Active/Day/One-Shot) If you are two votes or less from being lynched, you may choose to instead summon a helicopter to pick you up. You will leave the game. Your lynch will not count toward the one-lynch-per-day rule, but your identity will not be revealed.
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MOD NOTE: If he decides to Evacuate, the Beacon will go away. If he chooses to be lynched, the beacon will be passed off.
Drew Handler
OCCUPATION: A/V Technician
COUNTRY: Canada
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
I was drowned, I was washed up, left for dead...
Mick Jagger wails in your ear as you snap the last of the connections into place on the speaker system. The room is empty, save the tables, the stage, and the equipment you just set up, and silent, save your MP3 player blasting the Rolling Stones' greatest hits. Say what you will about the mother country, but she's produced some damn fine music in her day.
I fell down on my feet and I saw they bled...
Tomorrow, they'll come. World leaders, and assitants, and camera crews - filling up this room until it's just so much idle noise. But tonight, you and Mick have the place to yourselves. You sent the rest of the techs home hours ago, of course. If you want something done right, do it yourself. What's more, save thirty techs times five hours' worth of salary. You are, as they say, in your element.
I frowned at the crumbs of a crust of bread...
It's been a good run, these past couple times, you muse as you drum your fingers along with the piano. This will be your firm's third WTO Conference, courtesy of a buddy of yours with a peach job in the organization. Your job is to provide the circus; to provide the spectacle. Good work, if you can get it. Hmmm. "Hey now mister nothin's gonna come for free, I said playin' six string sounds good to me... It's good work if you can get it, good work..." Who was that? Bob Dylan? No... BoDeans, that's right.
I was crowned with a spike right through my head...
Inspiration strikes, and you grab the MP3 player from your pocket. You quickly disconnect your earbuds and swap in the jack that leads to the main speaker input, just in time for the next line.
But it's allllllllll riiiiiiiiight now, in fact it's a gas!
Mick Jagger's voice booms out of the surround speakers, filling the entire press-conference room. Somehow, you find yourself unable to resist leaping onto the stage and grabbing the microphone off the podium.
"But it's allllllllll riiiiiiiiight... I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash, it's a gas gas gas!"
Just for an instant, you can see the stage lights glowing and hear the crowd going wild. Every table in the room is packed, every camera centered on you. You dive across the stage, sliding on your knees and throwing your arms in the air. The stage turns out to be waxed a little better than you expected - a realization that comes too late as you careen into the flags lined up along the back wall, knocking several of them down in succession like dominoes. They land with a loud series of clangs, and the last one catches a suspended cable on the way down, disconnecting the amplifiers and unceremoniously ending the concert.
Working alone has other advantages, apparently. No one's around to see you make an ass of yourself.
ABILITIES:
Reverse-Engineer (Active/Day/Permanent) Choose a discarded item. You will learn that item's abilities.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
Sophia Guerrero
OCCUPATION: Reporter, NBS Nightly News
COUNTRY: United States (form. Mexico)
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"There's room at the top, they're telling you still
But first you must learn how to smile as you kill
If you want to be like the folks on the hill."
"Recently, the city of Compton, California, made famous by the N.W.A. album Straight Outta Compton , has experienced a rebirth, spurred by the collaboration of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office and local residents. Sophia Guerrero has the story."
You look up from the notes in your hand, tossing them aside. "Thank you, James. I'm standing in front of the Martin Luther King Memorial here in Compton. Once a city torn apart by gang warfare, this city, while still ravaged by poverty, is making a tentative step toward the American Dream..."
It's amusing, really, almost ironic. You could say the same about yourself. As the cameraman signals a cut while they play the report, you turn away, looking at the memorial. There aren't many of these anymore, symbols of the past and its promises. There's nothing particularly notable about the memorial itself - it is a series of bent shapes, pulled together and attached to resemble a mountain, or perhaps a throne - it isn't clear. But more and more, this kind of pride is lost. Its abstraction aside, the memorial holds some strange power, its hands thrust toward the heavens, bearing all toward its peak. No wonder the city uses it as its symbol of change.
The cameraman signals at you, frantically, to get your last bit in. You quickly jump in front of the camera and say your line. He gives you the thumbs up and you walk away, again. The crew starts packing up their equipment, discussing the Lakers' recent successes. You aren't in the position to appreciate such carefree delights, but you can reflect on your successes, how you got here.
Four years ago, you worked for Canal 56 in Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, on the border with El Paso. It was a decent job, and you were skilled at it, covering local news. Granted, the job didn't pay well, but compared to your surroundings, it was a blessing. Ciudad Juarez is a wasteland, a battleground for drug cartels, a jumping-off point for desparate immigrants. But these pale in comparison to its most horrifying aspect: over the past sixteen years, over six hundred women have been sexually violated and killed, with another thousand still missing. Few people have been apprehended, fewer convicted. Some have linked these crimes to the cartels, but it's far more likely that these acts are the works of depraved individuals, writ large in a city without a pulse. One day, you received a call from a detective in the city to "come in and identify a body". You couldn't go, however. Couldn't bear the sight of whatever he had to offer. When your sister didn't come home, you put two and two together, but still didn't go down to visit her remains, and she became one of the many victims who merely disappear. You were horrified of your actions, but couldn't bear to see her, not even her grave, to bring yourself to face the city head-on. Your work suffered, and as people continued escaping the city, you decided to do the same. Scraping what little money you had saved, you paid one of the many human smugglers operating around the city to get you across the border - first to El Paso, then, to get away from the sight of the hellhole you had escaped, west, into California.
You had skills to offer, of course, but that didn't make it easy to find a job, even in a city growing exponentially from immigration. Eventually, you found a job with a small Telemundo station, KWHY-TV 22. You quickly poured your time and energy into learning more English, and earning enough money to go back to Mexico to cross the border legally, so you wouldn't have to look back every moment of the day. However, as you were noticed by the best in broadcast journalism, you rose quickly through the ranks, first joining KABC-TV 7 for "interest" pieces, then regular news. You quickly became popular for hard-hitting pieces, including an expose of a McDonalds which paid illegals substantially lower wages, even nothing at all at times, and rose in renown as a "friend of the people". You met and shook the hand of Mayor Villaraigosa after a particularly successful piece. Soon, you were picked up by the national NBS Nightly News program. And, as you earned fame and fortune, you forgot about citizenship. Success waits for nobody, and even if (as some have rumored) you were picked to "diversify" the network, you couldn't care less.
As your crew get into their van and drive off, you look at the memorial again. Strange how fate pulls the strings. Your sister died to get you out of Ciudad Juarez, and you drove here in a rented Mercedes. Some in the Hispanic community have suggested you run for political office, and you have shrugged them off, disguising your origins. Your bosses have tapped you for the WTO conference here in a few days. After that, I'll go home and come back. Simple as that. You're wealthy now, and if you have learned anything, it's that wealth and privilege go hand-in-hand in this place. Removing your cellphone from the pocket of your suit, you call your director. "Hey, Harv, it's Sophia. Yeah, it went without a hitch."
ABILITIES:
Sudden Developments (Targeting/Day/Permanent) Post Action -- Post "I'm getting word that X is scum". That player will be killed by a mob. Doing this more than once per day will do nothing. Note that items of players killed in this way will be completely destroyed and will not be identified.
Note on Sudden Developments: While infamy may be undesirable in most businesses, you see an opportunity to profit from it, provided you can get out of here. If you are involved directly in the death of four townies (by participating in their lynches or using the above ability on them) you will lose your current win condition and alignment and gain a win condition of "You must survive until the end of the game."
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MOD NOTES: If she triggers the survivor shift while a member of the cult, she will pull out of the cult as a survivor. The cult leader won't be told of this. However, she will still be a member of the New India Alliance (due to Kilari's occupation-changing effect), and if he subsequently uses his mass-protection, Guerrero will be affected by that protection.
Items of players killed are permanently removed, rather than being placed in the discard pile. They can't be targeted, and will not be identified. Golta will still get his item back if it is destroyed in this way.
Dr. Samir Hasan
OCCUPATION: Director-General, World Health Organization
COUNTRY: Lebanon
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
The letterhead is unmistakable, the chairwoman's signature floral and dramatic, the lettering curt and precise. Your right hand trembles, and the paper waves like a white flag. No funding increase. Fiscal crisis, more important issues, etc. etc., many apologies, etc., appreciate everything your organization does, etc. Emphasis on developing international trade during a period of economic depression. Translation: no money for the dying.
Over your long career, you've adapted to letters of rejection, especially from those in power. And yet each hits hard, the thin pages cutting through you like so many blades, whittling away its tax of flesh until, one day, you expect the last piece of you is lopped off. But this one is different because it is so catastrophic. Without an increase of funding, your organization can't expect to expand its programs - especially devastating because, with more people in developing countries finding themselves cast back into poverty, your programs are more important than ever.
You drop the paper, watching it waft gently down onto your desk, and slump into your chair. As you stare at the light pooling on the floor from the window behind you, your shadow equally dejected, you remember the last time you saw your doppelganger so dismayed - six months ago, in Beirut, sitting in a hotel cafe, as the then-Director-General explained to you patiently that your pet project, health care for victims of gender discrimination in the Middle East, was being denied additional funding. He didn't say the words; he merely slid the piece of paper with that statement across to you, watching with ersatz sympathy as you lifted the paper to your eyes to examine. He flew out to deliver a letter he could have faxed to show how deeply sorry he couldn't provide further assistance, Dr. Hasan, I wish it could be a better year. As you set the paper down gently on the table, your wordless mouth agape, he shook your shaking hand and exited the building to meet his driver out on the street, bumping into a young American man in a designer suit on his way out of a bus. You were too stunned to wonder why an American would ride a Lebanese bus before the missile descended on the bus.
You awoke minutes later, your hand still clutched where it had shaken the Director-General's, your briefcase and the letter of sympathetic rejection charred on the table. Shaking your head, you exited the cafe and ran toward the bedlam. Young office workers in shirtsleeves leaned from windows, and a few exited their buildings to run with you toward the wreckage. One grabbed you on the way there, said something that sounded like bleeding, but you paid him no mind, sprinting toward the Director-General's car, which had been torn apart by shrapnel. The Director-General himself was slumped in the back, a piece of a billboard advertising Coca-Cola embedded in his chest. You stopped, watching blood flow from his wounds, and turned away to help those who could be saved. Your claw-hand, finally, relaxed.
A scream pierced the chaotic calm, reverberating in your head. A young woman crawled from the wreckage, clutching a child, no more than five years old, to her breast. Her head was ringed in blood, but she would not allow anyone to treat her, even as they approached from all angles, instead crying for someone to help her child. Leaning in, you took one of her hands and drew her eyes to you, and she cried my child my child, and nodding numbly, you leaned in and took the child and began immediately applying pressure to its many wounds. In the distance, you spotted a crude sign hanging above a storefront, as a mirage suspended over the desert, conjured by a child: YANQUI HOPSITAL. With your head down to avoid the smoke, you started running.
ABILITIES:
Acquire Supplies (Active/Night/Permanent) You gain one point. If you have three points, you will create Emergency Supplies and receive that item, then lose three points.
ITEMS:
Emergency Supplies
Crisis Response (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player is targeted with a kill during the period, that kill is prevented and Emergency Supplies is discarded. If Emergency Supplies is not used by a trained doctor, the protected player will die at the end of the fourth period after the kill was prevented.
---
MOD NOTE: Dr. Samir Hasan is the only "trained doctor" here. Sigma's a doctor of philosophy, rather than medicine.
Miles Johnson
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Australia
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Two men in pristine designer suits stand, hands crossed over their abdomens, earpieces and sunglasses adorning their otherwise unmarked faces. They watch you as you stand up on your board, trying to catch your balance. The wave wobbles under you and you tumble forward into the cold water off Venice Beach. Coming up laughing, you motion to the two men, who speak into their pieces as you slowly swim your way back in, dragging the turquoise board behind you.
The conference you have been ordered to attend is not for two weeks now, but you can't resist the opportunity to experience American surf. Granted, most of Los Angeles' beaches are hazardous, littered with novice boarders who can readily crash into the more experienced while trying to right themselves, oblivious jet-skiers, and the occasional swimmer who looks like a rock floating on his stomach, staring into the murky fathoms below. But surfing is cathartic, one of the few pleasures left to you. Reminds of home.
Back as a kid, you would surf while your father and elder brother worked his salvage business, retrieving mostly boats that found the reefs less than hospitable. Riding an ocean littered with razor-sharp reefs is the true equivalent of riding the razor's edge; a single mistake can pitch one onto a reef, where at best you'll damage your board and at worse slash yourself open in the middle of the salty depths with no ready escape. You learned the ways of the ocean, studied its philosophy while journeying on its back - examining its ruthless efficiency and quiet persistence, always pushing and never giving ground for more than an instant.
Skills that serve one well when navigating the realpolitik. Australia is a vacant land, one scattered to its edges by another, drier ocean, populated by people who wear kindness on their sleeves occasionally to distract from the daggers in their cloaks. You learned this well the first time you ran for public office, as a comptroller, and discovered your opponent more than willing to cut you down for his own benefit. He unleashed a bitter smear campaign, attacking your friends, your family, and everything you'd ever done, and through it all, you let it push through you, as if expecting the political plateau to push you to the summits of its own free will. When you lost by thirty points, you vowed to never get pushed around. Next election, when the incumbent resumed his attacks on you, you came prepared, bearing a weapon. And you never lost again. Like the sea, you swallowed the world whole, spitting it out as so much fine sand, cast against the endless tides and worn down to nothing.
You learned well.
ABILITIES:
Sabotage (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. All of that player's items are discarded. This ability can't be blocked by abilities of items.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to a local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period. ---- MOD NOTE: Items in the process of being passed can't be destroyed, since they aren't held by anyone when his ability resolves.
Samantha Flores
OCCUPATION: Administrative Volunteer
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"So, that's... good. Good."
"Q"
"They've been fewer and fewer, I think."
"Q"
"Yeah."
"Q"
"I don't know what you -"
"Q. Q..."
"Look, I don't know what you expect of me. I don't want to be here. Can you just give me the prescription so I can get out of here?"
"Q"
"No, I don't want to do any volunteer work. I can't sleep, remember? How the hell is that supposed to -"
"Q"
"..."
"Q"
"I went to see him at the prison last week. He looks leaner, like a tightly-wound spring. The guard repeatedly needed to assure me the glass couldn't be broken."
"Q"
"Maybe for you. Now you see why I want Xanax?"
"...Q. Q"
"...****. Fine, I'll volunteer. Just give me the damn scrip."
"Q"
"Of course you think so."
ITEMS:
Oleoresin Capsicum Spray
Self-Defense (Passive/Any/Two-Shot) Activation - After you activate this item, if a player would target you (based on timestamps) , that ability is canceled. (You may activate and deactivate the item at any time. When an item requiring activation changes hands, it is automatically deactivated.)
Harry Milton
OCCUPATION: Counterintelligence, FBI Los Angeles
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
"When does he get it?"
"He doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because he broke the rules."
Who is that man? That man, that Thorn guy. Who is that man? He seems familiar, and in the dream, he seems to walk toward you, but his face is blurred out, leaving an impeccable suit with limbs, a headless horseless man. The cloud-head's lips are moving, with resulting reverborations of fog and smoke echoing out from the etched hole there... you nod, and that seems to satisfy Thorn, who turns and leaves. As he goes, the cloud over his face seems to expand, and by the time he turns toward his office, in the brief moment he lingers in your vision, the cloud seems to swallow him completely, leaving a dark blur at the edge of the hall. After his body leaves the cloud, the latter remains, glowering at the edge of the wall. As you watch, peering over the edge of your cube, it seems to pull away again, sprouting arms and legs, a torso, everything but a head again, a body clad exactly as Thorn was, which dusts itself off and walks back your direction. Quickly sitting down, pretending to be busy, you watch out of your peripheral vision as the new headless Thorn walks past and disappears down the other way.
You stand up, looking again at the cloud, which had latched itself against the wall, glowering. From behind you, a voice rings out, sending icy chills down your spine less from being discovered than from recognition of the voice itself. Turning back around, you discover the second Thorn, standing with an arm leaned over the cube's wall. The cloud has dissipated, revealing the head of your father, as you last saw him: skin worn away to reveal the hauntingly angular skeletal quality, framed in his silver hair and eyebrows, giving him the persona of an ancient Byzantine king. He raises Thorn's normal, young hand to his chin and scratches his beard, the furrow in his brow neatly splitting his face in half. "What are you looking at, kid?" You stammer, unsure how to respond to the phantom. He steps into your cube, and directs you to your chair with Thorn's hand and a violent stabbing point. His lips move, but no words are coming out, just the hissing of a balloon loosing its air. You cower in your chair, watching him, jabbing at you with his finger. As you lean away from him in your chair, the cloud swallows up the pointing finger, and as it disappears, the finger has been replaced by a needle, long, slender, and sharp, connected to a syringe filled with a cloudy fluid, that he shoves toward your chest. Grabbing his armwith a roar, you swing his arm back at him. The needle stabs him in the other arm. His frown lines bulge, wrapping his face in bandages of flesh, and his face erupts, his gaping lips emitting a screeching hiss, eyes rolled back in his head. Pulling back the needle, blood rushes out, pouring over your desk in a fountain. You back away, shocked, as his every pore begins leaking blood, and the cloud reappears, pressing in on you, and as you scream, a real, piercing scream, it flows into your mouth, nose, and eyes, choking you, and you collapse forward into darkness, ears filled with your cries that reverborate in your skull.
As you fall through the dark, Gregory Thorn's head floats toward you, a look of petrification on his face. "Pardon me, sir, but can you tell me the way?" You try to respond, but the only thing that comes from your throat is a raspy hiss. This doesn't perturb the head: "Yes, that's it. Do you know the way?" Hissing. His invisible arm removes his hat, tipping it in thanks, and he turns to go, and as he disappears, you feel the ground rush up to meet you, and your eyes open. Your computer flickers in the dark of the office, the only light available. Rubbing your eyes, you blearily return to work. The air system whispers above your head.
ABILITIES:
Override (Active/Day/One-Shot) Post Action - Quote a vote count and make any number of corrections to that vote count, followed by the word "Fixed". Those corrections will be enacted for the day.
Experiential Learning (Passive/Day/Permanent) If you were targeted by an ability in the previous day or night, you have three votes.
Yuri Nobakov
OCCUPATION: President, Gazprom
COUNTRY: Russian Federation
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your father once told you a story that flows through your mind every time you stop moving. It was a dark night, but it was always dark that time of year. You grew up in Salekhard, in the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug. Your father was an oil worker, up in the dark, amongst the grime of society and the few Nenets too stubborn to leave their land, so outnumbered by Russians they are strangers in their own homes. Salekhard is on the Arctic Circle, nasty place, and in the winter, the sun almost never shines, it's always night, polar night, and you lurk on the periphery of life, constantly, watching for shadows that never appear, some brief flicker of light. Longest night of the year. The streets are lined with light boxes to replicate the sun, people are constantly taking Vitamin D.
