Re: Mafia: The Last Resort [GAME OVER: 3P & TOWN JOINT WIN]
12-03-2011, 10:32 PM
THIS SPOILER CONTAIN IMPORTANT INFORMATION. PLEASE READ IF YOU WISH TO ENJOY THE EPILOGUE.
For a while the survivors drifted away. Each had their own business to attend to, but each held no illusions as to what they would do afterwards. None had the slightest reason to stay in this place, and a slowly mounting stockpile of extremely flammable liquids confirmed that they wouldn't be changing their minds.
Reconvening in the lobby where these goods await, a question of cults is raised. The gambler and the poisoner look at the third person among them, and the person in question responds by simply baring his shoulder. The previous cult members had all borne a four pointed star tattoo here, but his skin was utterly blank.
â??I was one of the cult, for a brief time, but I was blessed with a choice. When only I remained of the Aurora, I chose to return to what I was previously. I can't claim to know why I alone was given these options.â?
â??I can.â?
The words fluttered forward from the shadows. It came from all around the three, and it would be absurd to accuse any of them of not hearing it.
â??Who...?â? The question died on the lips of the gambler, but it was enough.
The survivors suddenly became acutely aware of how dark it had become in the hotel. Night had fallen at some point or another, and so occupied had they been that none had turned on the lights. Shadows clung to all the corners and walls, obscuring and hiding all that might lurk just in sight.
â??I have several names.â?
The words came clearly from a single source this time: the top of the stairs.
They all turned at once to stare, and there they saw him.
A man in a maroon suit. His head was tilted to face downwards, but a fedora hides any details that might have been seen. A curl of cigarette smoke twisted towards the ceiling.
â??In this case, however, I think The Narrator works well enough.â?
He raised his face, but the shadows still hide most of it.
â??This is my hotel, but I am not confined to it. Not at all. Why, I've been gifting mortals far and wide for centuries. This building is just another token of my philanthropic nature. And it was beautiful, once.â? He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and sighed. Gloved fingers lightly brushed the wood of the banister, and for a moment he is completely silent, lost in remembrance.
â??What happened? I suppose my influence faded. People forgot my name, my face, the things I gave them. I suppose the unspecified side effects of such gifts may have biased them against me, but they never asked about them in advance.â? He shrugged. â??What am I to do if no one asks for details?â?
His invisible gaze drifted back to the survivors, and he cleared his throat.
â??The point I'm failing to make, dear gentlemen, is that the Cult Leader received a boon from me: the power of sublime oration. She used it well, and all she turned her gaze to fell under her enchantment. But there was another person here in possession of something of mine. It didn't belong to him, but he had taken it when all others had abandoned it. These were the cards, and they shaped the motives of our culted friend. Two of my gifts, with equal power, pulled him in opposite directions. The only thing that could settle the war was his own free will.â?
He took four steps down the stairs, and paused again.
â??The result of that free will stands before you now: a free man.â?
He smiled at the silent men.
â??I hope that answers your question. I also hope you'll be kind enough to answer mine: what do you think you're doing?â?
Before they can answer the shadows shift and the man is standing mere inches away.
â??Nobody leaves. It's in the rules,â? he hissed, bleakest eyes of deepest night staring out with undisguised hatred. All three of them were frozen in place. The Narrator had them pinned, either through fear or whatever unholy powers he boasted of.
â??Not a soul leaves this place, not until I get bored of them. You think you've just miraculously been healed, and that's because you're all so stupid. You can't just think. It's easier to make everything a problem, I suppose. Only a few actually realised: you're not cursed. I gave you all a blessing, a gift.â? His voice had sunk from silky and smooth to the animal snarl of something far less, or perhaps far greater, than any human. â??I brought you to heaven on earth, and still you mutter and moan and spit on my kindness. So I play games. Set you against one another, influence you. I'd say I'm owed that much.
â??And when I've drained all the fun out of you, I take back my gifts and let you go. Then, and only then. It's not over yet for you three.â?
