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Betrayal 3: BARiTONES
[ You spill out of the elevator into the Bar—the elevator is gone when you look back.
It’s surprisingly quiet, here, with muted, upbeat jazz playing from speakers tucked away somewhere, and a bar long enough to give you some space. Curtained booths are set against the back wall for quiet dining or clandestine meetings. The specials menu gives a full array of… poison-themed cocktails?
At the other end of the room, a single spotlight shines on a raised stage, with a microphone, almost as if waiting for a show to begin.
What poor soul's going to perform? Not you—you do enough of that all day, every day, after all. After all, you learned early on that's how the game was played. You watched money change hands—quietly, discreetly—and despite how many late nights you'd pulled working on your case, it meant nothing in the face of whose wallet was biggest and who knew who in the circles of the rich and powerful. So to get what you wanted, you'd make yourself one of them, as long as you need to for it to serve your purpose—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A polished, round pocket watch on a long, dangling chain, ticking rhythmically, rests on the bar.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Hypnotist's Watch). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after helping them). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the West. ]
It’s surprisingly quiet, here, with muted, upbeat jazz playing from speakers tucked away somewhere, and a bar long enough to give you some space. Curtained booths are set against the back wall for quiet dining or clandestine meetings. The specials menu gives a full array of… poison-themed cocktails?
At the other end of the room, a single spotlight shines on a raised stage, with a microphone, almost as if waiting for a show to begin.
What poor soul's going to perform? Not you—you do enough of that all day, every day, after all. After all, you learned early on that's how the game was played. You watched money change hands—quietly, discreetly—and despite how many late nights you'd pulled working on your case, it meant nothing in the face of whose wallet was biggest and who knew who in the circles of the rich and powerful. So to get what you wanted, you'd make yourself one of them, as long as you need to for it to serve your purpose—
It's in the script someone's written for you, in your hand. Now, you have your own history, your own words and you can give those to the audience instead. But enough pain, enough destabilization, and you don't know if you'll want to keep sharing. They've set the stage for someone else, given you a prop, and you feel that. Reality isn't wanted here—no, you need to be larger than life, in this place, to not be devoured by the narrative, reduced to an extra. The script whispers for you to lock that troublesome self away, and try on this new role for size, and you'll be a star.
...but there's no point in casting a top-tier idol like you if you can't put your own spin on it, of course. At the bottom of the script, there's a note someone's written with a smiley-face: "just ad-lib, you're gonna be great :)"
A polished, round pocket watch on a long, dangling chain, ticking rhythmically, rests on the bar.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the basic goal (explore the rooms of the casino) as well as the item that you've been given (Hypnotist's Watch). Only once you leave your starting room does your phone update to display your role's traitor goal (kill someone after helping them). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is an exit to the West. ]
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
How many— Do you know if any of ours have died?
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Do you mind if I ask how it feels this time? I want to be prepared...
[ to try and compartmentalize what would be the ghost and what is not ]
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Generous. Inclined to offer favors -- with the expectation the favor be returned, of course.
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
You mentioned him once before.
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
The one who treated me as an outcast - - lied to me and betrayed me? Yes, that would include him.
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
[ what does one say to that? ]
...I'm sorry.
Re: SESSION 19 DISCUSSION
There is no need to apologize. It was quite a long time ago, regardless.