Once, your father was out on his station, supervising drilling, when he spots a woman standing out on the ice in the distance, wearing a swimsuit. He shrugs it off as a hallucination from too little light, but the persistence of the image rattled his brain. She persists, standing on the periphery, smoking a cigarette, it seemed, in a swimsuit. The light of the day wrapped around his mind, around the woman, everything seems to disappear - the men, the machinery, the darkness. She turns, shrugging, and walks off toward the edge of the world. Blinded, he follows her. He sees nothing in the world but her: no promise, no future, nothing but a slight moment spent in the void. As he walks, the snow beneath his feet melts away, turning to ash, then nothing, just air. The entire world sinks into itself, fades away. Unbearable lightness.
She stops, waiting for him, still out on the edge of his vision. Her hair is silver, dancing in a cold wind flowing off the sea, but she doesn't shiver. Her eyes radiate light, the only thing he can see in the dark. He knows not where he is, and doesn't care. He reaches out, and as his hand grasps for her, she glowers and recedes. He looks up, starts running into the dark, but she is gone, gone, gone into the ocean. Everything is gone, and he is alone. No light. No future.
As he turns, looking for a hope, he feels a hand massage the back of his neck, cold and bitter. He turns, expectantly, but nobody is there. But he can feel her... he's back home, lying in bed, suffering from a head cold, and she sits over him, her eyes warm and her hands soft, and in the distance, snow begins to fall, the sky pallid. He looks up at the sky, and it all falls away again, he sinks into his mattress, and as he turns over in the dark, he can see her eyes glaze over, turn the color of the void, and she backs away, and everything vanishes, leaving him alone.
He never finished the story. Didn't need to. You could see it on his face, every time he had a second to pause.... The next chance you got, you escaped the Circle, headed south, chasing the sun. Ten years ago, your father froze to death working a station, or so you were told. Really, you know he never left that void at the edge of the world. And, standing here in this damned city, with the sun beating menacingly on your neck, you grimly understand the cold pull of the dark that took your father. Shrugging your shoulders to beat back fate, you turn away.
ABILITIES:
Survey (Targeting/Day/Permanent)
Send in the name of a player. Your associates will stand watch outside that player's room and will provide you a list of all players who targeted that player. Once in the game, you may choose one of those players and block his action that night.
Lodewijk Dutroux
OCCUPATION: Great Overseer, the Order of Epigenitus
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Pro-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The scum must die, and you must have collected three souls for your overlords by the end of the game.
BIOGRAPHY:
Each breath is heavy as you hustle down the street, cursing as you
soak the right leg of your pants up to the ankle in an ill-placed puddle. You kneel down briefly so that no one can see you spit, then
sprint across the intersection to your destination: a dingy, smoky,
and thoroughly unremarkable tavern in an underdeveloped quarter of Los
Angeles. You're already running five minutes late, and you have
learned from experience that the person with whom you're meeting does not take kindly to being kept waiting. You check over your shoulder
nervously out of habit, then step inside.
The bartender greets you as you walk past the counter. "Back again so
soon?" he asks, a bemused smile on his face. You spare him a glance
but are still panting too heavily to respond. Just barely dodging a
barstool, you stagger to the back of the room where you contact is
waiting. As usual, you're the only two customers in the place. As
you sit down, the man tips his hat up ever so slightly to acknowledge
your presence. "Lodewjik," he says, his voice betraying no sign of
emotion. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses, his face in shadow -
his masters must be remarkably well-versed in the conventions of the
genre.
Glancing behind you one more time to confirm that the bartender isn't
paying you any significant attention, you being to sputter: "I'm
really sorry for being late today, I just -"
"Enough." With a single word, he silences you. Your stomach knots
itself just a little bit tighter. "As you may be aware, time has
little relevance to myself or to those I represent. Your presence
here is sufficient."
"Uh... good. That's good. I'm glad to hear that." Somehow his
reassurance fails to make you any more comfortable.
"It was our own carelessness that made this arrangement necessary,
after all. In fact, I believe it is time you were made fully aware of
the details. You are familiar with... what was it... Wales, are you
not?"
"Y-yes. Was that really you?"
"On what you would refer to as the eighth day of June, in the year
2008, at forty minutes past midnight. This planet was nearly ended at
that time - an inconvenience to you that we sorely regret. As it is,
we may ultimately be unable to prevent your people from becoming a
casualty of our conflicts. That is why we have approached you."
"Me, specifically? Just me? But why?"
"Because you are remarkable among your species, in ways that would be
difficult to explain to you in terms you could understand. That is
why we require your help to avert mutual disaster for your people and
my own. There are tasks you alone can complete - tasks that are
necessary... for salvation."
Fifteen minutes later, your head snaps up suddenly. Panicking, you stand up sharply from the table, knocking your chair over backwards.
Did you doze off? Is he gone? Where are you, anyway? You feel a
hand on your shoulder and spin around in terror. "Easy, friend," says
the bartender. "Are you feeling okay?"
"I... you... what?" You strain to piece together the events that led
you here. "Did you... did you happen to take note of when the other
man left? The man at my table?"
"The other man...?" The bartender gives you a curious look as he
stoops down to set the chair right. "Friend, you're the only guy
who's been in here in the past hour." He dusts his hands off and
turns to face you again. "Are you sure you're alright?"
You hear your friend's last words echo in the back of your mind. "I'm
fine, thanks," you say, this time assertively. "I'm... remarkable."
As you turn and begin to walk towards the exit, you feel an energy
spreading through your body. Purpose. This must be what it feels
like. You turn to face the bartender one more time before leaving.
"I may not be back here after this. There are some things I need to
take care of." Your eyes narrow as you step outside and stare
defiantly into the sky. "Tasks that are necessary... for salvation."
COMMUNICATION: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address which we will use to add you to the Order of Epigenitus communication group. Once you have recruited members, you will be able to communicate with them in that group.
ABILITIES:
Indoctrination (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will be educated about your overlords and become a follower. This effect will end after the end of the second night after the player is indoctrinated unless you use this ability on that player a second time. This ability resolves immediately upon use.
Tribute to the Overlords (Passive/Any/Permanent) When one of your followers dies, your overlords will seize his or her soul. As a reward, you will gain that player's non-item passive abilities. Your overlords can continue to seize souls after you are dead.
---
MOD NOTES: With respect to the various Passive abilities he can gain:
Daniel Ben-Rabe - yes, if he gains the passive ability, he will be identified as the Israeli Ambassador if targeted with a kill. Derf.
Alexandra Weston - if she didn't lose Celebrity, he'll have the protection, and the flavor will be similar.
Joseph Cazell - yes, he can become President if Cazell doesn't bail or gets shot. Derf derf.
Katrien Darko - the ability "Chairwoman's Fiat" will be renamed "Chairman's Fiat", although he won't be Chairman in occupation.
Experiments Series: #5 (Courtly Intrigue Mafia) | #4 (Drunken Tracker) | #3 (Big Red Button) - coming soon | #2 (Pope Mafia) | #1 (Iso's Inflammable Mafia)
Mini Games: MTGS Mafia Redux II (Invitational, Evil Mirror Universe) | Unreal City
Old Games (bad): The Greenwood Affair | Blood Moon Mafia
OCCUPATION: Leader, New India Alliance
COUNTRY: India
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: The majority of the players in the game must be members of the New India Alliance.
BIOGRAPHY:
"Our politicians fiddle as innocents die."
You pause, watching the crowds amassed below. They appear to be calm, but you can see the dancing thunder behind their eyes, each and every shimmering with a silent untapped fury.
"After the atrocious attack on our people, they offered us nothing but remonstrations and mediocre actions. Condemnations? Weak; unfocused; undriven; and ultimately fictitious. 'Our politicians fiddle as innocents die.' These are the words we offered in protest - seek revenge on those who killed our brothers and sisters. Pakistan has acknowledged their countrymen's responsibility in these atrocities, and yet we do nothing? 'Our politicians fiddle'; they do not act, they do not acknowledge our pain. Pakistan has done more for us to right this wrong than our leaders have. Pakistan! What blasphemy is this?"
A murmer goes up. A few of your members are out in the crowd, voicing their support - some loudly, to signal strength, and others quietly, to provide a convincing counterpoint. The good cop - bad cop of speechifying. You learned this from your education in the United Kingdom, reading the works of Thucydides, Bismarck, and Malcolm X - all men who recognized the quiet reality of the world. Take or be taken. Let your enemies thrive, and the roots of destruction will spread. Better to rip the plant from the ground to rot.
"One hundred thirty six. Say that number with me - one hundred and thirty six. Feel its weight on your tongue. That weight is not merely the sheer horror of the number, my friends, but that weight is literally the hands of the fallen, dragging your tongue from your mouth to drive you to speak, to action. One hundred and thirty six of our Indian brothers and sisters slaughtered by the Muslim snakes. Many of you have come here because you knew someone killed in the attacks, and my heart goes out to every one of you. I know you wish to speak, to voice the anger of the dead and to avenge their deaths, but you are unsure. Feel the weight on your tongue. That weight of death is also the weight of history, my friends, dragging you to action."
A few passionate cries, this time from non-members. It's slowly working.
"What I have come to offer you, my friends, my brothers and sisters, is an opportunity. An opportunity to make a difference in the world. An opportunity to tell the Americans that they cannot merely keep coming back to us with empty hands and a smiling mask and expect our assistance while they provide weapons to Pakistan; an opportunity to tell Europe to stop overlooking us; and an opportunity to tell the world that we are not afraid to take our place as the world's new masters. Nehru, on the eve of our nation's birth, told the world: 'A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out
from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a
nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.' We have come to that moment again, where India must decide its destiny once again. And I humbly ask that you will join me in fulfilling that dream."
The crowd finds its voice, first slowly, coming from its belly, a deep growl rising to a roar. As you raise your hands to conduct a human orchestra, you smile, wide and bright, and the people take your hand and lead you into their hearts.
ABILITIES:
Recruit (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will join your campaign and gain your win condition and a Neutral alignment instead of his or her other alignments and win conditions. His/her occupation will be addended to include "Member, New India Alliance". Members of the group will be told the other members of the group, but the members of the group may not communicate. Note that some are immune to recruitment. If you die, members of your organization will not revert to their original alignment, though your group will be unable to recruit additional members. This ability doesn't count as your one-ability-per-period.
Political Pressure (Active/Night/One-Shot) Abilities that target members of the New India Alliance (including you) this night are countered.
Surveillance (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. If that player is targeted that night, you will learn the name of the action they were targeted with.
---
MOD NOTE: Immune to recruitment: Anti-WTO members, Daniel Ben-Rabe.
When he dies, the cult doesn't disappear - the recruits keep their new win conditions and will have to take out the rest of the non-cultists to win. This seems more egalitarian to me than the usual "if the cult dies, revert" or "if the cult dies, mass suicide" options.
If he wins, the endgame flavor will involve his party coming to power, nationalistic tensions rising in the region, culminating in the launching of a nuclear weapon by India at Pakistan, with the resolution left in doubt.
So the cult doesn't completely cut off information about its dead members to the town, dead cultists will be revealed as (for instance): Penelope Ayers, Canadian Interpol Liason to the World Trade Organization/Member, New India Alliance, Neutral turned Neutral . This ensures the town has some general idea of how many townies are dead.
Daniel Ben-Rabe
OCCUPATION: Mossad Undercover Operative
COUNTRY: Israel
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: Eliminate all other players
BIOGRAPHY:
The man bound to the chair spits in your face, calls you "kafir". Renouncer; heretic. Turning on your heel, you exit the room, slamming the door behind him. You are twenty-two, on the tail end of your duty to the Israeli Army, and secretly counting down the days. On the other side of the wall, your commanding officer pushes his hands down, emphasizing caution. The man in the room is important, a member of Hezbollah. It is 2006, twenty days into the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Stepping into the room, your commanding officer steps in front of the door back into the room, putting his hand on your shoulder. He sees your hand twitching by your gun. The officer is only a few years older than you, a career soldier. He is trained to see the hatred in your eyes. "Be patient. He will crack eventually. He is just angry."
"What right does he have to be angry?" you snap at your officer, who looks away briefly.
"You are also angry. Perhaps he is angry for the same reason you are?" His eyes are piercingly bright, and you pause, looking over his shoulder at the man glowering on the other side of the two-way. "These men are witnesses to destruction, as we are. We have no right to judge."
"Destruction?" You laugh and turn away, and his hand falls off your shoulder. "They are killers; we are merely avenging the deaths of our dead brothers and sisters. Not destruction; cleansing."
"Yes, but... consider where he comes from. He may see those rockets as destruction, and view the ensuing retaliation as cleansing. You understand the cycle?" He walks up to you and puts his hand back on your shoulder. "Now, let's go back in there and ask him the questions we've been assigned." Nodding quietly, like a child being lectured by a parent, you walk past your officer and back into the room. At the first sight of you, the prisoner begins shaking in his chair, less out of fear than anger. The officer moves to the corner of the room to supervise, while you begin interrogating the man. However, it is quickly clear he is not cooperating, and you are frustrated. You grab the prisoner by the collar of his shirt and lift him up in his chair, and he quickly starts shouting panicked obscenities.
Dropping him heavily in his chair, you begin undoing his restraints. "Go get the serum," you tell the officer. He looks perturbed, but curtly nods and goes to retrieve the material. After he leaves the room, you remove your gun from your belt, and with a roar, swing it towards the prisoner's jaw.
The officer looks down at you with a frown plastered on his face, radiating wrinkles. "What are we going to do with you, Matthew?" You don't answer - it was a rhetorical question. "This organization does not approve of torture, even of enemy combatants. Especially visible torture! What were you thinking?"
"I don't know, sir. I was angry; I overreacted."
"Yes, I read your report." He drops the manilla file on the table and runs a hand through his graying hair. "You did overreact, overreact grossly. Israel's legitimacy in the region is contingent on conforming to the public vision of Israel, and the war with Hezbollah did not help that at all. And then to have one of our soldiers torture an enemy combatant. Every American news network is calling this Israeli Abu-Gharib. Despicable. And then the fate of your commanding officer -"
"I told you, sir, he had nothing to do with my actions. I performed my actions all my own."
"Don't be stupid, Matthew. Your actions reflect on us all. That's why your officer did what he did - because he was ashamed to be your commander. You may have acted alone, but that doesn't change how it affects the rest of us." He drops a series of photographs on the table, including one of your officer with the vial in his arm, a look of fear on his face. "He was one of our most promising recruits to Mossad. At least the news networks haven't heard about his fate, either." His eyes level with yours, and you look away quickly, ashamed. "And what are we going to do with you?"
"I have a suggestion, sir," you mumble.
You tell him, and he looks puzzled, then angry. "No, that's unquestionable. It goes against everything this organization and our faith uphold. You would be betraying your commanding officer to eternal scorn."
"It sounds to me like you don't have much of a choice if you want to solve your problems. Sir."
He coughs, scowling. "If the mission wasn't so urgent, considering... damn. Alright then" Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out Daniel Ben-Rabe's dog tags and drops them on the table. "But you cannot make a mistake."
You take your officer's tags from the table and place them around your neck. "I will not, sir."
ABILITIES:
Liquidation (Targeting/Day/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. That player will be killed. Your kill method is a snapped neck. You will receive that player's role PM. You may not use this ability during the first week of each day.
Diplomatic Immunity (Passive/Any/Permanent) Whenever a player tries to kill you, that kill will fail. That player will be informed you are the Israeli Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization (in the flavor).
ITEMS:
Malfunctioning PDA
Procure (Passive/Any/Permanent) - You know of a local anonymous messaging board people at this conference are posting to. You will receive copies of all messages posted to this board, but you may not post messages of your own.
Penelope Ayers
OCCUPATION: Interpol Liaison to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: Canada
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: Lynch the Serial Killer.
BIOGRAPHY:
He's shouting, but the words aren't there. You can see his lips, though, and he seems to be shouting about a child. She's shouting, too, but there's nothing there, either, but pleas and supplications. He's holding something in his hand that's out of view, down by his leg, away from the camera, but you can see his arm shaking, playing out the motions in its mind, weighing the options, dancing to its twisted rhythm. The only sound in the room is coming from the turntable in the corner, playing a song, over and over, but not the entire song, because the album is scratched, and it skips, over and over and over again, and the scene seems to play over itself, he shouts and she pleas and the arm shakes and the record shakes and the ground seems to tremble so slightly under the weight it bears anew.
The record has a motto: "It's just a shot away. It's just a shot away. It's just a shot away."
The camera then turns slightly, of its own recognizance, toward the door, where a frantic pounding echoes over the image iterated. The man doesn't move, though, save for his arm and his mouth, and neither does the woman, and the camera seems confused, panning back and forth, as the pounding becomes more insistent. The pounds are a crescendo, but in this space they become individual notes, like bullets, capping the record's fears. "It's just a shot away."
The camera withdraws, slowly, watching the scene unfold, but unmoving, as if its eyes are pulled backward through its skull into the wall behind. As the scene trembles, the pounding rises, encasing everything, including the brutal chorus of the record and the silent screaming people, until it was replaced by a predatory tearing, scraping, shouting, dragging, banging, an antichorus of hyenas at a boar, a joyful ravaging sound, pulling at itself, seemingly calibrated to bear down upon its tail and bite. And where'd ya come frome, childr-? The door fails to reply, and soon, its sheer discord rends it, it disappearing into the quiet void of the skipping world. The man and woman notice the sound bearing down on them not, still silently remonstrating as the sound's champions pull them into the floor, and they disappear, leaving the room ravaged and lonely.
The camera watches, witnessing but unmoving, and slowly pans back and forth, looking for where everyone had gone, but nothing is to be found, save the record and its cries. The world is still. The earthquake has passed. The camera pitches forward, lapses into consciousness.
ABILITIES:
Decisiveness (Passive/Day/Permanent) If the deadline is 72 hours away or less, you have three additional votes.
Information Request (Active/Any/Two-Shot) Ask the mods a yes-or-no question. This question will be answered truthfully, guaranteed, even if another ability would say otherwise.
ITEMS:
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period. --- MOD NOTE: She must be on the wagon that lynches the SK. If he's lynched after he's dead, no dice; same goes for missing the wagon. If she accomplishes her WC, she wins the game.
Charles Zenebech
OCCUPATION: Commissioner for Economic Affairs for the African Union
COUNTRY: Ethiopia
ALIGNMENT: Neutral
WIN CONDITION: All four people on your list must be lynched.
BIOGRAPHY:
Your aide calls you. "Darko said no. I am sorry, commissioner."
"Thank you, Arthur." Hanging up, you stare out the window. Your hotel room is small - luxurious, but not as luxurious as some of the other delegates' rooms, with their expansive lounges and bars and swimming pools. They are scattered in penthouses across the city, while you are stuck inhabiting this small hovel. You should have seen it coming. Katrien Darko is nothing if not shrewd. Inviting you helps her demonstrate to the General Council the importance of African issues, helps her solidify her chances at keeping her position, but what would it cost her to actually allow you to speak? Instead, you've been cast aside, to inhabit sub-committees and to prowl along the corridors of the conference center, like a jackal. Then why did you have to arrive?