â??The afflictions...â? The man of cards manages to speak. â??You â?? you instigated them? The mute, the unheeded, the insane-â?
The Narrator snarled and snapped his fingers. The legs gave out from under the man, and he crumpled to the floor with the beginnings of a shout. Another snap muted him.
â??It's funny,â? he remarked, in a tone utterly devoid of humour. â??I've said my piece, and you still don't seem to realise how much power I have over you all. Had. Most are dead now, I suppose. Even that was a clue. All these people dying, every single day, and it never occurs to you once to leave. Why? Because I still had a hold on you. You couldn't shake off your little problems.â?
The animal and the anger are gone now. The Narrator is simply disgusted.
Nonchalantly, he rounds on the poisoner. A hand snakes out and grabs the side of the killer's face, gripping so hard and so quickly that blood wells up where his fingernails dig in. The poisoner struggles, but he seems curiously unenergetic in his attempt. The Narrator tilts his own head and stares at the poisoner. For an uncomfortably long, painful time, he says nothing. When he does, his voice is little more than a whisper.
â??You. Killer of killers. Half of the murderers died by your hand, you know that? Not even counting the one who just died, seeing as fair Democracy chose to preside over that particular execution. But you enjoyed it. The flicker of life escaping into the void, the moment when all life fails â?? it's like crack to you. And still â?? still! - you were so pleased with yourself. For the first time in your twisted little life, you were fighting for some greater good. A white knight. A good man. But a killer is a killer is a killer, and I'm afraid that however you look at it you're no better than the bastards you murdered.â?
Suddenly, the acidic flow of words halted, and the Narrator released his prisoner. His stained fingers withdrew from the bloody pits in the poisoner's face, each over half an inch deep, blood oozing forth as he did so. The man swayed and collapsed.
The Narrator only observes the writhing mess for a moment before boredom overtakes him again. His attention is turned to the gambler. Upon seeing him, his face breaks into a grin, and he laughs.
â??The gambler! The most tragic case here, in a way, because you were the one who was likely to actually leave. I've had so many poor fools try their luck against me, and so many lose. I'm less than fascinated in your kind by this point, but I figured â?? once more! For old time's sake! And here you are, going for your last big bet. Who would live? Who would die? You saw it all, friend, and your first instinct was to make it into a game. I salute you. That's real dedication to an addiction.
â??So I'll admit: had you won your little game, I would have let you go. You could have just walked away from this decaying mess, no problem. It's a crying shame, it honestly, truly is, that you only had one correct prediction on the lynch. Seems you're still stuck here with the rest of us. Bad luck, friend.â?
He sighed and shrugged, the incarnation of sympathy, before the entire act vanished in the blink of an eye. The wolfish grin re-appeared and he opened his mouth to continue.
And continue he would have, had he not been interrupted by the curiously audible rasp of a match being lit.
Narrator, poisoner and gambler all turned their gaze to the source of the noise, which appeared to be the man of cards. While the Narrator had indulged in his monologue he had taken the time to crawl to the flammable stockpile and acquire a box of matches. It was by the light of one of these with which he surveyed his remaining envelopes. Slowly, he turned his head to meet the gaze of the others. His expression was guarded.
The first to break the silence, unsurprisingly, was the Narrator. He chuckled, and removed his hat.
â??What do you intend to do?â? Despite the joviality of his manner, his voice was low and steely. â??Use my own cards against me?â?
The man of cards looked down. â??No. I don't think so.â?
And then, he dropped the match onto the briefcase of envelopes. He watched it catch alight, then knelt and stood with the flaming box in his grip. Turning, his gaze squarely met that of the Narrator. The astute might have noticed the touch of amusement to his expression.
â??You don't have a hold on me. You haven't for a long time.â?
In one single movement, he cast the blazing contents of the briefcase onto the collection of gasoline and other such materials.
They promptly exploded.
