Status: Game finished. Role PMs & Mod-Notes here
"EUREKA!" you hear somebody shrieking in an ecstatic voice from the laboratory next door. "I'VE DONE IT! IT'S FINISHED! I'VE PROVED IT!"
You all rush to the laboratory. There, awaiting you with an exhausted but excited face is Professor Alan Gebra, head of your mathematical research team. Old and decrepid physically, yet in his exhiliration he has taken on a youthful spirit. His white whispy hair quivers with excitement, as he clutches with trembling hands some sheets of A4 lined paper. His shirt and lab coat are soaked with sweat.
He stares at you all with a glazed over look in his eyes, the feeling of anticipation building in the room. "THIS IS THE MOMENT WE HAVE BEEN WORKING TOWARDS FOR OVER THREE DECADES!" he yells hysterically. "AND I HOLD IT IN MY HANDS, THE PINACCLE OF MY CAREER! THE PROOF TO THE RIEMANN HYPOTHESIS!"
Some of you break down in tears of joy, others of you rush to smother the professor with hugs. Screams of joy echo through the room. You, the professor's research team, have been through thick and thin with him, ups and downs, and all in a quest to prove a hypothesis. But this isn't just any hypothesis; this is the Riemann Hypothesis, a problem plaguing mathematicians for over 150 years.
But somewhere in the room there is a pang of regret. Ultimately, you're just the professor's research team. Expendable. Disposable. Irrelevant. Professor Alan Gebra will be the one who scoops the plaudits, while you're left to while the rest of your days away on the Internet (playing Mafia, no doubt).
Yet as you all retire to bed, there is an overriding sense of triumph and achievement.
Perhaps foolishly so.
For as you lie snuggly tucked up in your bed, Professor Gebra tosses and turns in his sleep. His mind is restless; there's something he's forgotten. Mentally he goes over his proof. He's checked it, double-checked it, triple-checked it...
He sits up in alarm as he hears movement outside his door.
His door!You all rush to the laboratory. There, awaiting you with an exhausted but excited face is Professor Alan Gebra, head of your mathematical research team. Old and decrepid physically, yet in his exhiliration he has taken on a youthful spirit. His white whispy hair quivers with excitement, as he clutches with trembling hands some sheets of A4 lined paper. His shirt and lab coat are soaked with sweat.
He stares at you all with a glazed over look in his eyes, the feeling of anticipation building in the room. "THIS IS THE MOMENT WE HAVE BEEN WORKING TOWARDS FOR OVER THREE DECADES!" he yells hysterically. "AND I HOLD IT IN MY HANDS, THE PINACCLE OF MY CAREER! THE PROOF TO THE RIEMANN HYPOTHESIS!"
Some of you break down in tears of joy, others of you rush to smother the professor with hugs. Screams of joy echo through the room. You, the professor's research team, have been through thick and thin with him, ups and downs, and all in a quest to prove a hypothesis. But this isn't just any hypothesis; this is the Riemann Hypothesis, a problem plaguing mathematicians for over 150 years.
But somewhere in the room there is a pang of regret. Ultimately, you're just the professor's research team. Expendable. Disposable. Irrelevant. Professor Alan Gebra will be the one who scoops the plaudits, while you're left to while the rest of your days away on the Internet (playing Mafia, no doubt).
Yet as you all retire to bed, there is an overriding sense of triumph and achievement.
Perhaps foolishly so.
For as you lie snuggly tucked up in your bed, Professor Gebra tosses and turns in his sleep. His mind is restless; there's something he's forgotten. Mentally he goes over his proof. He's checked it, double-checked it, triple-checked it...
He sits up in alarm as he hears movement outside his door.
In his excitement, he didn't lock it! The movement draws nearer. The proof, they're after his proof! As his door swings open and the light from outside floods in, he grabs the proof off his bedside desk and grasps it to his chest like a mother protecting her baby, scrambling as far away from the door as he can within the confines of his room. He squints as a shadowy blob enters the room. One person? Two? Three? More? He can't tell - his glasses are lying on his bedside desk.
Laughter fills the room, and a blur of sounds swim around the professor's ears. "You won't be needing that proof where you're going, old man."
The shadows envelope him, and as the professor slumps to the floor, lifeless, his grip on his proof, his life's work, is relinquished, and it flutters to the floor peacefully, as if unaware of the atrocities just committed.
Laughter fills the room, and a blur of sounds swim around the professor's ears. "You won't be needing that proof where you're going, old man."
The shadows envelope him, and as the professor slumps to the floor, lifeless, his grip on his proof, his life's work, is relinquished, and it flutters to the floor peacefully, as if unaware of the atrocities just committed.
Professor Al Gebra,
Vanilla Townie
, killed pre-game!The next day, there is a hushed awe as you all gather around the bloodied, vacant corpse of the professor. It's only later that one of you thinks to look for the proof - but it's gone. No trace of it remains.
But who would do such a thing?
You look around you. Your colleagues all seem to be doing the same thing, and there is a nervous shuffling of feet.
You see somebody raising their arm towards you, and they're holding a pistol! Suddenly, there's a flash of light, and a loud bang. Your arms fly instinctively to your face and you scream in terror.
You don't know how long you scream for, but at some point you realise you're still alive. You cautiously lower your arms, and look around you. You're the only one in the room. The pistol and the gunshot... were they
imaginary?But who would do such a thing?
You look around you. Your colleagues all seem to be doing the same thing, and there is a nervous shuffling of feet.
You see somebody raising their arm towards you, and they're holding a pistol! Suddenly, there's a flash of light, and a loud bang. Your arms fly instinctively to your face and you scream in terror.
You don't know how long you scream for, but at some point you realise you're still alive. You cautiously lower your arms, and look around you. You're the only one in the room. The pistol and the gunshot... were they
It all looked and sounded so
real...
Who can you trust? They could all be killers, conspiring against you! You need to kill them first! ... No, you're just being
irrationalWho can you trust? They could all be killers, conspiring against you! You need to kill them first! ... No, you're just being
now. This is a
complex issue... But now you're making mathematical puns in your head... and, as the saying goes, that's the first
sine of madness.
Welcome to Mafiamatical Mathia
Moderator: Hoppster
Players
- theplague42
- Twistedspoon
- Kalofer
- Morthas
- Juls
- implosion
- Wickedestjr
- don_johnson
- Oopidstay
Spoiler: Alive and Dead
Example Vanilla Townie Role PM wrote:Welcome to Mafiamatical Mathia,Al Gebra!
You are a.Vanilla Townie
Powers
You have no special powers, only your one vote!
Win Condition:You win if all threats to the town are eliminated and at least one town-aligned player is alive.