In the corner, you see a small ornamental lamp, the one token you brought here to brighten up the room. It's simple, an antique gas lamp with a wooden base, in which a scene is carved: a young man standing on a savannah, surveying his domain. The kind of piece one might sell to a tourist - indeed, the kind sold to Westerners every day on the streets of Addis Ababa by starving peasents looking for a coin to spend on the next meal. You have prided yourself on promoting policies aimed at getting these beggars off the streets, into jobs, homes. Addis Ababa has a long way to go, but you can be proud of what you've accomplished. And your leadership in the AU has been noticed. People have been speaking about you, been thinking about you. Parliament, maybe even Prime Minister or President, they say.
So to be shunned by these American and European cowards? Why? They say they favor change, but the WTO is stagnating, with the Americans pushing "globalization" (wretched beast, indeed, driving power back into the hands of the wealthy) and the Europeans pushing nothing. And with this recent crisis and the stagnation of the global economy, you fear that another meeting of the WTO will pass with nothing being accomplished. Shaking your head, you grab the vase on the table next to you and throw it out the open window. A few seconds later, a crash, down at the street below. You ignore it, grabbing a piece of paper on the table your aides had provided you, smiling.
It's a list of the members of the special committee assembled. 24 names. Pulling out a fountain pen, you load it, and circle four of them with a flourish. Picking up your phone and calling your aide back, you admire your work. "Change of plans. We're creating some vacancies."
NOTE: Night 0, send us the names of four players in the game. If one of those players is killed in a way other than lynching, you may send in the name of another player as a substitute.
STATUS: You are a member of the game. However, your name will not appear on the list of players. You also will not be counted in the official number of live players, and you will not be counted to determine the simple majority. However, you will still count against the mafia's win condition.
POSTING: Once each day, you may either post in the thread or PM a message to the mods which will be posted anonymously. You may in addition PM votes to the mod, which will also be registered pseudonymously (if you vote in your in-thread posts, they will be registered under your name and the pseudonymous vote will be removed). If you post in thread, your status will be neither confirmed nor denied by the mods.
ABILITIES:
Elicit Sympathy (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. Until the end of the next day, you may vote for that player in the way described above with the following format: " Xyre Votes arimnaes ". That player may not unvote votes you make for him. In addition, you may send that player a message, either with or without your name on it. That player will be permitted a single response.
---
MOD NOTE: Charles Zenebech is, for all intents and purposes, a member of the game; he's just not listed, and not a townie. He can be voted, lynched, targeted, etc. if his identity is revealed. The mods will neither confirm nor deny his existence.
Stolen votes are registered to their owner.
Zenebech's pseudonymous votes will be registered under the name Jack Thompson. Because I need at least one piece of bastard moddery. :-p
Note on the Anti-WTO Faction: Certain important information about the mechanics of the mafia are not included in the role PMs and were instead given to all players in the mafia group forum; see the page "Mafia Group Letter" here or "A Letter to the Mafia" there.
Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
OCCUPATION: Terrorist
COUNTRY: France
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
" Je n'ai jamais ?t? un saint, et je s?r que l'enfer ne sera pas demain ."
Your words peel out of your mouth, floating on stitched wings, into the emptiness of the motel room. It is 0430, and even Los Angeles' frantic soul has lain down in a drunken stupor for a few hours. Only the occasional car passes on the street below. The only light in the room comes from the neon lights, from fast food eateries, late-night shops, pornography stores, theaters, gas stations, and shopping malls, all sitting below, brooding silently as the lights stay on with nobody left to see them. The only sound comes from you, sitting on your bed, talking into a tape recorder clenched in your hand. Your other hand rests on a cell phone, waiting for the call.
Six hours earlier, you stepped off a plane at LAX, caught a cab here. In that time, you've killed three people, mostly for kicks. There's much made of being a hitman, a terrorist, these days, but few people consider the fact that a terrorist is no better than a sociopath with a gun and a will. By the time you've left the city, there will be enough bodies that someone will propose that a serial killer is on the loose in Southern California, and a news reporter will publish that in the paper, citing an "anonymous source", and they'll try to solve the case, the LAPD, and perhaps another sociopath somewhere will emulate the crime, maybe, and maybe he'll get away with it, or maybe he'll get caught. It's irrelevant. You will be back in Paris, away from it all.
What will matter is how the public views your acts. Maybe most people will see the story in the newspaper and ignore it. But there will be a few people who see the story, and feel the petrifying feeling in their spine, one of fear , icy and forboding, lacing its hands on the intestines, leaving you unmoving, unfeeling, and you can stand up, drink some coffee and drive to work, but it won't be the same, your eyes lingering on every vagrant and dark alley and dumpster, expecting to find a body every time you go into a quiet room, or worse, become a body in a quiet room, and you will not stand alone, avoiding staircases and overpasses and taxis. Motels.
With a pause, you set the recorder down on the bed, walking over to the desk, on which you've set your briefcase. Your ironically small overnight bag lingers, set carefully in the corner. Opening the briefcase, you pull out another cell phone, one with more security measures than most small countries' intelligence mainframes. Next to it rests a letter from Patrick Ryan, the activist. He's asked for your help here, at the conference, and when people ask you for help, you know what they mean. But he made you a promise no terrorist could ignore: one job for one suitcase nuke. It didn't require a second request. Anyone who knows who you are who can promise a suitcase nuke knows what they are looking for, and it isn't your job to question the motivations of your supporters. You are professional and successful enough to expect nothing from those who would ask of you. Your resume is impressive. Indeed, twenty-four hours previously, you had left the president of France, Michel Buchard, bleeding from a stiletto left in his jugular vein as you stepped from his apartment to catch a cab to the airport to catch a flight here.
Walking to the corner, you pull a small case out of your bag. An impossibly small case, out of which you pull several pieces, impeccably polished, packed in foam, precisely. You had sent it to the motel by mail a week earlier, having it delivered at precisely the time you walked in the door. Pulling out the pieces, you begin assembling them. The pieces look innocent upon inspection, but once they begin coming together, they resemble what they really are: an M40 A3 standard American Marine issue sniper rifle. Carrying it to the balcony, you look out over the sleeping city, your eye settling on a young man, sitting at a bus stop, wearing a red bandana. Perfect. Lying down, gun pointed through the slats of the wood making up the railing, you watch him sit, idly, foot bobbing slightly.
You're not like most sociopaths. Most sociopaths want to kill and move on, but you're a humanistic killer. You like to consider the people you snuff out. Perhaps this kid went to school in a tough neighborhood, got good grades, but had a brother who joined a gang, a brother who had a tremendous impact on the kid, he worshiped him like a god, and when the brother was shot, the kid felt obligated to do something, and so, with a heavy heart, he dropped out of school and put on the bandana. Or perhaps he's just a drug dealer, never had a care in the world beyond it, and deserves death. Across the street, the edges of the world refract into a million iterations of the same moment, all with the potential of life and death. All snuffed out.
The muzzle of the gun roars, resounding across the street, and the bullet catches the kid in the head, through the bandana. You pause, looking at your work through the gun's scope. It will take a while for someone to figure out that the clotting hole in the bandanna isn't a design perk, but a bullet wound, and it will take longer to rouse the police to bring them to what appears to be a drive-by shooting. Perhaps they'll perform an autopsy, dig out the bullet, check the caliber, do ballistics trajectory analysis and recognize that it was fired from a large rifle from a distance similar to the one you are at now. It doesn't matter. In four hours, you will be away. Your fingerprints aren't on file anywhere, and you paid cash. And the police will pass it down to the gangs division, who will do nothing with it, and nothing will change.
Quickly disassembling the gun and storing it back in its case, you return to your tape recorder and hit the record button with your thumb. You don't speak... you just listen, as the tape picks up the quiet of the black morning.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Assassination (Active/Night/Permanent) You will carry out the mafia nightkill against the target chosen by the mafia each night. This does not count as your one-ability-per-period.
Threat Negation (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. You will follow that player during the night. If he or she uses a nonpassive ability, you will intervene and the ability will be countered. If he or she does not, you will not act, and that player will not be informed he or she was blocked. You will be informed if an ability was blocked in this way.
Alexandra Weston
OCCUPATION: Actress/Member, Green Nation Movement
COUNTRY: United States of America
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players , and one member of the Green Nation Movement must survive.
BIOGRAPHY:
The overwhelming burning scent permeates your mind. Your vision is constantly shrouded, wanderings through the old-wood forests of your youth as quiet chatter echoes from the fog-cast edges of the consciousness. But this scent is different, unusual. You wake up, and immediately recognize it: your servants' coffee, carelessly left about in cups that emit the noxious vapors that resemble burnt ****.
Shaking your head to remove the last lingering images, you shower and dress, pausing briefly to take your morning pill - the small blue ovoid dot of sertraline hydrochloride. Your cellphone, lingering by your purse, features a message from Patrick, with the meeting place. Nodding to yourself, you examine the planned route, then delete it. While he may value traveling incognito, you have always taken some quiet solace in driving through the most crowded streets. Your large Bel Air estate, product of your success, is frequently empty and isolating, with grim quietude that lingers like an unfulfilled promise, lounging on your recliner with a teacup in hand, whispering secrets to nobody in particular while disappearing into the dawn, rising again to drag through the day.
Taking a clandestine side exit to avoid the paparazzi who camp outside your front gates, you massage the Porsche 911's accelerator, feeling the road scatter beneath the vehicle's power like so many mice. The tinted windows provide privacy, allowing you to survey the throngs gathered on Sunset, moving about their business as if dragged by unseen beasts pulling invisible chains. Celebrity may be slavery, but there is some pleasant schadenfreude in the reversal.
You are the first to arrive at the warehouse. The rest - Patrick, Raymond, Trevor - file in, taking seats on a set of stiff chairs set out in a corner. The warehouse is populated by cars, most stripped clean. You sniff, tempted to reach for the handkerchief you keep on hand for this kind of situation. The place is filthy, even by chop-shop standards; no wonder Patrick was so drawn to it. The odors - car exhaust, gasoline, and various unidentified industrial scents - form a haze that, though transparent, distorts your surroundings.
The plan is simple, so the meeting is short, but Patrick, you know, is a stickler for efficiency. He has been invited by Katrien Darko personally to speak on his efforts on environmentalism. You will enter disguised as his aide, while Raymond will join his protege, who is undercover as an FBI agent. Sartori will join the president, and d'Avignon will arrive in disguise. And the rest of the plan to lock the facility down is up to Raymond, who assures that his people can "handle it." Knowing what little you do about his organization, you still feel a lingering doubt about him. Something isn't quite right... he's a schemer, a power-player, and cares little about your movement. Still, though, in crisis any ally is a friend and confidant, no matter the danger they pose.
As your group disembarks, Patrick walks up to you, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. "So, we will -" You nod sharply, and he turns without another word and exits the warehouse, shutting the door quietly behind himself. By the time you exit into Los Angeles' choking smog, he is long gone.
MAFIA GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will receive further instructions there.
ITEMS:
Cellular Phone , Cellular Phone , Cellular Phone
Communiqu? (Passive/Any/Permanent) The two players with the Cellular Phones can communicate via PM whenever they like. Copy us on all PMs. (Upon receipt of a Cellular Phone, the recipient will learn who the other bearer is.) --- Kill method: Ceramic knife
Patrick Ryan
OCCUPATION: Musician/Leader, Green Nation Movement
COUNTRY: None (form. Republic of Ireland)
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
As the man in the Armani suit moves to greet the President's helicopter, you stride toward the stairs, taking them three at a time, and descending to the lower level. Your cell phone is out in an instant, calling up Alexandra. "We're on," you say, before immediately hanging up. As you approach the elevator, the office assistant whom you avoided on the way in spots you. You try to lower your hat and walk past without being identified, but she spots you.
"Mr. Ryan! Mr. Ryan!" she shouts. You think, ****. "Mr. Ryan! I'm such a fan of your work!"
You turn, an awkward half-smile on your face. "Well, hello. It's nice to meet a fan." Your hand moves for the felt pen you keep in your pocket for such emergencies.
"If it isn't too much trouble, Mr. Ryan, would you mind signing an autograph for me?" You nod, and pull out the pen, whipping it across the piece of paper she pushes across the desk. Thanking you profusely, she tries hanging onto you for a longer conversation, but you excuse yourself and head into the elevator, waving jerkily as you escape. You quickly tap out a message to your driver, and as you exit the elevator, watch him pull up to the entrance. Quickly getting into the vehicle, a blacked-out Escalade Hybrid SUV, you motion to your driver, who wordlessly pulls away, onto the 110 South, toward the meeting point. You listlessly look out the tinted window, watching the world peel away.
It's been a long time since that day in 1991. Back then, you weren't Patrick Ryan, you were Padraig O Caoimh, a lowly foot soldier in the Provisional Irish Republican Army. It was a normal mission: proxy bomb. Take a westbrit, tell him to deliver a car bomb to a British military base, else his family will be shot. Not too troublesome, happened all the time in the Troubles, until the guy's son sneaks up behind you and hits you with a brick. Last you heard was some gun fire, then black. Woke up six days later in a ditch outside Omagh with the gun of a British soldier pointed in your face.
Fortunately, you didn't have your identification on you, so they let you go, But that whack on the head made you consider yourself. Here you were, standing in a ditch in Northern Ireland with a nasty bump on the head - for what? For Ireland? Why Ireland? What makes Ireland different than the world? From that moment, you were a changed man. You renounced your citizenship through a legal loophole, and set about preaching your new faith: environmental awareness, peaceful action, and socialism - the Green Nation Movement. What separated you from the average paranoid whack was your gift for guitar, picked up begging for pennies in the streets. With a new Anglicized name, you were ready to capture the world.
As you pull up to your meeting point, your eyes readjust, returning to the present. Alexandra's car is parked out front, but nobody else's. Funny. Usually, she's never more than fifty feet from throngs of her worshippers. Chuckling, you step out. Gesturing again to your driver, you knock on the door to the warehouse, which is quickly opened, revealing a cross Alexandra Weston.
"You told me they'd be here by now," she half-shouts, half-whispers at you. Motioning for her to enter, you grab the door and slam it shut behind you. "Trevor, John, and Ray"
You wince. Hard to believe she's a member of your organization with that lack of respect for others. "I don't know where Sartori or McNulty are, either. We've got a bit of a setback with d'Avignon."
"What kind of -" she starts, still shout-whispering despite the privacy of the warehouse, when McNulty steps into the building, brushing off his jacket and adjusting his specs. "Ray! Took you long enough."
"I'm sorry, dear. A man my age can't just hustle about. The people here," he chuckles, "they're in such a rush. Asses honking at me on the highway. Ridiculous." He points back at the door. "Sartori's outside taking a phone call. I think that's everyo-"
"No, it's not, but it'll suffice for now." You cough, rubbing the stubble on your jaw. You stick your hand into your pocket and pull out a lozenge. "Let's get started."
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Black-label (Active/Any/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote a player and post :dontoverusethis:. When that player dies, if you are still alive, that player will reveal as Anti-WTO . When you die, that player's true alignment will be revealed.
ITEMS:
Suppressor
Quiet (Passive/Night/Permanent) When using Assassination , you cannot be watched or tracked. If you are the mafia leader, you will not lose your kill immunity by performing the nightkill.
---
MOD NOTES: Kills made with Suppressor have the kill method of shooting, even if an ability says otherwise.
Kill method: pipe bombing
Trevor Sartori
OCCUPATION: Special Ambassador to the World Trade Organization
COUNTRY: United States
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players.
BIOGRAPHY:
As the man in the Armani suit walks with the President off the helicopter pad, the helicopter's other passengers disembark. The President's chief of staff follows him, dutifully taking notes, while another intern carries various bags and accoutrements. The pilot steps out, wandering away to get the helicopter set up to take off again, leaving you alone on the landing pad, staring at the ocean.
Sigma's an old bastard, but he knows the rules of this game. His peons are capable enough, and whatever the kid's name is certainly knows how to play people. But you get a rotten sensation whenever you're within ten feet of anyone from The Associated Press. They're your allies, but not by choice, no. Were this mission feasible without the resources and opportunities the Associated Press has to offer, you would set out alone. Unfortunately, treason requires a more dedicated approach. Cazell may have the trappings of an old hand, but he's weak. You've seen it in your four years under him. Your position was the result of an elaborate compromise established between Cazell's Democrats and your Republicans to "reach across the aisle" and "collaborate with the Republicans". It makes you gag just thinking about it. Political theory aside, very little in politics has to do with cooperation. Most major successes in history have left bodies in their wake.
To be fair, before you were picked for this job, you were the Governor of New Jersey - certainly a fine position, though considering that state's history, one fraught with peril, and one you were happy to sacrifice. Of course, if there's an opportunity, better to take it. Which is how you are here, working with these people. They clearly don't respect you, or your savvy, or the risk you're taking to be here. Ryan, Weston, and Kilari are all just silly idealogues, unfit for true action, and Sigma is too engrossed in his subterfuge to truly enjoy the spoils of his sieges. Shame, really, that so much talent might be wasted on someone so short-sighted. You are here to demonstrate the error in their ways.
Which isn't to say that their other name for you is incorrect: "profiteer". That's fair, even appropriate. You're taking advantage of them, and they know it. What they don't know is that you could care less what they think, provided they do their jobs. If the September 11th terrorist attacks made anything clear to the American political establishment, it's that truly powerful action first requires a reaction, and while the many paranoids speculating about specks on photographs of the towers are deluded, their paranoia does indicate an as-yet untapped source of power: paranoia about terrorism. While the Bush administration merely took advantage of a ripe opportunity, you are more pragmatic. You create your opportunities.
When, days from now, the American public discovers a terrorist attack in a major American city, at the site of a major international conference, your partisans will be perfectly aligned to make their move, criticizing lax counter-terrorist policies by the Cazell administration. And you will be perfectly set up to take the credit for your leadership here. Who knows... you might be able to leverage your actions here into a nomination for Vice President. That sounds superb.
As you stare at the blue of the ocean, you smile. It all looks so small from here, like you could reach down and pull a skyscraper from its roots in the ground and throw it like a stone into the depths. Satisfied, you turn and pull out your phone. It's time to get started.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Supervise (Targeting/Any/Permanent) Send in the name of a player. The first ability that targets that player this period (based on timestamps) will be countered. You may not use this ability in subsequent periods.
Political Connections (Passive/Day/Permanent) If you end the day voting for a player that is not lynched, you will learn that player's alignment.
---
MOD NOTE: If a player has multiple alignments, he will learn all of them. He doesn't learn what the alignments mean, though. For the various neutrals, he will receive the appropriate color ( Neutral (Cult), Neutral (Serial Killer), Neutral
(Other))
Kill method: Disguised zip gun
Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
OCCUPATION: Member of the Board of Directors of the Associated Press
COUNTRY: United Kingdom (Northern Ireland)
ALIGNMENT: Anti-WTO
WIN CONDITION: The Anti-WTO faction must equal or outnumber all other players , and you must have received more faction votes than Patrick Ryan at the end of the game.