But rather than four sudden, fiery deaths occurring, all but the arsonist were instantly slammed backwards. Stunned and bruised, they blinked and raised their heads to see the man of cards standing by the door. He cast back a single, almost accusatory, glance before pushing them open. For a few precious seconds the lobby was drenched in golden sunlight, but then he was gone.
Only three remained in the swiftly burning building.
The Narrator sprang to his feet.
â??Remarkable. Unfortunately, I don't think your egress will come so easily. You can't leave, not yet. But I'll give you a chance.â?
Spinning on his heel, he turned and donned his hat. With a languid pace, he started back towards the heart of the hotel.
â??Kill the other, and I will permit you to leave. Before you suffocate or burn to a crisp, ideally.â?
He paused, and turned to face them one last time.
â??I'd say the killer has the advantage here â?? he will probably even enjoy it â?? but who knows? Perhaps today will be your lucky day.â?
In spite of the quickly spreading, swiftly dancing and crackling flames, neither moved until the last of his footsteps had faded from their hearing.
The poisoner's gaze twitched towards the gambler. His hands flexed, his eyes gleamed, and he had already started his run towards the victim before his movements jarred. He hesitated, halted. The killer's gaze dropped to the floor, and he was suddenly very still.
The gambler, utterly tensed, merely stared.
The poisoner drew in one long, shuddering breath, then coughed rather suddenly. He looked up.
â??You know...â? He paused, and he averted his gaze from the gambler again. â??I reckon we need to get out of here. There's not enough time.â?
Slowly, and with shaky steps, he approached the doors. His hand rested on one. He hesitated.
But then, shaking his head, he too passed through the doors.
The gambler stood in silence. He hadn't spoken for a long time now, and a backward glance confirmed that there was no one around to converse with anyway. There was only darkness and fire here. And smoke. The poisoner had been right. His time was running out. Coughing, he dropped to the floor in a crouch and fished a coin out of his pocket.
â??Tails,â? he whispered, and flipped it over his shoulder. With a small, satisfying clatter, it fell to the wooden floor behind him.
The gambler smiled. He stumbled upwards, sleeve pressed to his nose and mouth, and pushed open the door with absolutely zero regard for the result of the coin.
Had he checked, however, he might have been surprised to see that the coin had lodged itself on its side. The identical sides gleamed in the firelight.
Three gone. Now only the Narrator remained.
The first and the last.
The man in question coasted through the building, oblivious to the spreading flame. His skin could feel the heat, but his mind was preoccupied with days long gone. Slow and regretful, his wandering brought him to the expansive bar room, where the previous guests had spent their first twilight after the murders began. Stars stared down from their celestial perches, but in the Narrator's dream they looked down through the glass ceiling onto a floor full of dancers. The haunting melodies of a long forgotten woodwind band filled the air, but laughter and chatter reigned above it all. As the Narrator glided to the bar, every single person he walked past stopped to smile and greet him. Smiling, he slid onto a tall barstool
Elsewhere in the building, a ceiling crumbled and fell with a monstrous crash. The entire building boomed with its echoes.
The reverie was broken. Once more, the Narrator was unnoticed and alone. None spoke his name here.
With a sigh, he stood. It took only a moment to vault over the bar, although he did so with surprising ease. Dropping to the floor, his hands quested over the cracks and bumps of the floorboards. It took a while â?? it had been a long time, after all, and even he forgot â?? but just as the heat caused a bottle of alcohol to explode he finally pried up the trapdoor.
A metal ladder, leading down into the gloom, gleamed back at him. At the bottom, at the very end, a faint glow of light beckoned.
A second bottle had to explode before the Narrator dropped down. The trapdoor was slammed shut, and he had just begun a hurried descent when a sudden impulse made him stop and look up. On the underside of the trapdoor, impossibly illuminated, three words were carved.
'Lost heart, rest.'
He laughed, briefly and bitterly, then bit back the tears as he lowered himself to the end. There were no more reasons to hesitate. For a few minutes there was only the noise of his downward clambering and the murky gloom, but then the Narrator found what he was looking for.
