RNP
Despite everything, it's still you.
- Pronoun
- he/him
Night 0: The Letter
“Times was, you was able to trust ya’s comrades-in-arms. Everyone playin’ all nice, everyone chummy, everyone all happy and such. Things, they’s changed. Lotta tiny little disputes, lotta bad blood, and… well, ya’s still Family, but y’ain’t family, nahmsayin’?
Times was you knew who you was workin’ with. Could be sure ya buddy had ya back. If ya got into hot water, all the capos would be grabbin’ their heat-resistant pool skimmers, so to speak. Step on a beehive, one of your buddies would be sprayin’ the Raid, the second would get the Band-Aids, the third would be grabbin’ yer Epi-Pen. Now they’re more likely to take all the honey and leave ya swellin’ up like a balloon. Disgraceful.
Times was you didn’t have to deal with snitches.
Now, a few of you /are/ the snitches.
Would the rest of you yank the cotton outta yer ears, open yer eyes, and do yer jobs?
Ciao,
Don Stryke”
That’s what the letter on the Boss’s desk said. It didn’t have a return address. Presumably, it was sent from one of the Boss’s hideouts, the ones he uses when the heat’s on and he needs to lay low. Whenever that happens, it usually means things have gotten bad enough for him to genuinely be worried. Given that he didn’t even stick around long enough to grab his lucky cane, he must have been in a hurry.
You’ll have to get to the bottom of this in the morning. Recently, the city’s been experiencing total blackouts from the hours of 1 AM to 3 AM, and it seems that’s always the time bad things happen. Better get home before the lights go out.
Night Zero has begun. 48 hours for night actions.
“Times was, you was able to trust ya’s comrades-in-arms. Everyone playin’ all nice, everyone chummy, everyone all happy and such. Things, they’s changed. Lotta tiny little disputes, lotta bad blood, and… well, ya’s still Family, but y’ain’t family, nahmsayin’?
Times was you knew who you was workin’ with. Could be sure ya buddy had ya back. If ya got into hot water, all the capos would be grabbin’ their heat-resistant pool skimmers, so to speak. Step on a beehive, one of your buddies would be sprayin’ the Raid, the second would get the Band-Aids, the third would be grabbin’ yer Epi-Pen. Now they’re more likely to take all the honey and leave ya swellin’ up like a balloon. Disgraceful.
Times was you didn’t have to deal with snitches.
Now, a few of you /are/ the snitches.
Would the rest of you yank the cotton outta yer ears, open yer eyes, and do yer jobs?
Ciao,
Don Stryke”
That’s what the letter on the Boss’s desk said. It didn’t have a return address. Presumably, it was sent from one of the Boss’s hideouts, the ones he uses when the heat’s on and he needs to lay low. Whenever that happens, it usually means things have gotten bad enough for him to genuinely be worried. Given that he didn’t even stick around long enough to grab his lucky cane, he must have been in a hurry.
You’ll have to get to the bottom of this in the morning. Recently, the city’s been experiencing total blackouts from the hours of 1 AM to 3 AM, and it seems that’s always the time bad things happen. Better get home before the lights go out.
Night Zero has begun. 48 hours for night actions.
(and im not sure whether or not they know who i am either)