BIOGRAPHY:
You step out of the warehouse, shaking your head and polishing your glasses. Alexandra Weston's a nice girl, but she's a wreck, you can tell, at once obsessed with and reviled by this noxious city. And Patrick Ryan... ah, old friend. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly , eh? He may act like a genuine saint, and he certainly styles himself one. But there is no time for saints in a fiery land, and there's smoke enough here for a thousand fires. As your associates from California like to say, something is always burning in Los Angeles. Always you bite your tongue before you note where else that occurs.
No, Patrick Ryan is a criminal. He styles himself a saint, but he is a fine sinner. Utilitarianism is always just a mask worn by the true radical, willing to destroy everything for a sliver of "good". How archaic! Why ought one wear a mask to accomplish good. Why ought one accomplish good at all? How antiquated!
As Patrick Ryan returns from whence he came in his car, and Alexandra does the same, you watch, standing in front of the warehouse, hand in your pocket, idly toying with your pocketwatch. Those two have no idea of your capabilities or connections. Indeed, people who know of the Associated Press - the syndicate, not the journalism outfit, though the latter does provide a suitable cover for your operatives - are few and far between, especially in comparison to their corpses. Curiosity is overrated; knowledge is only important if it suits your needs. This is why the international community values intelligence so highly. Nobody gets top secret clearance to spend their afternoons with a file and their favorite armchair. Something your organization's collateral damage should have learned more fully.
From behind you, the man in the Armani suit walks up, not speaking. He knows his place, good student. "Is everything ready?" you ask, eyes locked on a mural across the street of Michael Jackson. He affirms. "Then go, meet up with them at the hotel. Pass on that everything is going according to plan. I will drive myself." He nods, though you cannot see it, and walks back around the building. Turning around, you pick up what he had quietly left on the ground - a key to the surveillance van. Good kid.
You've been in this business - the knowledge business - for a long time. Working intelligence for the British Army in Northern Ireland, for a long time. You watched your country peel and rend, as you quietly watched and learned, for a long time. Until a young kid walked into your door and turned your life inside out. That was long ago, but the image is a still frame in your memory, always lurking on the wall of your consciousness' small apartment. Your country, your livelihood, all gone away. And you learned something in the process. But no need to linger in the past. Death comes to everything, including history.
As you climb into the van, you pause to look at your reflection in the window. Your graying hair has still kept its thickness, and your face, in spite of age and wear, still shows its youth through. You have sought and largely achieved revenge through years of investigation and hundreds of thousands of American dollars. Once, you asked yourself why you did it, and eventually, as you crossed one of the last names off the list, you discovered the answer - a reminder of what you have lost, to spur yourself further into the future. Once everything you've known has been washed away, one finds himself standing on the edge of a vast ocean, born again in the image of a squalling child, forever free of any past knowledge, ready to begin again. Forgiveness is difficult, but forgetting is simple.
As is the world, you recognize. For the life of you, you have never understood why power, privilege, control, and the very fundamentals that drive humanity, are the simplest of concepts. It defies reason, as does the world itself. At your age, a man learns simply to stop pushing and let go. A lesson Mr. Ryan could use himself, were his life measured in more than days. But your organization recognizes the obstacle he poses. He hides behind his political and social connections, safe from his old enemies who would happily greet him with bullets. Were those connections to vanish, he would be at their mercy, and the ensuing conflict would ensure a revival of the Troubles back home - just the sort of motivation needed to get the Irish to sign on to the Lisbon Treaty.
That suits your organization, but what motivates you? Well... you know how it is with old friends.
You turn on the equipment, and the monitor displays an image from your meeting in the warehouse, taken by remote camera. Patrick Ryan's furrowed brow, glaring at you. You expected more from him, to be honest. He is not a worthy foe, not in the slightest. But he will do.
MAFIA
GROUP: In your confirmation of this PM, please include an email address
which we will use to add you to the mafia communication group. You will
receive further instructions there.
ABILITIES:
Quid Pro Quo (Targeting/Day/One-Shot) Post Action -- Quote another player and post :fish:. You will receive that player's role PM. That player is unlynchable today.
ITEMS:
Remote RFID Reader
Identification (Passive/Any/One-Shot) If a player is killed holding this item, that player's role PM will be posted. (If a mafioso is killed with it, the names of their associates will be redacted.)
PDA
Dissemination (Active/Any/Permanent) Send a message of no more than 100 words to the mod. That message will be posted to the local messaging board anonymously. At the end of this period, you will receive a random message another player posted on the board during the period.
--- Kill method: Ricin poisoning
The below has been copy-pasted from the mafia group forum.
Lady and gentlemen,
Welcome to the mafia group. I trust you?ve
all had an opportunity to familiarize yourselves with your documents.
Before we begin, just a few special points of interest. Please read them
carefully.
The Mafia consists of Patrick Ryan
(Jobie), Alexandra Weston (Deaths_Vampire), Dr. Raymond McNulty
(RobRoy), Trevor Sartori (AlphaInsidious), and Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
(Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa). Unfortunately, the latter has a notorious
disregard for collaboration. He has been given access to the Google
Group, but is not allowed to post. It is up to you to communicate your
intentions to him. Speaking of which,
The Group ?
It?s a nice, cozy little place. It?s also your hub for discussions. You
may post here whenever you like, while alive. We ask that if you are
sending your message to the entire mafia, you post the message here, for
the sake of simplicity.
As opposed to what, you ask? That?s a
good question.
Private Communication ? In addition
to the mafia group, you may send PMs to individual members of the
mafia. (Please forward copies to the mods. Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon is
not allowed to respond to PMs sent to him by mafia members.)
Why
might you want this ability, you ask? That?s also a good question. You
ask a lot of good questions.
Mafia Factioning ? As
in all democracies, the balance of power in a mafia is constantly in a
state of flux. And power, as each of you knows, is everything; having it
can save your life, and lacking it can cost you the same.
During
the pregame and each game night, each mafia member must submit the name
of a member of the mafia (with the exception of John-Baptiste
d'Avignon) in the form Vote: arimnaes . These votes bear no
resemblance to the standard votes to determine lynch. The player who
receives the most faction votes in this way will become the leader of
the mafia for the following day and night. In the interest of progress,
we suggest you discuss your votes during the previous day.
Being
leader of the mafia has certain privileges. The leader of the mafia
gains the following abilities during the following day and night
(overlapping with the next night's vote):
Leviathan (Passive/Any/Permanent) You
are immune to all kills except for the lynch so long as you do not
perform the mafia nightkill.
Target Selection (Targeting/Night/Permanent) Send
in the name of a player. That player will be killed. This ability
doesn't count as your one-ability-per-period.
You all are very
highly motivated people, but there are some things people will not do
unless necessary. Murder is one of those things. Fortunately,
Jean-Baptise d'Avignon is more than happy to oblige. It is just a matter
of instruction. While he is alive, he will automatically perform all
kills on targets chosen by the above ability. If he dies, each of you
will receive an ability for making the nightkill. While choosing the
target does not take the godfather's night ability, performing the kill
will take the ability of the chosen assassin. Keep this in mind while
planning your activities.
In conclusion, we will offer you
the following advice from Niccolo Machiavelli:
"A prince being
thus obliged to know well how to act as a beast must imitate the fox and
the lion, for the lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox
cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to
recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves."
Good luck.
arimnaes
and Xyre
[Note: Players in red have been killed in this period.]
Day 1
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Christopher Exodus - blocks Nom Anor
kpaca - Jorge Sur - Activate Sawed-Off Shotgun to kill Nom Anor
Zionite - Xu Tao - Activate Syringe of Sodium Thiopental to learn whether zindabad's "Yes, I am town" is true (Answer: Yes)
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni - Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom - Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - PDA message sent
Nom Anor - Sophia Guerrero - attempted to daykill loran (blocked by loran)
Penguin of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
desCoures - Miles Johnson - PDA message sent
RafaelK - Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux -
Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa - Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon -
Deaths_Vampire - Alexandra Weston -
Jobie - Patrick Ryan -
AlphaInsidious - Trevor Sartori - Received results for Charm_Master3125
RobRoy - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty - PDA message sent
Ged - Talin Bhav Vijay Kilari
Cyan - Daniel Ben-Rabe - kills Ged, gets his PM
Charm_Master3125 - Penelope Ayers - Information Request: "Is kpaca the SK?" (Answer: No)
Bilbroxain - Charles Zenebech -
Night 1
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Gives Rafaelk the Scoria Virus
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - PDA message sent
Penguin of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan - Acquires supplies (point total: 1)
desCoures - Miles Johnson - Sabotages Rafaelk
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov - Watch Pale Mage
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - Indoctrinates Jobie
Deaths_Vampire
- Alexandra Weston - Gives zindabad a Cellphone
Jobie - Patrick Ryan - Chooses to kill desCoures; elects self to commit kill
AlphaInsidious -
Trevor Sartori - Supervises himself
RobRoy - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty -
Cyan - Daniel Ben-Rabe -
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Day 2
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Used Monitor Channels on Charm_Master3125
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - Reverse-Engineers Oleoresin Capsicum Spray
Penguin of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan -
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux -
Deaths_Vampire
- Alexandra Weston -
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
-
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori -
joboman (r. RobRoy) - Dr. Raymond "Sigma"
McNulty - used Quid Pro Quo on Cyan; PM revealed due to Identification
Cyan -
Daniel Ben-Rabe - Daykills joboman. Unlynchable this day due to Quid Pro Quo. Took Remote RFID Reader off joboman
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers - Asks "Are any of the following people the person I need dead: Charm_Master3125, Cyan, kpaca, joboman" (Answer: Yes)
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Night 2
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus - blocks CM
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Ecophagy - Mitchell Henderson -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch - repairs Sawed-Off Shotgun
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan - gets second point
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores - passes Scoria Virus to Charm_Master3125
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov - watches Zindabad
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits Cyan
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
- kills Ecophagy
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori - supervises self
Cyan
-
Daniel Ben-Rabe - gives Remote RFID Reader to CM
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Day 3
Syrenz - Katrien Darko - makes Cyan unlynchable
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite
- Xu
Tao -
Cyouni
- Lucas Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta
- receives Suppressor
mystery meat of doom -
Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - REs the Sodium Thiopental
Penguin
of Death - Dr.
Samir Hasan -
RafaelK
- Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton - Has extra votes
Calvin - Yuri
Nobakov -
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - receives Jobie 's soul (no effect)
Jobie - Patrick Ryan
- Black-labels Cyan
AlphaInsidious
-
Trevor Sartori -
Cyan
-
Daniel Ben-Rabe - shoots CM
Charm_Master3125
- Penelope Ayers -
Bilbroxain
- Charles Zenebech -
Night 3
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas Finch - Passes Sawed-Off Shotgun to Niv
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
mystery meat of doom - Joseph Cazell -
shibui - Drew Handler - sends PDA message
Penguin of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - tries to get third point; Blocked by Dancing Mad
RafaelK - Samantha Flores -
zindabad - Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - watches AI
Guardman - Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits AI
AlphaInsidious - Trevor Sartori - kills MMOD, takes Beacon
Cyan - Daniel Ben-Rabe -
Bilbroxain - Charles Zenebech -
Day 4
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Dancing Mad (r.
loran16) - Christopher Exodus -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur - daykills Rafaelk with Sawed-Off Shotgun
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Takes Malfunctioning PDA
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
RafaelK - Samantha Flores -
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov -
Guardman -
Lodewijk Dutroux - Inherits Cyan 's abilities
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori -
Cyan
- Daniel Ben-Rabe - kills DM
Bilbroxain -
Charles Zenebech -
Night 4
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv (r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - Passes Syringe of Adrenaline to PoD
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - Gives Zionite the Virus
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - Protects Zindabad
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - Watches Syrenz
Guardman -
Lodewijk Dutroux - Indoctrinates Zindabad
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - Supervises himself (no kill)
Bilbroxain -
Charles Zenebech -
Day 5
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Zionite - Xu
Tao -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
zindabad
- Harry Milton - Overrides
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov -
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux -
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori -
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
Night 5 (needs to be filled in)
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - passes PM the Amphetamines
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - passes Niv the Virus
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - gets point, protects AI
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Calvin - Yuri Nobakov - watches PoD
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits __, loses AI
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - kills Calvin
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
Day 6
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch -
Pale Mage - Asher Golta -
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan -
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux -
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori -
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
Night 6
Syrenz - Katrien Darko -
Niv
(r. kpaca) - Jorge Sur -
gives AI the
Cyouni - Lucas
Finch - gives Guardman the Armor
Pale Mage - Asher Golta - gives Syrenz the Amphetamines
shibui - Drew Handler -
Penguin
of
Death - Dr. Samir Hasan - protects Zindabad
zindabad
- Harry Milton -
Guardman
-
Lodewijk Dutroux - recruits AI
AlphaInsidious
- Trevor Sartori - attempts to kill Guardman, blocked by his inherited protection
Bilbroxain
-
Charles Zenebech -
----
Appendix I - Bilbroxain's List
players are listed here in the order in which they were selected
red means player was lynched
blue means player was killed in a way other than lynch and replaced on list
Niv (r. kpaca)
joboman (r. RobRoy) - Daykilled Day 2
Dancing Mad (r. loran16) - Daykilled Day 4
Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa - Lynched Day 1
Penguin of Death - added Day 2
shibui
----
Appendix II - Mafia Faction Voting
Pregame:
Foxlnbpkqgz ?enioouoa - Jobie
Deaths_Vampire - Jobie
Jobie - Jobie
AlphaInsidious - RobRoy
RobRoy - RobRoy
Night 1:
Deaths_Vampire - Deaths_Vampire
Jobie - RobRoy
AlphaInsidious - RobRoy
RobRoy - RobRoy
Night 2:
AlphaInsidious - Jobie
Jobie - AlphaInsidious
(since Jobie is the tiebreaker, AlphaInsidious is the leader)
From this point on, since he's the last one alive, AI is permanent Faction Leader.
----
Messages Submitted via PDA on Day 1:
shibui (Drew Handler):
The following is a monthly test of the Emergency Alert System. This is only a test.
*silence*
This is a coordinated monthly test of the broadcast stations in your
area. Equipment that can quickly warn you during emergencies is being
tested. If this had been an actual emergency such as a tornado warning
or severe thunderstorm warning, official messages would have followed
the alert tone. This concludes this test of the Emergency Alert System.
desCoures (Miles Johnson)
"RafaelK is likely scum. Pale Mage may be scum."
Night 1:
shibui
Pete turned to him and said, "You know, outside of the toe-tappin' hits,
I really don't know or care for them."
It hit him almost as an insult, "... but it's the stones! Paint it,
Black is an all-time great!"
"I'll sing along to Jumpin' Jack Flash or Satisfaction
with a drink in my hand, but they're just anthems and nothing all that
special. I'd rather listen to something current that rocks, like Lady
Gaga."
"You disappoint me, Pete... you really do."
Night 4
shibui
"I don't see why everyone isn't accepting MMoD's information since we're
yet to have anyone's information disproved or circumvented."
Experiments Series: #5 (Courtly Intrigue Mafia) | #4 (Drunken Tracker) | #3 (Big Red Button) - coming soon | #2 (Pope Mafia) | #1 (Iso's Inflammable Mafia)
Mini Games: MTGS Mafia Redux II (Invitational, Evil Mirror Universe) | Unreal City
Old Games (bad): The Greenwood Affair | Blood Moon Mafia
Additional Flavor PMs
These PMs are designed to two purposes: better inform individual players about complexities in their characters' stories/backgrounds, and to avoid (in the mafia's case) posting these in the main thread, where the identities of the mafia would be revealed. In the case of Sophia Guerrero and Christopher Exodus, they both play significant roles in the game's side-story and the mythology of it all, requiring more development than one could fit into a single role PM.
Contents:
[1] - Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon
[2] - Patrick Ryan
[3] - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
[4] - Alexandra Weston
[5] - Sophia Guerrero
[6] - Christopher Exodus
===
[1] - JBDA
--
November 1997
"Q"
"Believe me, if I knew more about him, I'd be working with Interpol personally. As it is... well - off the record? - in my profession, we have less facts than 'guesses'. It isn't as if I know where he is or now, or what he is like in person. Obviously, nobody who has met the man has ever come forward, so... well, I don't know what to tell you. But I strongly believe what I've hypothesized to be true."
"Q"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Q"
"Well, that's an interesting thing. The Amsterdam affair was, I believe, the first time Mr. d'Avignon was forced to improvise on the job. The CIA keeps its operations tightly under wraps; indeed, had it not failed so spectacularly, we probably never would have heard about it. But, so Mr. d'Avignon had to respond to what he encountered, the opposition. The forensic evidence suggests that he could have very easily been captured."
"Q"
"No, I don't know why he was there. It has long been speculated that he is a mere mercenary, but I have postulated (as I'm sure you're aware, having read my book Jean-Baptiste: The History and Motivations of Europe's Greatest Assassin ) that he -
"Q"
"Well, I figured your viewers might -"
"Q"
"He is driven by a primeval desire to kill. Little evidence has turned up to prove one way or the other, but there are many murders which many criminal psychologists, and indeed Interpol itself, want to classify as 'copycat killings' or merely coincidences, which I would argue are really personal killings by Mr. d'Avignon. Which isn't to say he gets a psychosexual thrill out of killing, as some of my colleagues whom I will not mention by name have speculated, and to that effect, I do not know why he was in that brothel. I do believe, however, that he kills for sport, and that he works as an assassin merely because that allows him to utilize his... particular skillset for profit."
"Q"
"Well, that depends on whom you ask. It's been speculated that he's been in the market for greater and greater weapons - decomissioned Soviet weaponry, mostly. It's largely unclear as to why, and the Freudians among my colleageus won't shut up about it, I'm afraid to say. They've argued that he's looking for a greater level of destruction, kind of related to his twisted conception of Christian morality, like he's trying to communicate with his mother. Merde , if you ask me."
"Q"
"Very little, I'm afraid. We know that he was born in Avignon, obviously, son of a local prostitute. We know little about the family, although it's speculated that his father was a member of the French Foreign Legion. Personally, I think that's a myth, but we know nothing to refute it, so..."
"Q"
"Oh, sorry. His mother died in childbirth. Eclampsia, most likely. We don't know why she took him to term, either, rather than get an abortion. Apparently, he was raised in a Catholic orphanage, but disappeared from there at fifteen. We believe that's where he took his name, 'Jean-Baptiste'."
"Q"
"Nobody knows why he chose John the Baptist. At one point, an article was written speculating about its metaphorical purpose, the 'cleansing' of souls, perhaps, but nobody gives that theory any real credibility. It certainly is ironic, though."
"Q"
"Well, the first kill classified as a Jean-Baptiste kill was 1994, in Strasbourg. A hotel manager was garotted with piano wire. It wasn't until more of these kills started cropping out across the Nineties that the pattern was made back to that point."