And at that moment, quite simply, the Last Resort ceased to exist for anyone.
THE EPILOGUE
For a while the survivors drifted away. Each had their own business to attend to, but each held no illusions as to what they would do afterwards. None had the slightest reason to stay in this place, and a slowly mounting stockpile of extremely flammable liquids confirmed that they wouldn't be changing their minds.
Reconvening in the lobby where these goods await, a question of cults is raised. The gambler and the poisoner look at the third person among them, and the person in question responds by simply baring his shoulder. The previous cult members had all borne a four pointed star tattoo here, but his skin was utterly blank.
â??I was one of the cult, for a brief time, but I was blessed with a choice. When only I remained of the Aurora, I chose to return to what I was previously. I can't claim to know why I alone was given these options.â?
â??I can.â?
The words fluttered forward from the shadows. It came from all around the three, and it would be absurd to accuse any of them of not hearing it.
â??Who...?â? The question died on the lips of the gambler, but it was enough.
The survivors suddenly became acutely aware of how dark it had become in the hotel. Night had fallen at some point or another, and so occupied had they been that none had turned on the lights. Shadows clung to all the corners and walls, obscuring and hiding all that might lurk just in sight.
â??I have several names.â?
The words came clearly from a single source this time: the top of the stairs.
They all turned at once to stare, and there they saw him.
A man in a maroon suit. His head was tilted to face downwards, but a fedora hides any details that might have been seen. A curl of cigarette smoke twisted towards the ceiling.
â??In this case, however, I think The Narrator works well enough.â?
He raised his face, but the shadows still hide most of it.
â??This is my hotel, but I am not confined to it. Not at all. Why, I've been gifting mortals far and wide for centuries. This building is just another token of my philanthropic nature. And it was beautiful, once.â? He withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and sighed. Gloved fingers lightly brushed the wood of the banister, and for a moment he is completely silent, lost in remembrance.
â??What happened? I suppose my influence faded. People forgot my name, my face, the things I gave them. I suppose the unspecified side effects of such gifts may have biased them against me, but they never asked about them in advance.â? He shrugged. â??What am I to do if no one asks for details?â?
His invisible gaze drifted back to the survivors, and he cleared his throat.
â??The point I'm failing to make, dear gentlemen, is that the Cult Leader received a boon from me: the power of sublime oration. She used it well, and all she turned her gaze to fell under her enchantment. But there was another person here in possession of something of mine. It didn't belong to him, but he had taken it when all others had abandoned it. These were the cards, and they shaped the motives of our culted friend. Two of my gifts, with equal power, pulled him in opposite directions. The only thing that could settle the war was his own free will.â?
He took four steps down the stairs, and paused again.
â??The result of that free will stands before you now: a free man.â?
He smiled at the silent men.
â??I hope that answers your question. I also hope you'll be kind enough to answer mine: what do you think you're doing?â?
Before they can answer the shadows shift and the man is standing mere inches away.
â??Nobody leaves. It's in the rules,â? he hissed, bleakest eyes of deepest night staring out with undisguised hatred. All three of them were frozen in place. The Narrator had them pinned, either through fear or whatever unholy powers he boasted of.
â??Not a soul leaves this place, not until I get bored of them. You think you've just miraculously been healed, and that's because you're all so stupid. You can't just think. It's easier to make everything a problem, I suppose. Only a few actually realised: you're not cursed. I gave you all a blessing, a gift.â? His voice had sunk from silky and smooth to the animal snarl of something far less, or perhaps far greater, than any human. â??I brought you to heaven on earth, and still you mutter and moan and spit on my kindness. So I play games. Set you against one another, influence you. I'd say I'm owed that much.
â??And when I've drained all the fun out of you, I take back my gifts and let you go. Then, and only then. It's not over yet for you three.â?
â??The afflictions...â? The man of cards manages to speak. â??You â?? you instigated them? The mute, the unheeded, the insane-â?
