On the thirteenth day of the game, there are so few players left that you could count them all on your fingers. At least one Mafia must remain; the trainers gathered in the central square seem unsure whether they want to cluster together for some form of comfort in these bleak times, or to spread far apart, driven away from one another by paranoia. For good or ill, the game is coming to a close, but for now, at least, they have to keep up their grisly work of nomination and execution. The fact that a large number of the players have fallen silent by now, whether out of despair or simply resignation to the inevitable (or as a ploy to confuse the innocents) certainly doesn't help their chances at finding the killers.
As far as finding goes, though, they at least won't have to go far to discover NWT's most unfortunate fate. The Mafia hasn't even bothered to drag her mutilated corpse away from the square. A couple of the remaining trainers volunteer to take care of it, while the rest queasily stand and wait, staring at the executioner and thinking about the odds of that blade slicing through their own throat this day.
NWT is dead. He was not Mafia.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.
As far as finding goes, though, they at least won't have to go far to discover NWT's most unfortunate fate. The Mafia hasn't even bothered to drag her mutilated corpse away from the square. A couple of the remaining trainers volunteer to take care of it, while the rest queasily stand and wait, staring at the executioner and thinking about the odds of that blade slicing through their own throat this day.
NWT is dead. He was not Mafia.
Forty-eight hours for discussion.
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