"Q"
"As with much of his actions, nobody's really sure. Myself, I think it was an impulse kill. That, and the guy was Muslim. There's a bit of evidence to suggest Jean-Baptiste has a problem with non-Christians, especially Muslims, maybe related to his upbringing. This was before he got into more of a pattern... a few years later, he started to crop up in Munich, and there were a rash of killings there that have been linked up with his M.O. as we understand it today. None were religiously oriented. By then, I think he understood the scope of his range."
"Q"
"Deep seated anger over the Crusades? Hell if I know."
"Q"
"That's a good question. In fact, it comes mostly from matched forensic evidence, and the accounts of scattered people in the vicinity of his crimes - people who had passing encounters with him, especially back in that Munich period. In fact, we only know his name because he was arrested at one point, by Munich police -"
"Q"
"Oh, no. Petty theft, allegedly. They let him off with a warning. It wasn't until the tenant of the apartment two floors up was found dead, with security footage placing Jean-Baptiste outside at the time of the killing, did they put two and two together. It's strange, indeed, that he doesn't seem to go by a nom de guerre anywhere he goes. People probably figure the name is common - which it is - or just haven't heard of him, which is a shame. But what can you do? Much of this evidence is confidential, so it isn't as if he's a household name, especially not here. He's not a Unabomber, I can tell you that. But it isn't as if he's rash, or cocky, or inattentive. It ties into that theory that he's trying to, well, 'cleanse' people. At one point, there surfaced a document, kind of like a d'Avignon Manifesto - y'know, like Kaczynski - that claimed that he was doing it to liberate their souls from humanity's fiendish designs for the future. As if he felt like he had been tasked by God to, well... for lack of a better term, 'return to sender'. Or as if he's God's hand of vengeance, cleansing mistakes in his grand design. Obviously, the thing was total hoax - full of contradictions, a very clever forgery, probably by some college student somewhere. But, well... it does seem a bit convenient."
--
[2] - Patrick Ryan
"Did you-"
"Yeah, I saw it."
"And?"
"Well, what do you think?"
"It's a disaster. If the other networks pick this up... well, you know the stakes at hand. We're doing some good here, and this NBS ***** wants to pull it back."
"..."
"Well, she seems to have her facts in order."
"**** no she doesn't. She talks to one person who's known me before and thinks she has the entire picture. I've been nothing but forthcoming about my associations with the PIRA, and have made it clear that I've moved beyond that. If she thinks getting a bastard who thinks he can earn a lesser sentence with media frenzies will be enough evidence to destroy my campaign, then screw her. She's got nothing, nothing at all." A pause. "Screw her."
"What about the other part?"
"..."
"I quote: 'In addition to these accusations by Mr. Drayke, Mr. Ryan's organizations' financial records have been under scrutiny from some members of the IRS. Said one official who spoke on condition of anonymity, "While there is no evidence of wrongdoing, much of the evidence points to money where it shouldn't be. Of another man, we would say that money laundering may be the cause of it, but because of Mr. Ryan's reputation, this office does not wish to proceed further into this investigation." However, this doesn't mean that...' and she goes on."
"Anonymous source. What a joke."
"..."
"On the other hand, this kind of publicity is bad for our cause, Jay. I assume that's why you called? So... what do we do?"
"It's your choice, sir."
A pause. "What about a condemnation? Demand a retraction."
"Already in the works. But this isn't something we can stand around and take lightly..."
"I'm not going to authorize an assassination of a journalist, Jay. No matter what she says, and especially not some unfortunate network news reporter."
"Well, it's your choice."
"Yes, it is." He hangs up the phone, and grabs a bottle of water. Walking back into the main room, he looks at his bandmates expectantly. "Well? Shall we get started?" Without waiting for an answer, he turns and heads toward the stage.
---
[3] - Dr. Raymond "Sigma" McNulty
The man in the Armani suit looks at you expectantly. He knows not to ask until he his prompted, but you can see he has something on his mind. You take a sip of your beer and nod.
"Sir, I must ask. How do you know Patrick Ryan?"
You sigh, your eyes flitting back and forth between the man and your beer. The man in the Armani suit is a nice guy, a good soldier. He is loyal, knows his place. Has an eye for fashion. He's not touching his vodka tonic. You're on your second stout. You know your limits, though, and this is your last for the evening. "I know him from back in the day. I suppose that's the best I can give you. It was a long time ago, and he's forgotten..." Pause. "Any word from the intel teams?"
"They're still having a hard time making progress with infiltrating SIC. But we expected this. SIC is a hard nut to crack, but we always get there." He finally takes a sip from his drink, which by now has gone warm, its ice melted away long before, and winces. "What kind of drink do they think this is?" He pulls a blacklight out of his pocket and shines it on the drink, which faintly fluoresces. "Not enough tonic water, not good tonic water... and the vodka's mediocre at best, Skyy or something, the kind of vodka you put pineapple in."
You clear your throat, taking another sip of your beer. "That's good to hear." You look away for a moment, eyes locked to the bar's obligatory throwback, an antique cigarette dispenser in the front of the building. It's strange to see such an item in a place like this, and you half-expect to look away and see the room festooned with red glass candles and red-and-white tablecloths. But nothing changes, the room still a dark and morose place. You turn back to your associate. "Any progress on getting your gun?"
He shakes his head, and you can tell this is a sore subject with him. "Which isn't to say I haven't passed the tests. It's just that I can't get anyone to authorize a weaponless kill for me. Marksmanship, maintenance, identification..." he recites, "then a hand-to-hand kill, then two gun kills." He shakes his head and finally takes a sip of his drink, and his eyes close briefly as if to block out the pain of an inferior drink. "Can't get any traction with these guys."
You nod, taking a sip from your bottle. It's nearly empty. "You're a good kid. I'll get you a job."
He looks up. "Thank you, sir." Leaning over the bar, he tips his drink into the sink behind it, and washes it flow away with a look of satisfaction on his face. As you watch him, you recognize that you haven't seen your sons in decades now. They think you're dead, and the better for it, too. Sitting here, you feel the closest you have to being home since the day you were dragged from it. You consider for a moment, then flag down the bartender. This calls for a celebration: "Another Guinness, sir."
---
You watch the man in the Armani suit peal away on his motorcycle, as you stand outside the bar, waiting for your bartender. It's been a while since you had your third beer, but you can still keep a firm hand on your senses. Everything around you seems ever so slightly distorted, though, like it's all sliding sideways. Your head tips, considering. Yes, that's definitely it. Los Angeles is finally meeting its fate, tipping over the brink and capsizing into the Pacific Ocean. And who here to bear witness?
Alpha walks up, watching the kid pull away. You hadn't expected him, but you aren't surprised. Alpha is an old man, even older than you, and you're surprised he still has it in him to pull away from his apartment at which most meetings of the Associated Press occur. If the FBI or Interpol were aware who he was, they'd never be able to associate so openly, but they've carried out meetings in Central Park without anyone batting an eye. Alpha is an old man, to be sure, but he has willpower, or, failing that, a callous disregard for natural law. "Nice to see you're enjoying the morning," he intones, his eyes measuring the angle between your ears.
"Good to see you too, Avery."
He grimaces. He doesn't enjoy being recognized by any identity, particularly one that is his own. "Raymond, please. This isn't the time. We're still here for business." He looks down the street, at the emptiness that replaced the kid. "He's good, isn't he."
"Who, D____? Yeah. He shows potential."
Alpha turns his head to match your tip. "That's clearly not the reason you're drinking with him at oh-dark-thirty before a mission. Especially not three beers." He knows you too well. "Feeling a bit of an association, Sigma?" You look away, embarrassed. He keeps up the pressure. "Remind you a bit of your chi-"
You turn, lashing out at him. "What the hell do you care?"
He raises his hands, exposing his thin wrists. "No reason. Relax. I expect nothing but greatness from D____ in the future. Any results from your other job?"
"You mean Ryan? We've decided on a hands-off approach."
Alpha grimaces, almost in pain from your plan. "You do realize that the longer we wait on this, the longer we have to set back our expansion plans, and the longer the risk that the motivation won't take. You know EU politics - you've been involved in them long enough to know that they're erratic over there."
You nod, chuckling quietly. "And you Americans have a better system? Took you long enough to elect a minority." He laughs, feeling his throat with his hand, looking away. "I know the risks. If the Irish see what happens to their native son and do nothing, then obviously we've wasted resources, time, money, and potential. But I believe we have a rather open window. Provided it happens at this conference, we should be set."
He sticks a hand in his pocket, removing a cellphone. "I suppose that's fair. But, Raymond, I expect nothing but success. However..." he says, pointing the phone at you, "I must ask: why are you doing this?"
"I don't understand."
"It has nothing to do with revenge, right? Because if you..."
His cellphone buzzes in his hand, and he grins. "Well then. Always another person. We'll discuss this later." He turns and wanders back into the alley he had come from, leaving you alone.
---
In 1995, fifty months after waking up with a bump on your head and blood on your face, you first encountered Alpha. Back then, he was the American special ambassador to the World Trade Organization, then a fledgling outfit with little influence under the Marrakesh agreement. Alpha was positive the organization would go nowhere, and he told you so the first time the two of you met. It was at a conference on European intra-national trade and the future of European currencies in Strasbourg. He was younger then, with a shock of black hair that was just beginning to turn and a perpetual scowl. He had a grudge against then-President Clinton dating back to a decades-old business arrangement, and knew Clinton had given him the position as backhand thanks for his assistance during the election, knowing full well he'd despise the job and retire quickly. So far, Alpha had survived three years, but was carrying around his resignation letter in anticipation of the day he'd finally fax it.
You were invited as an expert on Irish and UK politics, though mostly you found yourself in the nearby bar drinking and examining those around you. On that day, Alpha pulled up a seat next to you. He was drinking a vodka martini and staring with his piercing eyes at the resignation letter, as if trying to shred it through sheer force of will. After a while, you had to ask him about it, and that's when he told you about his business. He was a member of the board of directors of the Associated Press, the journalistic collective that always found itself first at the scene of every major accident, along with, he said with a smirk, Reuters and every aspiring Zapruder with a camera. However, this wasn't his true business. Without another word, he gave you his business card and told you to call him later. You didn't know it then, but Alpha had a knack for picking out the most likely mercenaries of any group, and he could see instantly in you your own dissatisfaction. Within an hour, you met him again in a hotel room outside the city, where he introduced you to his fledgling operation. As he began, you could see the letter he had been examining pass out of a fax machine stationed on the bed.
According to him, the advantage of the Associated Press and its global access was that he could infiltrate nearly any country, organization, or government building under the facade of international journalism. This in turn allowed access to classified documents, illicit materials, and individuals who would normally be off limits. He told you that the promise of endless information would make it possible to gain an immense stranglehold on international relations. He offered you a job, and, considering your options, you took him up on it immediately. Emailing your boss a short, concise resignation note, you boarded Alpha's chartered jet, headed for Amsterdam and your first assignment.
On the jet, Alpha disappeared into his cabin to make preparations, while you sat down next to a young kid playing on a Game Boy. He looked up and smiled, his glasses and dimples glinting in the harsh light of the dawn over Strasbourg. "What are you playing?" you asked.
"Super Mario," he responded.
"That sounds like a good game," you said. Putting out your hand, you introduced yourself.
"It's nice to meet you, Mister. I'm David."
"It's nice to meet you too, David." The boy nodded, then looked back at his game system, leaving you alone.
---
It was 2007 when Alpha first broached the subject of Ireland to the Board. This was in the months leading up to the vote on the Treaty of Lisbon, and it was clear to almost everyone that Ireland wasn't going to take the tonic. The Troubles had been over for a decade, though there was still the occasional unrest on the border - PIRA mentions, occasional attack by the CIRA - and Northern Irish home rule had begun to signal the end. You were sure there was little to be done, but Alpha wagered there was still some discontent in that country. At the board's summer quarter meeting on Martha's Vineyard, he laid out the case to you.
"It's clear that the European Union is the way of the future, Raymond. Not just from a political perspective, mind you - from a practical business perspective as well. We've positioned our allies to attain major positions in the EU Parliament and the commission, and from there they'll have a hand on the entire budget. Imagine the possibilities for contracts. There's major money to be made for any company that can become the major supplier to the entirety of Europe. We'll get everyone else out of business."
"Except, Avery, there's no way Ireland will go along, and without Ireland, the treaty can't work. How do you suppose they'll change their minds?"
He stared out into space. On the beach, David was talking to a young woman, a daughter of another Board member. She was quite beautiful, eighteen to David's twenty. Taking a sip of his gin and tonic, Avery looked at you. "Who do we need to manipulate to get the referendum passed?"
"Well, there's Sinn F?in, the tossers. They aren't going to support any policy that they thing endangers Irish republicanism. There are a few other groups, too, the usual suspects - Socialists, Libertas, and the like - but I wager they're not important. It's Sinn F?in you need to worry about."
Avery coughs. "I'm not well-versed in Irish politics, I'm afraid, but if I remember correctly, you said once Sinn F?in has a history with the PIRA, right?" You nodded. "And Patrick Ryan used to be a member of the PIRA, right?"
"What are you suggesting?"
"Two birds with one stone, Ray. Patrick Ryan is a national hero. If he were killed and you claimed the credit for Northern Ireland, the PIRA could be motivated to kick the cease-fire to represent their martyred soldier. A few prods in the right direction on both sides, and we could easily restart the Troubles."
"How does that help get Ireland into the fold? Sinn F?in probably would fall in line behind the PIRA, and war might frighten even the right-wingers."
"Precisely - we want them frightened. Make the Irish think their country will collapse without solidarity with Europe. A few companies tell them they won't do business with a collapsing Ireland, and I think the Sinn F?iners will realize that a destroyed Ireland can't possibly be a republic. They'll negotiate to soften up the Lisbon Treaty a bit, and presto, the Irish will pass the referendum."
David walked up, arm around the waist of the young woman. "Hello, dad. I just wanted you to meet Molly."
"Ah, yes, Molly. Your father has told me so much about you." She nodded, smiling, hugging David tightly. "If I could borrow my son for a moment, I have something to ask him. I'll return him quickly." Molly looked at David quickly, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and wandered into the hotel.
"Talking business, I assume?" David asked. His father had pulled strings to have his son succeed him. He'd be the youngest member of the board ever, if his father's influence held.
"Mr. McNulty and I were just discussing our organization's future and growth potential, son."
David grinned. "And who killed the Kennedys?"
The two of them laughed, then Avery gestured toward his son. "Raymond, I wanted to ask you. My son will begin his operations in the field next year, and I would hope you could supervise him. Make sure he stays on the path to success. Can you do that for me?"
His eyes glowed expectantly with a flickering, undying fire that filled you with dread. But unless at his side, you could not protect the boy from his fate. With a grin smile, you quietly accepted, and Alpha smiled, as if holding the contract in a burning hand with the other pointing into the depths. As the two wandered off to retrieve Molly, you wondered quietly as you sipped your beer: How did I get here?
---
[4] - Alexandra Weston
She stood alone, on Mulholland Drive, overlooking the city. It writhed in the dim glow of dusk, its bright lights already starting to erupt. The woods from this point were a mass of green, but as darkness swelled, they seemed to recede, becoming another blur of shadow against the wall of bulbs that Los Angeles erupted with, as the children of men wandered out to clubs to disappear a bit more.
Aloud, she asked, looking back: "Why am I here?"
Behind her, the hills gave no answer, and the setting sun cast a light off her car, and she pushed her glasses off her head onto her eyes. Satisfied, she looked back out. Why am I expected to deliver the world? her mind generated, its gears whirring and grinding, creating a slight buzzing noise like a monstrous mosquito behind her ear. I'm not here to be a messiah. I believe something, so someone else must believe it?
Only on Mulholland could she disappear for a moment. Within the city, within Beverley Hills, around her apartment, at the studios and restaurants and clubs, there were people, strangely old men with cameras, young women with hopes and dreams and autograph pads, men looking for the next fix and women looking for the man of their dreams, bartenders, valets, maitre d's, drivers, personal attendants, and entourages - friends of old, hangers-on of new. Nothing changes, it just takes on a new title and buys new business cards. But this small piece of land off the road, amongst the foliage and houses, was a place to escape, if momentarily. She reached into her purse and removed her cellphone. Five missed calls. With a sigh, she opened the back of the phone, removing the battery and pulling out the SIM card, before turning and throwing it out into the abyss. Briefly, she considered the odds that someone has been collecting her cell phones down below, wondering who kept tossing them away.
A man came up from behind her. She knew he was there. "Am I making the right decision?"
Patrick Ryan shrugged. "I don't know about you. But I know that this is the right decision, period."
She stiffened slightly at his voice, even though his response was unsurprising. "But why destruction?"
He nodded, considering. He stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder, lightly turning her around. "You need to understand. Were there another way, were there anyone willing to listen, we wouldn't need to do this. We wouldn't need to have this group at all. If people understood the error of their ways, of humanity's cruel ironies, of the decay of their world, if they could see between the buildings to the grass growing through the concrete, a parking garage of hands, all the potential..." He trailed off. He'd made his point. Their eyes locked, the eyes of the young at heart worn to nothing.
She turned, taking his hands and pulling his arms across her, staring back out into the world. His arms are warm, even through bareness and the strange cold of the hills. Her mind conjures up a memory, of months ago, of ages washed away. Three people are with her, in a bar, at four in the afternoon. Nobody else is present, even the bartender is gone, and the place has the musk and dustiness of a world abandoned to nature's inevitable pull, much as antique shops seem ready to be reclaimed by time. One of them, her childhood friend, the only member of her entourage she'd spend time with before eight at night, a young woman named Jill who also aspired to be an actress but found herself nowhere, doing commercial spots for phone sex lines, before she retired to live off Alexandra's wealth. The second is her fiancee, a nice young man who started a company that designed new computer fonts, and the third is his brother, the man Jill had dragged to meet Alexandra. Four-in-the-afternoon double dating not being Alexandra's idea of a good time, she nonetheless tried to be cheery.
The brother does consulting for a technology firm she forgets the name about - all she knows is they get "government contracts" - and is talking, telling a joke. Jill laughs before he gets to the punch line, her eyes fixed on Alexandra, and occasionally she bobs her head slightly toward the brother. The joke has something to do with a rabbi and a schnauzer. The fiancee is checking his phone every minute, trying to stay engaged, and occasionally Jill will kick him under the table, loud enough for everyone to hear but quiet enough for them all to ignore it.
The schnauzer talks. That's an important part of the joke.
The bar is a restaurant, apparently, during the day, quite a successful one at that. Alexandra gets the impression that they pull out these chairs and tables before seven and is a restaurant. American Bistro cuisine, mostly, although there's the occasional touch of elegance and panache, like the foie gras with black and white truffles served with a cucumber-and-berry salad. This is what the fiance is eating, although Alexandra immediately recognizes that he's a foreigner in these parts, trying to not make a face at the foie gras' texture and consistency. Jill said he worked in Silicon Valley, but Alexandra knows Jill is from Baltimore because Alexandra is from Baltimore, and begins to suspect that the fiance is also from Baltimore. The brother rather quickly established himself as "from New York", although it's plausible he's also from Baltimore.