The Narrator snarled and snapped his fingers. The legs gave out from under the man, and he crumpled to the floor with the beginnings of a shout. Another snap muted him.
â??It's funny,â? he remarked, in a tone utterly devoid of humour. â??I've said my piece, and you still don't seem to realise how much power I have over you all. Had. Most are dead now, I suppose. Even that was a clue. All these people dying, every single day, and it never occurs to you once to leave. Why? Because I still had a hold on you. You couldn't shake off your little problems.â?
The animal and the anger are gone now. The Narrator is simply disgusted.
Nonchalantly, he rounds on the poisoner. A hand snakes out and grabs the side of the killer's face, gripping so hard and so quickly that blood wells up where his fingernails dig in. The poisoner struggles, but he seems curiously unenergetic in his attempt. The Narrator tilts his own head and stares at the poisoner. For an uncomfortably long, painful time, he says nothing. When he does, his voice is little more than a whisper.
â??You. Killer of killers. Half of the murderers died by your hand, you know that? Not even counting the one who just died, seeing as fair Democracy chose to preside over that particular execution. But you enjoyed it. The flicker of life escaping into the void, the moment when all life fails â?? it's like crack to you. And still â?? still! - you were so pleased with yourself. For the first time in your twisted little life, you were fighting for some greater good. A white knight. A good man. But a killer is a killer is a killer, and I'm afraid that however you look at it you're no better than the bastards you murdered.â?
Suddenly, the acidic flow of words halted, and the Narrator released his prisoner. His stained fingers withdrew from the bloody pits in the poisoner's face, each over half an inch deep, blood oozing forth as he did so. The man swayed and collapsed.
The Narrator only observes the writhing mess for a moment before boredom overtakes him again. His attention is turned to the gambler. Upon seeing him, his face breaks into a grin, and he laughs.
â??The gambler! The most tragic case here, in a way, because you were the one who was likely to actually leave. I've had so many poor fools try their luck against me, and so many lose. I'm less than fascinated in your kind by this point, but I figured â?? once more! For old time's sake! And here you are, going for your last big bet. Who would live? Who would die? You saw it all, friend, and your first instinct was to make it into a game. I salute you. That's real dedication to an addiction.
â??So I'll admit: had you won your little game, I would have let you go. You could have just walked away from this decaying mess, no problem. It's a crying shame, it honestly, truly is, that you only had one correct prediction on the lynch. Seems you're still stuck here with the rest of us. Bad luck, friend.â?
He sighed and shrugged, the incarnation of sympathy, before the entire act vanished in the blink of an eye. The wolfish grin re-appeared and he opened his mouth to continue.
And continue he would have, had he not been interrupted by the curiously audible rasp of a match being lit.
Narrator, poisoner and gambler all turned their gaze to the source of the noise, which appeared to be the man of cards. While the Narrator had indulged in his monologue he had taken the time to crawl to the flammable stockpile and acquire a box of matches. It was by the light of one of these with which he surveyed his remaining envelopes. Slowly, he turned his head to meet the gaze of the others. His expression was guarded.
The first to break the silence, unsurprisingly, was the Narrator. He chuckled, and removed his hat.
â??What do you intend to do?â? Despite the joviality of his manner, his voice was low and steely. â??Use my own cards against me?â?
The man of cards looked down. â??No. I don't think so.â?
And then, he dropped the match onto the briefcase of envelopes. He watched it catch alight, then knelt and stood with the flaming box in his grip. Turning, his gaze squarely met that of the Narrator. The astute might have noticed the touch of amusement to his expression.
â??You don't have a hold on me. You haven't for a long time.â?
In one single movement, he cast the blazing contents of the briefcase onto the collection of gasoline and other such materials.
They promptly exploded.
But rather than four sudden, fiery deaths occurring, all but the arsonist were instantly slammed backwards. Stunned and bruised, they blinked and raised their heads to see the man of cards standing by the door. He cast back a single, almost accusatory, glance before pushing them open. For a few precious seconds the lobby was drenched in golden sunlight, but then he was gone.
