distortion [THE END]

Kiyoko wrote:

Your daughter brings home the school newsletter that day, crinkled into a pulp from being shoved ungracefully into her knapsack. You raise an eyebrow as she disappears up the stairs, before unfurling the pulverized piece of paper and laying it flat against the coffee table, your mug the only thing holding the darn thing flat. The newsletter contains typical school fare: there was going to be a chocolate bar fundraiser next month to raise money for end-of-year trips. Other notable items included tickets for a play, notices on report cards, and a reminder to wear red for school spirit day. As you stir your coffee, you conjure up a list of family friends and acquaintances that you'd fire off a quick email to; you didn't want to be stuck driving around town with your daughter and a box of chocolates for hours. Once you finish with the newsletter, you toss it into the recycling bin. The next newsletter comes a month later. You remember your daughter sliding it across the table before mentioning that her teacher had told them all to be careful. Though she didn't elaborate, you knew the reason why: there had been a murder near the school, down a block from the neighbourhood convenience store. As you pour over the newsletter, you realize that your daughter’s route to school cuts through that very store’s parking lot. Over dinner that night, you ask your daughter if you could drive her to school the next day, but your daughter resists. She's not a kid anymore, she says, and she can walk home by herself if she needs to - plus, she’d feel embarrassed if you dropped her off. Your face twitches a little, but you decide to place your faith in your daughter. Maybe you were just being a little overprotective… A month passes. Your daughter brings home newsletters almost weekly from the principal's office, mass-printed cautionary warnings and appeals for calm. You didn't need a newsletter to tell you any of that, though; every night the evening news would play a clip from the mayor, urging everyone to stand together as the body count climbed higher and higher. You knew your daughter wasn't immune to all of this, either. One night, she had appeared in the doorway of your room, barely holding back tears before she crawled onto your bed. Safe in the confines of your sheets, she whispered to you that her friends had found a bullet hole in the wall of one of the classrooms, a bullet hole that none of the teachers were willing to explain. Her friends had concluded it was a grisly sign from the murderer, but she wasn’t so sure. Gone were the airs of a confident pre-teen, replaced with the shaky voice of a child. You had responded by simply pulling your blanket over her, but other than that you had no idea what to say. The final newsletter comes soon after. It's not so much a newsletter as it is an ultimatum: a letter stating that school has been cancelled indefinitely for student safety. Your throat tightens when you read the reason why: the parents of a student at the school had been brutally murdered a few days prior, with the student in question missing... You glance over at your daughter sitting on the couch. Without warning, you stride towards the living room, your arms wrapping around your daughter's waist as you pull her tightly towards you. Your daughter chokes out a half-hearted laugh and asks you if you're alright, but you don't respond. For what feels like an eternity, you hold her like that, as if she'll disappear from this world the moment you let her go.

TOWN As long as you are alive you will enforce a curfew, preventing all players from sending in actions after 4pm PST.

Kiyoko wrote:

The one thing that really got your blood pumping was the hunt. Nothing else exhilarated you more than the feeling of outsmarting an animal, watching life drain from its eyes as you stood over it in triumph. The feeling of having got to it before it got to you. From the moment you first learned how to fire a gun, you found yourself increasingly drawn away from the city life to one of nature. Something about the power and wits the occupation demanded captivated you more than a 9-5 schedule, plus that rush… That rush was unexplainable. You lived in a small cabin on the outskirts of town, protected from the hustle and bustle of city life by the surrounding forest. This allowed you to hone your craft further, and you became an excellent shot. Nothing escaped you alive, and danger cowered at the sight of your gun. These accomplishments didn't go unheard of in the town beyond the trees, and on occasion the odd person would brave the winding forest path to meet you, whether it be for an interview, to buy meat off of you, or to simply affirm that you were more than just some myth. Over time, what had been a weak stream of guests had slowed to a complete stop, and you found yourself alone in the forest with nothing to keep you company but your weapons, the animals, and your thoughts. The first few weeks of solitude went by as per usual, though a creeping feeling began to fester in your mind that no amount of hunting could shake. The rush that you got out the kill had completely disappeared. Were you just getting rusty? Or had you become fond of those who ventured up into your domain? Could you be worried about them, the only people who dared to break into your thousand years of solitude? The thought made you uneasy. One day, a pamphlet arrives, speaking of an urgent town hall meeting being held at a nearby school. You consider tossing it out -- people really weren’t your cup of tea -- but that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach says otherwise, and you decide to go. When you do arrive, you realize the classroom where the meeting is is crammed full of people. You swallow your discomfort, though, and find a seat as a portly man at the front of the room begins his address. To your surprise, the man begins weaving a tale of murder in the town; something that not even you had anticipated when you made your trek into the city below. Given your line of work, the resulting graphic descriptions don't phase you, but the unease in the audience is palpable. Your eyes take note of the tense body language in the room as the man moves onto the end of his address, the crowd twitching like like a herd of frightened rabbits. However, the man’s solutions for this problem -- to stay inside, to call the police, to not engage or shoot -- bother you. Such things were the complete antithesis of what your life was based on. No, you mutter to yourself, there's a better way, an easier way. Just pick up a gun and… You hope the man picks up what you're saying, but he does not. In mild disgust, you stand brusquely and make your way towards the door. Heads turn as you do so and the man calls to you, clearly displeased at your rude exit. Something about his tone sets you off, and you feel a familiar wave of emotion wash over your body. One that you haven't felt in a while… You reach into your knapsack and pull out a handgun. "Excuse me, isn't it illegal to carry a concealed weapon in a public space?" the man shouts. Like a carefully trained athlete, you wheel around on your heel and shoot at a poster of the human body on the classroom walls, the crowd shrieking as you fire. Your aim is true, and a single bullet hole can be seen through the diagram's forehead, square between the temples. "And isn't it illegal to kill people?" you mutter quietly, your voice hoarse from lack of use. You turn to face the man, who cowers behind his podium. "If this killer's not playing by the rules, then why should I? You can all hide in your little homes, but for me…" Your lips curl into a slight grin.   "… I'll kill them." All you needed was a change of prey.

TOWN You have  a 10% chance of killing anyone who acts on you in the night phase.

Kiyoko wrote:

The people of this town have wandered astray. What once was a God-fearing town is now filled with lost sheep. They sleep in on Sundays. They wear short skirts and low-cut tops. They listen to the devil’s music, with primal screams and roaring instruments and lyrics about promiscuity and sin. They indulge in alcohol and drugs, they fight, and they fornicate. They have forgotten His teachings and turned away from His light. It was only a matter of time. With the tithe box empty, with the pews empty, with the hearts of the people of this town empty, all you could do was pray. But what was one lone shepherd against the waxing sin? The Lord’s punishment comes swift and unsparing. It comes in the form of blood, of bodies found mangled in the night. It comes in the form of dread of the unknown, and of families torn asunder. Those who had forgotten their fear of God have learned now a new fear. And still, though you adjure them all to come, the church remains empty. And the people of this town, and the politicians, and the wealthy, and the policemen and policewomen, and every member of every family, hide themselves in their houses, that the closed doors may hide them from His wrath that lurks outside. And you, devout shepherd, you kneel before the cross and clasp your hands, beseeching. You ask for forgiveness for the sins of your people, for your own failure to guide them. Would that your prayers rescue this town from the depths to which it has fallen. May the Lord have mercy on all of your souls.

TOWN If you die, you will reveal the role and alignment of your killer or the last person to vote you if you are lynched.