The only other person in the building who isn't an employee is a young-looking man, drinking what Alexandra can tell is a vodka tonic (Ketel One, having spotted the large red K on the bottle the bartender refilled the man's drink from) in a suit. He seems to be engrossed in a file he's diligently staring at. He's a few tables down, his table pointing him about forty-five degrees away from witnessing Alexandra's group. Alexandra considers him out of the corner of her eye. Possibly a lawyer. Certainly more interesting than this (mentally pointing toward the brother, talking about his work at "TFC" as he emphasized, producing a business card as if by habit) this guy . She has half a mind to excuse herself to go talk to him. After the fourth grimace by the fiance, whose eyes are locked on Jill, whose eyes are locked on Alexandra, whose eyes are nowhere, she stands up and excuses herself to go refresh, and catches the other man flinch slightly. She passes by his table, on route to the bathroom, and drops a piece of paper on his file, as if by mistake, as she goes.
As she stared out onto Los Angels, Alexandra quietly spoke. "Did you..." (she asked Patrick, silent behind her) "...have you ever heard a joke about a rabbi and a schnauzer?"
He thought for a moment. "No, I can't say I have. Why?"
She turned, removing his hands from her belly, eying him momentarily. "No reason." With that, she headed toward the car, as her bemused Irish friend watched, turning the question over in his head.
---
[5] - Sophia Guerrero
Excerpts from a Los Angeles Police Department police report, dated 4/29/2005
...At 0320 hours, officers responded to a 246 in Santa Ana. 911 caller reported a shout followed by two shots fired in a house across the street from his own. When officers arrived, they discovered a car parked outside and took down the license plate number and model before looking inside to discover approximately fourteen large legal files filed with unidentifiable documents and six boxes of .380 Auto ammunition, unopened. While one officer checked the information on the car on his squad car's computer, the other three responding officers approached the building, knocking on the door and announcing their presence. After no response, the officers opened a nearby window and entered, while the fourth officer joined them through the now-unlocked front door. Officer's firearms were brandished per protocol for potential violent episodes.
In the kitchen of the building, officers discovered a human body, male, early-to-mid 40s, with GSWs to each eye. Officers reported the 419 and secured the perimeter while they waited for the medical examiner and crime scene investigators. Wallet in the victim's pocket contained driver's license in the name of Donald Waterston, DOB 3/15/63, and was identified as the victim. Also contained one hundred forty dollars in twenty dollar bills and two credit cards. Officers Hernandez and Blidson exited to investigate the 911 caller while Officers Marks and Tretter filled in the newly-arrived medical examiner, who took liver temperature and examined the GSWs, determining that one bullet exited through the back of the neck, while the other did not exit and was fired from an upward angle. This was chosen as the preliminary COD.
...Officers Blidsen and Hernandez apprehended one Mr. Samuel Vine, the owner of the car found outside the crime scene, three blocks away at a convenience store. In his possession were an antique Walther PPK handgun and various unidentified literature. After officers discerned Mr. Vine did not possess a CCW license or have appropriate licensure for the weapon in his possession, he was arrested for the appropriate firearm violations and booked. Subsequent ballistics tests confirmed a Walther PPK was the gun used in the murder of Mr. Waterston, as matched to a bullet recovered from a cabinet door at the crime scene and from Mr. Waterston's skull (see attached ME report on the autopsy). Examination of the striations of Mr. Vine's gun's barrel indicated a defect resulting from the gun's use and age that made it very probable that the gun in his possession was the gun used. In addition, fingerprints that were identified as belonging to Mr. Vine were discovered on a windowsill in Mr. Waterston's house.
...Upon examination of the contents of Mr. Vine's car, Officers Marks and Tretter discovered in the aforementioned legal files an assortment of transcripts of the news reports of one Ms. Sophia Guerrero, a journalist for KABC-TV 7. The discovered transcripts covered a variety of stories by Ms. Guerrero, including one about a hit-and-run accident in Santa Ana that left one unnamed victim in a coma, dated approximately 1/17/05, and alleged that a car belonging to one Mr. Waterston had been seen leaving the scene, but that the crime was not investigated sufficiently by the Los Angeles Police Department due to, quote, "agreements between the Assistant Chief of the LAPD and Mr. Waterston's corporation, which provides heavily-discounted kevlar vests for on-duty police officers". Subsequent investigation of Mr. Waterston's car under UV light revealed high velocity blood spatter in the car's radiator, though crime scene investigators have not been successful in obtaining a DNA profile at this time.
Ms. Guerrero refused to answer questions from our officers after being told she was not being charged with a crime, citing "work". This is not the first time Ms. Guerrero has been associated in a crime committed against a recent subject of her news reports, but no direct correlation between Ms. Guerrero's involvement and these crimes has been discerned so far, and no investigation into such a matter is open.
...Mr. Vine waived his right to attorney and, upon being confronted with the evidence, reached a plea agreement with the ADA assigned to the case. As Mr. Vine's provided medical history indicates potential mental illness, Judge Roger Davies has ordered examination, pending sentencing. The case has currently been closed, and detectives have been reassigned.
[6] - Christopher Exodus-
"Look, I just don't understand what the big deal is. They're just burgers."
You turn and look at your partner, mousy transfer from some mountain state. "Just burgers? You can't qualify In-N-Out as 'just burgers'. No, my friend, In-N-Out is nothing short of a transcendental experience."
"But the fries -"
You nod, watching the street disappear under your vehicle, listening to the sirens blaring. "True, the fries are often limp and cold. That's not the point. You take a double-double in your hand, with all the fixings, onions - even Animal is good - it is religious." You put your hand on your heart and point up to the sky sardonically. "My mouth to God's burger, my friend. My arteries may clog up and I may lose my limbs, but I'll still have Mr. In N. Out to keep me company in my limbless world. Tell you what," you say, looking over at him, "on the way back from this stop, we'll stop by an In-N-Out, and I'll prove it to you." He doesn't respond, just continues flipping through the transcript of the call - a possible 164 out in San Bernardino, some college kid from the sound of it - the caller, middle age woman, spent more time asking how long it would take to remove the body than the rest of the call combined. Suicide watch is the worst task in the department, and you can't help but recognize the twin insults of body collection and being tasked with the least interesting transfer in the department. Your mental rolodex rattles as you list off every officer you could have pissed off to deserve such a miserable fate.
The crime scene is a small apartment off Cal State's campus. The odor lingers around the door, and your partner covers his nose with his sleeve. "You idiot," you mutter just out of earshot, "that's not going to help if you can smell it out here." You unlock the door with the landlord's key and push it in, unleashing two weeks of decomp that sends your partner reeling toward the nearest railing to excise his stomach. Breathing through your mouth, you step inside and flip on a light switch. The resident is suspended from his overhead lamp - skinny kid, explains why he didn't break the damn thing, but the light switch is connected to the fan, which begins spinning, rotating the ghastly sight. The flesh isn't taut yet, but has turned a sickening black color and has started attracting flies. Your partner wanders back from the edge and nearly goes there again. Right on cue, the rotating body tears the ceiling fan from its proper place not on the floor in a dusty, rotten heap. Shaking your head, you turn off the buzzing fan socket and whip out your flashlight.
The room is barren, with only a chair and a table, the former of which is awkwardly tipped on its side about a foot from where the victim's body had hung. The only other object in the room is a laptop computer, still plugged in and humming along. Walking over, you turn off the screensaver, revealing the kid's last project - a long document. You turn to your partner, whose eyes are locked to the sight. "Hey." He turns to you, face ashen. "You didn't expect to see bodies in this line of work? Go out and call for the ME before you taint the crime scene any more." As he tentatively nods and leaves the room, you sit down in the victim's chair and begin reading:
"I am sorry to greet you with these words at this time..."
---
Stepping back outside, your hands instinctively move out for something to steady yourself against. Your partner is leaned against the railing, his face ashen. It's clear he won't be interested in those burgers later. "You look terrible," he says quietly to you. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"I got a fiver says shoeshine and bus fare, a ten says two martinis and a clown's face in your pillow tomorrow," you return sardonically, mentally adjusting yourself.
He shrugs and focuses on a particularly interesting section of the floor. "Maybe should call it in?" he asks after a while. You nod, and he wanders off toward the squad car while you stare out the window. Outside the building across the street, two kids are absently kicking a bottle around. The bar down the street holds the afternoon drunks in quiet reverie, praying to their longnecks, while its owner idly counts rumpled bills of every denomination, some still wet from spilled drinks. The windows of the restaurant next door are open, revealing two waiters talking about sports scores. In a corner, an elderly woman reads a genre novel and waits for her son to get off his patrol. For a few more hours, before the world removes itself from its service to itself and dresses for distraction, boredom peers around every corner and asks the time of day, and you look down at your watch only to discover time has started moving backwards and you're younger and lost in the reverie of childhood again. Your mother scrubbing your clothing in the sink of the bottom-barrel motel you've moved up to, while your brother swims joyfully in the overchlorinated pool below and you stare out the window, lost in reverie. Your mother mentions something to you, something about watching your brother, but you aren't paying attention, too wrapped up in the sight across the street -
Your phone rings. It's your brother. You let it go to voicemail.
Down on the street, your partner steps gingerly around his bile and into the squad car, reporting the body. The sun appears from behind a cloud, and the light reflects off the squad car into your eyes. Squinting against the day's harsh glare, you turn and look back into the darkness of the crime scene, your heart pulling against your ribcage.
The last time you felt this way about a case was in November 1997, when the first victim of the Glaswegian Sunrise killer appeared.
He was a student at UCLA, nineteen, Caucasian, found in a drainage ditch just off
campus. Body was in moderate state of decay, but it was clear what had
happened to him; the killer had left his mark very clearly. Back at the
time, it looked like a horrifying prank. The body was propped up
against one of the concrete walls, as if waiting for a hangover to
escape him, but it was clear he was dead from the killer's mark. The
man's mouth had been sliced from ear to ear, and into his mouth the
killer had stuffed a tennis ball.
You briefly turn to remind yourself that the corpse in the apartment isn't marked in the same way.
The victim's parents were despondent, reassuring the officer tasked with the interview that their son was a good kid, not mixed up with drugs or gangs or anything like that. The interview had been handed off to a member of Community Resources Against Street Hooligans (CRASH), who at the time had a disproportionate percentage of the officers in Rampart Division, where you were assigned. The officer, a red-nosed bruiser by the name of Richardson, had written in the column of his interview questions the word "drugs"; next to it sat a black spot where a question mark had recently resided. At the time, CRASH had received a major influx of resources from Mayor Riordan and his recently-appointed Chief of Police Bernard Parks, and there was a tendency to investigate gang angles first.
Officer Richardson and his partner conducted a search of the victim's dormitory, which turned up two ounces of street-quality cocaine. Interviews with students who knew the victim noted that he had a rumored reputation for being a drug dealer. Following this revelation, your superior officer ordered that the homicide investigation be taken over completely by CRASH. You pointed to the lack of evidence for a gangs connection, the lack of definitive evidence that the student participated in gang activity, and the mode of the homicide, which indicated the crime was intended to send a message. Richardson said a preliminary lab analysis indicated the drugs were the same quality as those trafficked by the 18th Street Gang, as shown by a comparison with recently-seized material. The killing could be directed at other potential drug dealers on the campus. You asked to see that lab report. Your superior told you that would not be necessary, it was clear the student dealt drugs, and ordered the files to be turned over.
A small pebble clatters on the landing. You step outside the crime scene and look down at your partner, who is standing with paramedics. With a nod, you descend to meet them.
---
Later, after declining the proposed burger run, you take your partner to a bar. The body was en route to the ME's office, and the laptop with the rest of the victim's possessions in evidence. "So," he asks cheerfully, trying to make conversation, "how'd you end up on suicide runs?"
You sigh, take another sip of your beer, and look at him sheepishly. "I punched a cop."
You tell him about the Glaswegian Sunrise case. After the case was handed over to CRASH, it disappeared for a few months, as the department unsuccessfully pursued the gang angle. Then another body turned up, this time an aspiring actress named Kellie Averton, 27, from Wichita, Kansas, found in an alley outside a nightclub. Like the previous victim, her mouth had been cut open, and inside was another tennis ball - "a Penn", the report noted specifically. Her bloodwork revealed she had ingested MDMA and a large amount of alcohol. Four hours after the body was discovered, the first photos of the crime scene were received by the Los Angeles Times via email from an AOL account created that same day from a public terminal. "Considering the similarities to the Black Dahlia case, it was inevitable that the media would turn it into a sensation," you mutter, spinning the beer's cap like a coin on the bar.
However, you note, that first toxicology report disappeared after leaving the lab, replaced by a second one indicating that cocaine, rather than MDMA, was in the victim's system. "It wouldn't change anything in terms of the outcome, but it was all Richardson needed to argue that both crimes were the result of a new push by the 18th Street gang to seize territory. The lab tech who produced the original result, upon later questioning, stood behind the result until threatened with jail time for perjury, at which point he admitted he forged the report for Richardson."
"When did that happen?"
You pause. "2003. Anyway, the case continued in CRASH's hands. The media buzzed about it for a few more months, wondering about serial killers on the loose in Los Angeles, while the LAPD continued to chase a drug crime angle. Suspects were brought in, charged. A few were beaten. Nobody really thought about it. CRASH produced results - fantastic results."
"So how'd you..."
"I punched Richardson after the forged report business. Cocaine didn't make sense, since the victim lacked the sinus damage associated with repeated cocaine insufflation and no cocaine was found on the victim's clothing. Anyway, accusations flew, he brought up my mother, and I punched him." You laugh. "Six months later, Richardson would be picked up in the CRASH scandal for stealing cocaine from the breakroom - the same type of cocaine, incidentally, that was discovered in the college student's room. He did five in prison. Hundreds of criminals appealed their convictions, most unsuccessfully. And the world moved on. But punching a cop is quite the scarlet letter. Hence why I shepherd the dead."
He nods, less in sympathy than in recognition. He turns to the bartender, a middle-aged woman sipping a cocktail at the other end of the bar. "Where's your bathroom?" She vaguely points, and your partner stands up and excuses himself. You turn back to your beer, which has become empty.
"A refill, honey?" You look up at the bartender, who has appeared at the first sign that you need a new drink. You nod limply, and pull a few bills out of your pocket to pay your tab so far. She takes the bills and hands you another. A hundred.
"I think you gave me the wrong amount, ma'am," you interject.
"Nope. That's exactly the amount you need." Frowning, you turn it over in your hand. Over Benjamin Franklin's face is a bloody fingerprint.
"How'd this get here?" you ask, looking down at it. When you look up, you jump away from the bar with a start.
Your mother the bartender takes your empties in her hands and drops them into a bin beneath the bar. "Why does that matter, Chris?"
"I... what?"
"How is your brother doing? I had such high hopes for him... he was so smart, you know. Always got straight As." She takes a cloth and begins wiping down the bar, with her eyes locked on yours.
"He... he faked those reports... with white-out." You feel faint.
"He did?" Her smile does not fade for a moment. "What a smart boy... knew exactly what to do to succeed..."
"He drinks, you know... he stole a bottle of vodka once..." You flail in space, looking for a chair into which to collapse. Not finding one, you decide the floor is a fine replacement.
"So clever too... always did the right thing. And with such a fine role model, too! He's going to be president someday, I just know it." The bar has vanished, along with the rest of the building, but her arm continues to swing in space, polishing a nonexistant piece of furniture.
Her eyes are vacant, glistening holes.
"He's an... alcoholic, mom. He's failed!"
"No, no, no... he's just... looking for himself." Your mother's vacant eyes begin to expand, consuming her sockets with darkness, as if punched through to the blackness behind.
"He's a failure, mom! I couldn't save him! I couldn't save..."
"Oh, Chris..." your mother murmers as her head vanishes completely. "Chris..."
"I..." you whisper in response, your eyes unmoving.
"Chris... Chris!"
With a start, you pull yourself up from the bar. You feel your partner's hand on your shoulder. "You were talking to yourself, man. I'm cutting you off. Pay the poor lady and let's get going."
You try to nod, your eyes locked on the fresh hundred dollar bill in your trembling hand.
"I..."
---
He stands up from the bar, his head tilted sharply sideways, toward a man at the end. You hadn't heard what they had said, but the man at the end of the bar looks angry, pointing, and J stands up and starts heading over, fists at the ready. Pulling yourself back, you try to hold him back. The bartender has stepped away for a moment for a smoke. "Hey, you!" J shouts, as you try to pull him back. The man at the end of the bar laughs and heads over, shouting in Dutch at J. J waves his arms frantically, fighting against you, but he's a big guy, and you can't hold him well enough. With a start, he bursts free, grabbing the Dutchman and throwing him against a wall. He slumps slightly, but stands up, ready to engage. In the brief moment, as the world seems to shake under the feet of the participants - your brother and his opponent yelling and swinging, you standing away, trying to find an opportunity - you glimpse of the ghost of a woman sitting in the corner, drinking a martini. She looks like your mother, starting idly into space. She catches your eye briefly, but only looks away again, as if in acceptance. Do what you will, my child...
Jumping in, you grab the Dutchman by the neck and shoulder, slamming him against the wall, pulling out your handcuffs. Words escape your mouth as if dragged by a dark wave back to sea, and you read him his rights and leave him in the corner. Walking back, you survey your brother, who looks petrified. "Hold still. It has to look authentic." He looks at you, for a moment, with an expression split between fear and gratitude, then nods. You close your eyes, for a moment, then swing your fist.
It connects with your brother's nose, and you hear a slight crunch. He falls backward, and in a brief instant, you see your mother's expression flicker in the corner, as if distorted, like a television picture fading to white noise. Then your brother falls head-first into the bar stool, and a snap emanates off the walls. Your brother, his nose broken, his face dressed in twin rivulets of blood, bracketing the look of acceptance locked on his face, slides to the floor like a sack of sand.
You step back, a look of horror replacing your calm fa?ade, grasping at anything to stabilize yourself. You put your hand down on the bill you left on the counter to cover your tab, grab at it, and continue falling backward, until you fall loosely onto the floor. The Dutchman is unmoving, equally petrified. "I... I..."
Your mother looks down at the broken body of her younger son and stands up, dusting herself off. She walks toward you, stepping over Jason's form, and looks down at your frozen, trembling form. She is dressed like Lauren Bacall, and her head is ringed with light. Looking down, her eyes accusatory and cold, she whispers, "You realize who you are now?"
All the warmth has gone from the building. Your breath jumps lightly in front of you, like the ghost exiting the shell. "Is... is he dead?" you whisper. Smiling, your mother leans down and kisses you on the forehead, before adjusting her dress briefly and turning. Without another word, she walks out the door, into the dark.