Only three remained in the swiftly burning building.
The Narrator sprang to his feet.
â??Remarkable. Unfortunately, I don't think your egress will come so easily. You can't leave, not yet. But I'll give you a chance.â?
Spinning on his heel, he turned and donned his hat. With a languid pace, he started back towards the heart of the hotel.
â??Kill the other, and I will permit you to leave. Before you suffocate or burn to a crisp, ideally.â?
He paused, and turned to face them one last time.
â??I'd say the killer has the advantage here â?? he will probably even enjoy it â?? but who knows? Perhaps today will be your lucky day.â?
In spite of the quickly spreading, swiftly dancing and crackling flames, neither moved until the last of his footsteps had faded from their hearing.
The poisoner's gaze twitched towards the gambler. His hands flexed, his eyes gleamed, and he had already started his run towards the victim before his movements jarred. He hesitated, halted. The killer's gaze dropped to the floor, and he was suddenly very still.
The gambler, utterly tensed, merely stared.
The poisoner drew in one long, shuddering breath, then coughed rather suddenly. He looked up.
â??You know...â? He paused, and he averted his gaze from the gambler again. â??I reckon we need to get out of here. There's not enough time.â?
Slowly, and with shaky steps, he approached the doors. His hand rested on one. He hesitated.
But then, shaking his head, he too passed through the doors.
The gambler stood in silence. He hadn't spoken for a long time now, and a backward glance confirmed that there was no one around to converse with anyway. There was only darkness and fire here. And smoke. The poisoner had been right. His time was running out. Coughing, he dropped to the floor in a crouch and fished a coin out of his pocket.
â??Tails,â? he whispered, and flipped it over his shoulder. With a small, satisfying clatter, it fell to the wooden floor behind him.
The gambler smiled. He stumbled upwards, sleeve pressed to his nose and mouth, and pushed open the door with absolutely zero regard for the result of the coin.
Had he checked, however, he might have been surprised to see that the coin had lodged itself on its side. The identical sides gleamed in the firelight.
Three gone. Now only the Narrator remained.
The first and the last.
The man in question coasted through the building, oblivious to the spreading flame. His skin could feel the heat, but his mind was preoccupied with days long gone. Slow and regretful, his wandering brought him to the expansive bar room, where the previous guests had spent their first twilight after the murders began. Stars stared down from their celestial perches, but in the Narrator's dream they looked down through the glass ceiling onto a floor full of dancers. The haunting melodies of a long forgotten woodwind band filled the air, but laughter and chatter reigned above it all. As the Narrator glided to the bar, every single person he walked past stopped to smile and greet him. Smiling, he slid onto a tall barstool
Elsewhere in the building, a ceiling crumbled and fell with a monstrous crash. The entire building boomed with its echoes.
The reverie was broken. Once more, the Narrator was unnoticed and alone. None spoke his name here.
With a sigh, he stood. It took only a moment to vault over the bar, although he did so with surprising ease. Dropping to the floor, his hands quested over the cracks and bumps of the floorboards. It took a while â?? it had been a long time, after all, and even he forgot â?? but just as the heat caused a bottle of alcohol to explode he finally pried up the trapdoor.
A metal ladder, leading down into the gloom, gleamed back at him. At the bottom, at the very end, a faint glow of light beckoned.
A second bottle had to explode before the Narrator dropped down. The trapdoor was slammed shut, and he had just begun a hurried descent when a sudden impulse made him stop and look up. On the underside of the trapdoor, impossibly illuminated, three words were carved.
'Lost heart, rest.'
He laughed, briefly and bitterly, then bit back the tears as he lowered himself to the end. There were no more reasons to hesitate. For a few minutes there was only the noise of his downward clambering and the murky gloom, but then the Narrator found what he was looking for.
And at that moment, quite simply, the Last Resort ceased to exist for anyone.