In the distance, sirens begin to echo. You weakly open your hand, revealing your hundred-dollar bill, with your fingerprint in your brother's blood ringing Franklin's eye. Pulling yourself along the floor, you crawl toward the Dutchman, who shies away from you, as if to escape your pull. Leaning into him, you grab him by the throat. He barely resists, as if half-asleep. As you lean in to him, you whisper into his ear:
"Let me tell you a story..."
----
Ending flavor for various factions/players
(use all that apply)
MAFIA
- Sigma alive, Patrick Ryan dead: Sigma returns to the Associated Press triumphant, but the man in the Armani suit has begun his decline, having witnessed the effects of his crimes. A few years later, Alpha will die, and Sigma will become the new head of the Associated Press, taking the title of Alpha. When the incident at the Fiasco Corporation occurs a few years later, McNulty will be corrupted by his power and dominance, and the man in the Armani suit will be a murderous shell; their father-son relationship shattered, as Avery's was with his son after he joined the organization.
- Sigma alive, Patrick Ryan alive: Sigma returns to the Associated Press defeated. The AP is a more fractured organization, due to its losses from the position it took, but it survives. Eventually, Sigma succeeds Alpha, bringing in an era of relative prosperity, but he no longer has the respect of the man in the Armani suit - their relationship is broken by the latter's success and the former's failure (in the latter's eyes).
- Patrick Ryan alive: European Union fails to solidify as Ireland remains independent and staunchly pro-republicanism, and more nations follow suit, which leads to the rise of the United States following the passage of President Cazell's environmental agenda (either by him if he makes it to the end and Trevor Sartori is dead, as nobody will be able to assassinate him, or posthumously under his Vice President). The World Trade Organization's influence is hopelessly fractured.
- Alexandra Weston alive, Patrick Ryan dead: EU unified under the banner of environmentalism, and the US and EU's strength leads to another century of Western dominance at the expense of the World Trade Organization and a Third World trying to push its way up without the strength of the EU and US
- Trevor Sartori alive: Becomes a major candidate in the 2012 presidential election. If President Cazell is also alive at the end, he will assassinate the president, which will be blamed on the "terrorists" and will only help solidify his political strength.
- Jean-Baptiste d'Avignon alive only: WTO dealt a blow, but eventually recovers; globalization loses strength in the First World, solidifying the position of the Western world. Essentially the same as the above, but with fewer player-specific characteristics.
CULT
- Cult wins: Indian nationalism takes hold, which leads to major conflict between Pakistan and India. As the world takes sides again in their conflict, India fires a nuclear weapon at Pakistan, perhaps signaling the beginning of a new Cold War. Ending left vague.
SERIAL KILLER
- SK win: Israel receives renewed backing from the United States, and begins planning the use of nuclear weapons against the Middle East, which suddenly finds itself on the back foot against a Western world firmly behind Israel. A fuure of (somewhat uncertain) prosperity.
NEUTRALS
- Ayers succeeds: Leaves the game. Flavor given of her overcoming her demons that have plagued her since the deaths of her parents, believing she has helped prevent murder and thus avenged them.
- Zenebech succeeds: Leaves the game. Later becomes the President of Ethiopia and Chairman of the African Union Authority, bringing a new period of legitimacy to Africa and (if the town wins) hastening the continent's path to prosperity.
TOWN (ALT WIN CONDITIONS)
- Guerrero survivor win: Continues her rise through the ranks of American journalism, though she continues to dip into sensationalism, which damages her credibility with the elite in the long run.
- Golta alt win: Leaves the game. The Scoria Virus does a significant amount of damage to the world economy, until Golta has Terra release the fix. His success here leads to his rise to become CEO of the group.
TOWN
- Town win: WTO gains prestige and power, leading to the rise of "new" First World nations such as India, China, etc; globalization fulfills its destiny as the major force of the 21st century, which threatens the existence of cabals like the Associated Press and its associated corporations
(Erratum to these rules noted where applicable)
GAMEPLAY RULES
0) All of the following goes unless stated otherwise. PMs are written correctly, except when they aren't. Rule of thumb is that when PM and rule disagree, PM wins, but don't be afraid to ask us if you're confused.
1) arimnaes and Xyre are co-mods for this game. Make sure you send your PMs to both mods. This makes our lives easier, and prevents miscommunication.
2) A player voting for himself/herself will be considered the day's lynch, and the game will immediately progress to night. This rule will be ignored for the first 100 posts.
3) When a player needs to be replaced, rather than take the first person off the list, the mods will instead PM the replacements, and the first replacement to respond will take the role.
4) In the interest of progress, this game will use a modified version of the deadline system from Unreal City. Day 1 will be deadlined for 4 weeks after the mod's first post. Subsequent days will last 3 weeks. Extensions of one week will be considered in extraordinary cases.
5) Players who may communicate via PM may do so at any time.
6) Players may not use two abilities in the same period (meaning night and day), unless otherwise stated. The only type of ability exempt from this is a Passive ability (see "PM Structure", below).
7) With respect to Day actions and Post actions, timestamping (when the PM activating the ability was sent or when the post activating the ability was made) will be used to determine the resolution order of abilities. Night actions resolve as normal unless otherwise noted.
8) In this game, the Town is the Pro-WTO faction and the Mafia are the Anti-WTO faction. These terms may be used interchangeably.
8b) As always, the town win condition is "The scum must die".
SPECIAL RULES
PM Structure
Abilities have names and keys. The keys are (Type of Ability/Period of Use/Number of Uses).
Type of Ability: Passive, Active, or Targeting. Passive means the ability works by itself; Active means the ability requires activation submitted to the mod, and Targeting means the ability requires activation and a target or targets for the ability submitted to the mod.
Period of Use: Day, Night, or Any. The period or periods in which the ability may be used.
Number of Uses: Permanent or #-Shot. The number of times the ability may be used. Permanent means the ability has an unlimited number of uses (although other rules of use still apply). Note that if an ability has a limited number of uses, and one of those uses are blocked in some way, that use is still lost.
Items
Items have abilities associated with them. You may give away one item as a night action. Players that are untargetable can still be given items. Giving away an item resolves immediately upon use, but the recipient will not receive the item until the beginning of the subsequent day.
Whenever a player with an item is killed, the player who caused that player's death (including the last person to vote that player on a lynch) will take that item. If that player has more than one item, the killer will receive a list of the names of the items the killed player had, and will be able to choose one to take. (ERRATA: This will be implemented after the death-post in the thread.)
ERRATA: If a player triggers Rule 2 (the "suicide rule"), the player who caused the lynch's death for the purpose of item-acquisition as defined above is the last other player to vote for that player.
If an item has only limited-shot abilities, that item will be discarded after all those shots are used. Discarded items will be listed by the mods similarly to dead players. Abilities of discarded items will not be revealed.
Post Actions
This game uses a type of actions known as "post actions" - actions that are triggered by posting a specific phrase, image, or other component in one's post. Whenever you use a post action, please send us a PM indicating the post in which you did so to make our jobs easier. If this PM is not sent, the action may be missed.
Note that post actions count as your one ability for a period as defined in rule 6.
Pregame
"Welcome to the Pregame Show! I'm your host, Bradford DuPont! We've got an exciting game ahead of you, so let's meet our first contestant!"
"She's a thirty-four year old elementary school teacher from San Bernardino, CA. She loves kids, hates dogs, and is ready to win a lot of money! Let's hear it for Jeneanne Carlton!"
(APPLAUSE)
"Jeneanne, it's a pleasure to meet you. Are you ready to play the Pregame!"
"I sure am, Brad!"
"I'm sure you know the rules, but for those of you at home, the rules are simple: as long as you don't say anything before I start the game, I won't have to press this button" (shows red button) "that will send you through a pit in the floor. I'm sure you don't want to be sent into the pit, Jeneanne?"
"I sure don't, Brad!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, you seem to have said something. Well, Jeneanne, I'm sorry we must part this way, but" (CLICK)
"But I fWOOOAHAAHAAHHHHH."
"Alright, everyone, give it up for Jeneanne!"
(APPLAUSE)
PMs will be sent out tomorrow morning or afternoon, depending. Please confirm you've received them via PM. Once everyone has confirmed, we'll begin day.
Experiments Series: #5 (Courtly Intrigue Mafia) | #4 (Drunken Tracker) | #3 (Big Red Button) - coming soon | #2 (Pope Mafia) | #1 (Iso's Inflammable Mafia)
Mini Games: MTGS Mafia Redux II (Invitational, Evil Mirror Universe) | Unreal City
Old Games (bad): The Greenwood Affair | Blood Moon Mafia
The West Pico Diner has fallen into ruins. It once had a reputation, standing shimmering in the darkness of a young Los Angeles, serving new migrants from the East, arriving in droves in their cars from the Big Cities, and young men stepping gingerly from the ships discarding them onto land after weeks, months, year at sea, fighting the Japanese Empire. The town in 1945 had grown up quickly in the waste of the world, serving as a hub for great mechanical behemoths to charge upon each other and dash to pieces on the dust of the desert, catching soldiers in their wake and leaving the survivors battered but ready to retreat back to land and never leave... find a place with a good drink and settle down for a century of earned rest. For the wanderer, there was the West Pico Diner, with "The Best Biscuits in Town!" and black coffee to match. As the city evolved around it, the Diner remained the same, with the timelessness quickly picked up and reproduced by a thousand similar diners built by men born in the sixties and seventies, men whose fathers had been born when the soldiers first stepped into the city, men who entered the world as their fathers left it half a world away never witnessing the horrors of war.
The owner of the diner had bought the land for pennies on the dollar, picking up a parcel from a saloon that lost its business after its the Zoot Suit Riots convinced the Latino youth in the area to avoid caucasians when drinking and the previous owner, Louis Brenner, decided it wasn't worth the trouble. The West Pico's owner, Jose Alma, bought the place and was able to wager an uneasy peace between the white soldiers and Latino kids with his food, a slight miracle in the barren land, and slowly the neighborhood pulled itself back. Unfortunately, the neighborhood grew away from its past, and as Alma wiped the counter for the next sixty years, as his hair bleached and then disappeared outright, the land around the West Pico Diner was bought up by developers, building freeways, shopping malls, parking lots, and eventually the two twin colossi residing a few blocks away, the Staples Center and Los Angeles Convention Center. With those two buildings came hordes of new entrepreneurs, who sought to acquire Alma's small and now rundown diner, but he politely declined after offering the developers a cup of coffee for their troubles. His deed to the property and resistance of local unrest prevented the property from being bought up, at least as long as he stood guard behind the counter. But he's been fighting a slow war with an adrenal ganglioneuroma for years now, and his doctor has told him that there isn't much more time. Soon, he will die, the deed to the property will be picked up, and the world will tip the scales back to where he had met them, restore the world's natural state of disorder.
The only customer today, Jesus Ivante, sips his coffee and takes a bite of his huevos con chorizo, munching quietly. Ivante was born the day Alma opened the diner, and his father considered that a sign from Dios that this place would be his biblical rock. The man worked construction for forty years, quietly persistent in a city that for a long time made it plainly clear that he was not special or important, a city so blended and churned it resembled less a melting pot than a puree, worked until he retired when arthritis finally took his last strength from him. Despite it being an hour out of his way from his job working for Merrill Lynch, Ivante still journeys here every morning. Alma wipes his counter absentmindedly, not expecting the sudden rush of cars down the block, all reinforced black sports utility vehicles. Ivante, sitting at the counter, turns and looks at the cavalcade, eyebrow raised. "Were you expecting this?"
Alma shakes his head, eyes not leaving the parade of cars. "Never a good sign when you see that many cars. Means one of a few things."
"What are those?"
"Well, I've seen this kind of cavalcade for gangs, mostly a show though occasionally if they want to move down on others. Sometimes, for political events, big ones, or concerts, or Michael Jackson's funeral. Usually, though, it means sports, basketball. Players traveling with their friends, colleagues, their séquito.And it's always a war after sports. People drink, and the team wins, and they celebrate riotously; people drink, and the team loses, and they mourn riotously. Break windows, make noise." He shakes his head mournfully. "Have to get swept up."
"You ever seen soccer on television?" Ivante asks him, through a bite of chorizo. "European football? Man, those people know how to riot." Alma considers that, shrugs, and focuses his attention on a particularly noxious spot on the counter. The parade of cars peters out and disappears down the block, returning the street to the mutter of traffic.
Outside the convention center, police officers part the throngs gathered. Many of them have come to protest, with signs, banners, artwork on automobiles, clothing, posters, and bodies, and chants, all comingling into a crescendo like an ocean folding in on itself with a guttural crash that dissipates immediately into its endless depths. Some have come to witness the celebrities, officials, and other notable personas in attendance; a few in the crowds have come to fight with the protestors, their shouts disappearing into their enemies' muddled roar. Field reporters speak to their cameramen about the sight. Most were not granted entrance to the facility itself, forcing their network to stake out space in the parking lot and silently pray someone inside has smuggled in a cellphone. The police have established a perimeter around the facility with their cars, barricades, and their own bodies, all carrying imposing sidearms and seemingly daring the public to tempt them to utilize the tear gas canisters and tasers on their belts and the beanbag rounds in their shotguns.
From the roof of the center, a man in a gas mask watches these two throngs converge and regress. He is busy typing instructions into his computer's console, crouched behind a duct, but he still can't resist sneaking glances at the crowd and chuckling to himself, a sound which from behind the mask sounds like a death rattle. From behind him, the man in the Armani suit, who had excused himself from the president's presence to coordinate the Associated Press' next move, watched the crowd, ignoring the young man busily working in front of him. They seemed so fragile, the crowds, rippling with uncomfortable energy, challenging their bounderies, daring the universe to lash out. Opening the briefcase in his hand, he removes a series of small mounds, which he begins distributing around the edge of the roof, followed by small transmittors. "How long until the code is downloaded, T.?" he asks the masked man.
"Four minutes," he responds, without turning.
The man in the Armani suit nods. "Send it to my phone when you're done, then get out of here. Go back to the safehouse, and you'll be debriefed." Turning briefly to glance at the crowds below, with a small knowing smile, he wanders back down the stairs, to prepare the next step. The man in the mask turns as he goes, shrugs slightly, then returns to his work.
Stepping into the vast expanse of the conference center, the man in the Armani suit replaces his earpiece and wanders toward the Secret Service agent he had abandoned back here. "There you are, Mr. Thorn. We were worried you had gotten lost. The attendees will arrive in approximately ten minutes. Have your men examined the building?"
"Yes, we have." The man in the Armani suit removes a folder from his briefcase. "Here are the specifications of the building, recommendations for placing your men and the President, and the security capabilities of the Center. Is there anything else the Bureau can do for you?"
"No, this is sufficient. Thank you, Mr. Thorn." The agent turns to go, but briefly pauses. "I wanted to ask, Mr. Thorn... if you don't mind me asking, you seem quite young for your position. How old are you?"
The man in the Armani suit stiffens, and his eyes narrow into slits. "I do mind, sir. Is there anything else you need?" The agent shakes his head and quickly wanders off, leaving the man in the Armani suit alone to brood in the cavernous hall.
The helicopter descends again, and inside, Joseph Cazell, POTUS 44, silently broods. The security measures taken by the Secret Service have been nothing short of extravagant. At one point, he asked the Secret Service guard keeping his shoulder at all times whether they had enlisted a small army to carry him the short distance from hotel to the convention center, but the man stoically replied that they had taken all necessary steps to protect your safety Mr. President, and Cazell grinned idly and returned to staring out at the scene below.
Already, the crowds are beginning to gather. In response to the disaster that was the 1999 World Trade Organization conference in Seattle, any time a city holds a large political event guaranteed to draw protesters, they produce miniature armies. At the 2008 Democratic National Convention, in Denver, the police erected a veritable maze of steel fences surrounding the meeting place and filled the city with armed police officers, and the results seemed to be rather positive. Taking a page out of that book, the Los Angeles Police Department is reported to be out in full force, with all officers on the premises or working to control protesters out on the street, with orders to curtail violence and to keep people in designated areas. And the chatter has been low, according to Cazell's advisers, who report that many major organizations with a bone to pick with the World Trade Organization, tentatively optimistic about the Cazell administration's promises to collaborate with the World Trade Organization on effective and efficient environmental policy, are waiting. But the usual rabid flock are out in droves, and the entire scene is still tense, tipping on the edge and awaiting a good pull or shove.
Looking down at his speech, Cazell coughs nervously, getting a flickering glance from the Secret Service agent, who then returns to burning a hole in the back of the pilot's chair. As the helicopter quickly touches down on the pad, the crowds seem to acknowledge the arrival with a roar. "I thought I told you to approach from an angle they wouldn't see," the Secret Service agent shouts at the pilot. The pilot turns back and responds angrily, but it is drowned out by the rotors. With a shrug, Cazell opens the door, but is quickly pulled back by the Secret Service agent. A young man, visibly startled, stands over a laptop. His face is a blur in the harsh light of morning cast about by the glass paneling of the building. Shouting in fright, he grabs his laptop and runs toward the exit, with the Secret Service agent in hot pursuit. Cazell remains with the pilot, looking at him with an expression of So how's your day going.
The man in the mask overshoots the door and keeps going toward the edge, as the agent gives chase. With a shout that comes out like a howl, he removes his mask and leaps off the roof's edge, as the agent pulls up and looks on. As the crowd below watches, aghast, as a Secret Service agent seemingly throws a helpless protester off the roof, they take up a new roar and begin attacking the police, who push back with force. Two other officers, ants from this height, look up from the body, prostrate on the ground, in a shroud of blood, and shake their heads, as the Secret Service agent, stone-faced, stares down. Visibly disturbed, Cazell walks up and looks down, turning away almost immediately. "You didn't..."
"No, Mr. President. Let's go." Without another word, Cazell lets the agent lead him away, chased by the cries of those below.
The two agents sit together at a booth in a small bar. The bartender listlessly wipes the counter, scrubs glasses, occasionally calls someone. The agent with sunglasses on looks over his shoulder, at the bartender, his lips pursed. "Do you think he's listening?"
The other agent frowns slightly. "Hell if I know. And besides, why would it matter?" He takes a sip from the bottle in front of him. His partner is on his second cream soda. "Hey, I never asked - why do you drink that stuff?"
"What stuff?"
"That cream soda ****."
Glasses shrugs, looking out into space. "Did I ever tell you about what I did before I came here?"
"Nah."
"I used to work as a cop. DC, mostly traffic, simple things."
"Why?"
"It wasn't the prestige, I'll tell you that. It... well, you'll think it's crazy."
"Shoot."
"I... well, in DC as a traffic cop, you're usually just sorting out broken lights, heavy traffic, crashes, things like that, pretty mundane things, and it's certainly a thankless job, you've ever seen traffic on the Beltway? crazy, filled with suits heading in, thinking about things other than the car in front of them, anything but that, like the radio or some such, and, well, it can get pretty rough, the weather, know what I'm sayin'? so anyway, but I did the job, because once in a while, you'd get called in to direct traffic for the President or someone proper, or even be part of the procession, leading the way, or bringing up the rear, and - well, do you know what that's like, knowing you're mere feet away from the President? Knowing you're a crucial part of keeping him safe? That's serious honor, man."
"Okay..."
"But, well, obviously, you deal with some pretty awful things, people getting shot in cars, and, well... there was one time, I saw a kid, couldn't have had his license, got shot driving an SUV, swerved, crashed into an elementary school. Terrible things, and obviously, we got called in on it, to look at where exactly the car swerved, how it plowed through the fence, and... But anyway, there was one time, it was the middle of the night, night of the 4th of July, I think it was 2001, and we were called in on a DUI, and well, it's like any other DUI, so we pulled ourselves out of the station and drove there, it must have been the 395 south toward Virginia, and I remember seeing the mess, this guy had swerved out of the left-hand lane, and by some dumb luck hit another car's back corner, flipped over the median, and right onto another car, couldn't have been more unfortunate, and, well, the driver of that car was this pretty young woman with a child in the backseat, and the car was crushed, killing them. Awful mess."
"So?"
"So, well, the guy who was driving drunk, he was unconscious when we got there, bloody and scraped, but he would live, wearing his seatbelt, had been pushed up against his wheel but didn't get punctured by it, he'd be alright, but I noticed something about this guy, y'know, that, well..." The agent took off his glasses, exposing his eyes' colors - one blue, one brown. "The guy looked like me. Like, eerily similar. Beyond the scratches and such, his hair was the same color, his face looked the same... ****, man, the guy's eyes. I noticed it - his eyes were just like mine, blue and brown, but it was like he was my... well, you heard about doppelgangers?"
"Doppelgangers?"
"Well, it's like, it's an image, but it's an image just like you. Like, your clone. And, the more I thought about it, it was like I was reporting to the scene of my own accident, like I was driving the car, crashed it, got out, and started taking notes on it. And, well, I couldn't repel that thought. You know that sensation, whenever something benign happens around you, but you can't shake it off, like, say, you decide to go to lunch at a different restaurant than you usually go to, and someone at that usual restaurant gets food poisoning and dies and you're like 'could that have been me who was supposed to die?' and while it had nothing to do with you, you're still like 'I could have died today' and it tears at you? You ever had that? So, but anyway, I couldn't stop thinking about that."
"..."
"So, anyway, soon after the accident, I decide to go to see the husband of the woman who'd died. They lived in Alexandria, a small, quaint little townhome, and I introduced myself as the officer who'd reported to his wife's death, and he let me in, and the guy's a nice guy, kinda bedraggled, but he's surprisingly not distraught, he seems almost neutral, and I feel the sweat rising on the back of my neck, what does this guy think he is, he's supposed to be mourning, it's almost obscene how little the guy seems affected, I want to punch him, but I don't do anything, and instead I noticed the pictures, the building was filled with 'em, you know, and so but I couldn't get over how it felt and at one point, the guy's asking me if he can get me anything to drink, and so but I'm looking at this picture, it's of the family, the man, the woman, the child, standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and I look at it, and it must have been something strange about the light in the picture, or something, but it looks like it's all been washed with red paint, the marble in the memorial, it's not white, it's red, and, well, the family's just standing there, all smiles, and the people are walking around, minding their own business, and but they're all red too, come to think of it, everything's red, all red, all but the family, and I don't know what to make of it, until... I notice, in the corner of the picture, in the red margin around the family, I can see an image of, I swear, what looks like me, but must be the doppelganger, looking over their shoulders, right past the camera, as if he's, kind of, watching. And the guy hands me a bottle, sees me shaking there, tells me to drink, and it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted -"
"Cream soda."
"...yeah."
A long pause, as each considers the air over the other's shoulder.
"Did that actually happen?"
"..."
"I don't know what you're talking about. That bartender's not looking at us at all."
As he steps from the building, the man in the Armani suit steels himself against the buzz of the protests outside. Having shed his traditional attire in the convention center in exchange for a black bandana, shirt, and jeans, he approaches the police officers positioned at the edge of the premises. They are shouting at each other, trying to communicate over the crowd. The man in the Armani suit flashes his FBI badge at the men, who acknowledge him briefly. "What is the status in the building, Mr. Thorn?"
"Secure. We're just waiting for the delegates. How are things out here?"
"Apparently, there are reports that a protestor got up on the roof and was trying to hack into the building's mainframe with a laptop."
The man in the Armani suit turns, startled. "What? How?"
"We don't know, sir. According to early reports, the president's helicopter landed on the roof and the man was chased by a Secret Service agent, and he apparently fell off. Other than that, we -"
"Where?"
"Just around the corner, sir. We have pushed the crowd back to try to give our investigators some space. If you want, I can -"
"No, that's fine, I'll go instead." Turning abruptly, the man in the Armani suit jogs toward the scene, his phone out, dialing up Alpha.
He answers gruffly, likely still asleep at this early hour. "What?"
"Sir, we have a problem," the man in the Armani suit says, rounding the corner and confirming his worst fears. "T. is dead. The Secret Service got to him on the roof, and he chose to jump."
"****!" A moment of silence, as the man in the Armani suit finds a quiet corner of the building's exterior. Alpha returns, sounding more awake and alert, and more than a little aggravated. "Alright, then. I'll send the word to the Board. On the bright side, this should work rather well for us. Once I have heard back from the board, we will send you instructions on your next move." The man in the Armani suit confirms and quickly hangs up. Donning his bandana, he quickly steps past the police and disappears into the crowd. In the distance, the convoy makes the final turn, and the crowd begins to converge.
In the first vehicle, the two agents sit, tentatively pulling forward, awaiting the crowd's reaction. Gripping a cream soda nervously, the one in the passenger seat turns to his partner, who is holding the steering wheel like a captain fighting a torrential gale. Police officers walk alongside the vehicle, dispersal methods at the ready. "Where do you think we go when we die?" the agent with the cream soda asks. His hands shake, spilling soda over his suit. Ignoring the mess, he takes a sip of his beverage, which seems to calm him slightly.
"Well," the other agent says, then stops. His partner relaxes at his silence, and puts down his soda. "I was raised Greek Orthodox, and my parents taught me that there is heaven and hell. But everyone first goes to an empty place where the souls are judged. I always imagined this place was rather empty, devoid of anything but throngs of people, crowding the scales, eternally waging war to earn eternal rest. And as I grew older, and witnessed the earnest indifference of the world, I came to understand that very few people are good and deserve heaven; that most people are doomed to an empty afterlife to fit their empty lives. The ancient Greeks referred to this place as the asphodel meadows, a place destined for the ordinary. Purgatory. You understand?"
"I think so." As the throngs meet the vehicles with angry cries, the police slowly part the mass, and the endless stream of vehicles pull into the convention center. As the vehicles disappear into the convention center's perimeter, howls of execration rise up from the crowd as it closes the gap, setting the island of the convention center afloat again.
The agent awoke, his head throbbing, eyes covered in dust. Rubbing them anxiously, he shifted up. A pile of rocks on his chest rolled away, and their skittering echoed through the dark room. A small group of people are milling around in the middle of the room, shouting frantically. Several of them sport gashes from fallen rocks and glass. Rubbing his eyes, the agent walks up to them. "People, calm down. I'm Special Agent Xavier. Can any of you tell me what happened?" They looked at him fearfully. One of them quietly mentioned an explosion. The rest knew nothing.
From behind him, Xavier's partner walked up. "Oh, good, you're back." He pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. "I've been informed by the higher-ups that there has been some kind of attack, and they're not sure how to proceed. Until we hear back from them, we need to corral everyone we can find and sequester them to keep them safe..." Gesturing for his partner to lean in, he mutters, "and because the terrorists may still be here."
Xavier nods and turns back to the crowd. "People, this area is highly dangerous. Does anyone know where there might be an office or a conference room...?"
One person in the back raises their hand timidly. "This way, sir." He turns and wanders off into the dark. The rest of the group exchange nervous glances and follow. The man leads them to a small conference room in the back. One of the lights in the ceiling is still lit, revealing a long table and, grimly, a body, its head crushed by a piece of the ceiling. Several of your group turn in fright and protest, but the two agents hold firm.
"Alright, listen up, everyone," Agent Xavier shouts, which produces the desired effect. "We've been informed that there has been some kind of attack on the building, and there are fears that it may collapse. We need to keep you here until we receive further instructions, while we wait for the repair workers to try to break through to reach us."
"Who did this?" someone shouts.
"We do not know at this time..."
The crowd does not respond positively to that. "How do we know the attack is over?" "What if they're still here?" "We may still be in danger!"
Agent Xavier frowns and turns to his partner. "Are we?"
Day 1 has begun. With 24 alive, it is 13 to lynch.
Deadline: 12 March
Experiments Series: #5 (Courtly Intrigue Mafia) | #4 (Drunken Tracker) | #3 (Big Red Button) - coming soon | #2 (Pope Mafia) | #1 (Iso's Inflammable Mafia)
Mini Games: MTGS Mafia Redux II (Invitational, Evil Mirror Universe) | Unreal City
Old Games (bad): The Greenwood Affair | Blood Moon Mafia
Delicious first post is mine!
Not sure how far I want to go on this. However, given my experience in my last two games, where town coordination wound up failing and resulting in their failures, I wish to do something the opposite here.
Let's start with this. Propose Full Claim From Everyone. One thing I've noticed with specialties is that people get so caught up with the craziness that they ignore the basics, the flavor, and well also just use their abilities beyond inefficiently. Town Coordination will remedy that. Also, it'll force the scum to false claim early (abilities), which is a benefit.
While a full mass claim is unlikely to break a game, i don't believe it's harmful as people think. It'll let us know what we're dealing with with extra special mechanics, and so we can get this game done right.
(I thought of going with just an item claim, but that'll miss some mechanics and might, depending upon item distribution, result in one side being better off than the other (scum can lie about items). whereas a mass claim is likely to evenly affect the board.)
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
I don't think it's really necessary yet to get everything out there.
We're starting in day here. Literally nothing has happened.
By the way, I'm just astounded by the flavor in this game.
It's not even a game, it's reads like a really heady novel.
I love it, major kudos Xyre.
Vote desCoures
-Alpha
Loran, claim or I will daykill you.
Wow that's fast. Cut your impulsiveness for once nom_anor? I'm not the dire warlock here, i can't stop you from being a total idiot and blowing up the game.
I'm not going to claim right now, and NOR SHOULD ANYONE ELSE until a mass claim is agreed upon. Unilateral claiming always helps the scum; (For example, your own claiming cop and wahali in ghost town was huge benefit to the scum.)
If you do have a daykill, revealing the possibility of it like that was stupid.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
I have poked my head into Joss Whedon mafia. That has turned out horrible.
Ouch didn't know Cyan hated me that much.
How do you know it's turned out horrible? Game's in progress, And they did lynch scum on day 1.
Besides here's the reason why: This is a XYRE SPECIALTY. There is almost certainly going to be hidden mechanics lying around, and interactions of roles. Coordinating them from day 1 will make this game much more level for the town, as it will eliminate role stupidity that players will do. (And they will do that).
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
There are inherent abilities, items to trade, post actions, and other things. Claiming one doesn't seem like a helpful thing (except maybe items), but I don't like the idea of claiming multiple things so early.
You want a mass claim, you claim first. I can think of a thousand reasons one might propose a mass claim at the start of day one, and only a few of them are good for the town.
If you'll come out and claim, I'll support your mass claim idea; otherwise I'm going to kill you.
Shibui's talk about the hidden mechanics is EXACTLY why we should be doing this.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
If the town had full-claimed on Day One of TFC I think my team might have won. I was scum that game.
Nom, I don't really care if you've got a daykill or not, but this is a bad idea. Please don't shoot Loran based on this nonsense. Let's not shoot anyone without a proper wagon we can examine later, 'mkay?
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
@ NA you aren't Cyan. You can't even try to blitzkrieg this.
I'd say the fact I've not shot him yet is a sign I'm not being completely insane.
Except it's a completely different case than last game--rather than someone coming out and claiming, it's someone being forced to.
I'm not telling you I'm against a mass claim, I just think you need to show us your determination for it.
Tell you what Loran, you might think I'm bluffing and you might just not want to claim, but if you are town, it's better for you to claim and not die, and if you're scum, it's better for you to false-claim and not die.
I'll give you two posts--one more if you still want to convince me to change my mind and one to claim after it. Then if you haven't claimed, I'm pulling the trigger.
If you really have a daykill, we should get 2 lynches in today, with the town controlling both. If you do not, cut it out.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
If you think I'm bluffing, I'm sorry, and it's not going to end well for you.
This could just be a game of two people refusing to back down, but I've seen no reason in what you've given me not to shoot you.
If you claim, I'll back off, but otherwise, I'm sorry.
Anyhow, more talk on claim please.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
"Mothership, do you read me? It's day one here, how's it going up there? What? Really? Are you sure? What, you aren't sure? But he seems awfully shifty refusing to claim like that? Very well, understood."
Everyone, I'm getting word that Loran is scum. Prepare for impact in 5. 4. 3. 2....
Anyhow, others, since I'm obviously not dying here....let's keep talking mass claim.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Vote Nom Anor
Really you are overreacting. It is one thing to be against a claim. But to threaten to daykill loran over it, well you are neither kpaca, nor Cyan. Especially when you are asking loran to full claim or die before the town has even had a chance to decide or even really talk about this.
Also on the wall of flavor... tl;dr. It is one thing to have nice and interesting flavor, it is another to create a wall of text for it. The flavor could've been half to a quarter of that and been fine.
Doesn't seem like baloney to me, Loran. I'd watch your back...doesn't seem like a ploy.
-Alpha
Hmm, something about this post bugs me.
You proposed a full claim. If it went through, NA would be revealing said daykill(if it's real) anyway, so, your reaction here doesn't make alot of sense.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Was my original thought as well, that he was being hypocritical, but I realized Loran is talking about unilateral claiming being stupid, not mass claiming.
I happen to disagree, but that's beside the point.
I don't think Loran's going to be around for much longer at any rate.
-Alpha
Cyan, Mass Claims are beneficial IMO.
Unilateral Claims are not. If the town, as i suspect, rejects my plan (I hope they do not, but i fully expect it to get rejected), then it will, have benefitted no one to reveal said daykill then and there, unless he was willing to give it to the town to use as a second lynch.
Since he's clearly not willing to do the latter; this is solely an action that hurts the town.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
What reason do you have for thinking it's baloney when Xyre specifically mentions that there are post actions in the game?
Are you just assuming N_A is lying? Surely you have some reason to disbelieve him, if that's what you think.
-Alpha
Knowing Cyan's role from the beginning would have been very helpful. (Of course, he probably would have lied, but then he would've had to justify that later.)
So, if you can come up with a limited claim plan of some kind, I might be up for it, but I think a full claim is more likely to help the scum than the town.
Terrible opinions above are in strikethrough.
Vote: Arim
...just to be sure.
He's mentioned they are in the game? Never mind then. I hate those things though...just stupid (basically if Nom's form is correct, he couldn't hide a daykill if he tried, which deprives his role, of whatever alignment of hiding the use of his ability and half of its options. Options=fun.)
You like cheesy suspense with way too much details and text surrounding anything that could be useful flavor? jeez, bad taste. That's like liking Dan Brown books.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
I got day-roleblocked. I've never even HEARD of a day roleblock before.
Sigh.
-Alpha
What you just said was the following:
Either we have a town day-RB....or we have a scum day-RB.
How very poignant. But if you are trying to say that the RB probably matches my alignment, you are probably correct.
@Nom, lucky? Hardly. I prefer to think that there's a player out there who realizes its a good use of a RB to prevent someone from daykilling a townie.
----------------------------------------------------------------
So back to mass claims.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Just as he lifts one extraordinarily large rock over his head, the agents walk over and grab him by the arms. "Please put the rock down, sir. You may hurt yourself."
"You're not my mom!" Pale Mage, wrestling with the hands on him while trying to keep the rock steady. Unfortunately for his skull, the latter goal is at odds with the former, and he soon finds his face carrying on important dialogue with the floor.
The rest of you laugh quietly, then return to your deliberation.
Vote Count
(13 to lynch)
Penguin of Death - 1 (Ecophagy)
desCoures - 1 (AlphaInsidious)
Nom Anor - 1 (Guardman)
Concussed - 1 (Pale Mage)
Experiments Series: #5 (Courtly Intrigue Mafia) | #4 (Drunken Tracker) | #3 (Big Red Button) - coming soon | #2 (Pope Mafia) | #1 (Iso's Inflammable Mafia)
Mini Games: MTGS Mafia Redux II (Invitational, Evil Mirror Universe) | Unreal City
Old Games (bad): The Greenwood Affair | Blood Moon Mafia
Against massclaim currently, but might change once I read my PM more indepth (holy wall of text).
Don't think I've ever played with Alpha, Ged, or Jobie, and definitely not the Triple Word Score gimmick.
"...a talisman against all evil, so long as you obey me."
Isn't this a unilateral, unprompted soft claim?
Also, re: this flavor talk, obviously it's not going to appeal to everyone.
I just happen to find it seamlessly engaging and challenging, and I like that. I would read a novel written by Xyre. It's seriously impressive.
How much it improves the game itself remains to be determined, I suppose.
-Alpha (Actually it might be time to drop the "-Alpha" from my posts. It's starting to annoy me.)
It's not unprompted. I don't want the town to be focusing on a mystery RB, his connection to me and his alignment. If they want to, they can talk about my alignment.
That said, the parameters of my role are not revealed, and thus the scum do not gain any advantage. What little they've gained is simply countered by the benefit of the town not going off on looking at or for the mystery blocker. As opposed to if i'd full claimed to Nom, or we went through under a mass claim.
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Nom, did you really actually try to kill loran, and if so were you TOLD specifically that it was blocked, not failed for some other reason?
Well said.
Do we need to know this one way or another at this point?
Unvote
(I don't recommend voting for the mods. The flavor scenes hurt the pride.)
Xyre's flavor doesn't remind me of Dan Brown. Brown is a clumsy writer, but an adequate plot technician, and his style demands that it be read quickly (once you force yourself past the awkward things towards the front). Xyre's stuff isn't fast-paced, and at it's best it has a noir feel to it imo.
Is mass claim the idea you've been wanting to try out you mentioned in the sign up thread?
@RafK: The items are a problem. But well, if there's an item stealer, there's just as likely to be a town role that can identify or steal items themselves, and then a catch of an item stealer or someone with an unclaimed item will result in a caught scum.
There is definitely going to be lying by scum as to abilities if we mass claim, and of course of items. But i think the benefit of getting certain mechanics out in the open will be worth it. (For example, if people do have a HP-like primary item, then it would be possible for the town to equip such persons with their items, if such persons were considered to be town).
Logical Reasoning is dead; Long Live Stupidity
Welcome to a Xyre game. I highly recommend looking over TFC or Blood Moon's setup to get an idea of what kind of ride you signed up for.
Also, why did you shoot at Loran when I asked you not to do that? Or at least, claim to shoot to do so?