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[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Jim Groovester's Cover Role PM for the British (click to show/hide)

You are Matthew Wyndham, spy extraordinaire.

A translator and diplomat, most of your career was spent in the Foreign Office assisting in various affairs that needed your skills. You are fluent in both English and German, and are proficient in several other languages. Because of this, you became actively involved in the war from a very early stage, translating messages and working in various dangerous postings. You have also worked with conflict resolution, negotiation and a variety of other tasks. You are a quiet person outside of work and often prefer to keep to yourself, passing the time by reading books or listening to music. At work, however, you are extroverted, friendly, charismatic and eloquent – more out of necessity than anything else. A façade put on by a talented actor, this is the face that you show to others, and though you have enjoyed much success from it, it is also very fatiguing. When the working day ends, you try to get home as soon as possible so that you can recuperate. Your experience with violent conflict and with diplomatic negotiation made you an excellent candidate for the MI6 spy programme that began expanding during this time – you were quickly recruited for your talent in acting and for your German. Now, you have been called into the headquarters for something – some important mission, perhaps.

You approach the reception desk, brandishing a paper note with a number on it. “How do I get to this room?”

“Oh, that one. Just go up those stairs, make a left turn, then two right turns, and enter the third-last door in the corridor. Have a good day, sir.”

Patting the rain off your jacket, walk up the stairs, navigating the best you can through the winding, dark corridors of the building. Making the last turn, you see two suited men chatting in front of the conference door. When you arrive, you give both of them and each of the security guards a curt nod and stand by silently. After a few moments, the buzzer by the door rings. The security guards open the door.

“Oh, and by the way, I’m Sec- uh- Agent Cleeve. MI6. Nice to meet you,” the young agent says to Owens as you walk in.

The conference room is large and spacious, full of dark, luxurious wooden furniture and, at the centre, a massive table surrounded by a legion of chairs. At the Chief’s sides, before four chairs, have been placed four manila folders – each one marked CARRTEL in black ink. The Chief stands up from his chair at the head of the table. “Welcome, gentlemen. Have a seat. One moment.” Walking over to the intercom at the far end of the room, he passes on some inaudible message and comes back to the table. All three of you sit down, each behind a folder. You gaze at the empty chair as the Chief begins speaking.

“Now then. Though Agent Owens and Agent Cleeve seem to have already introduced themselves to each other, I suppose Agent Wyndham here,” he gestures toward the third, silent member of your group, “will need introductions. Gentlemen, this is Senior Agent Wyndham.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Agent Owens from MI5.” You shake hands.

“Nice to meet you. Agent Cleeve.” Another handshake.

“All four of you,” he sweeps his hands over the table, “are assigned to a team that we have designated CARRTEL, and you will all receive new stations accordingly.” He turns to Owens with a smug smile and an outstretched hand. “Agent Owens, welcome to MI6.”

“Ah – thank you, Chief.” A handshake.

“Along with your stations, you will be assigned new duties, new office numbers, new dormitory bed numbers and other formalities. However, since this meeting will also be the briefing for your first mission, which will begin as soon as possible, you will have little chance to make use of these. You’re the best agents this nation has – there’s no point in denying that – and your skills, talents and expertise in the field of espionage will be critical in the war effort.”

You open the folder, examining the contents inside. The first page is a team roster, with the phrase “Team CARRTEL”, and a short list of members – there are no pictures, but with most of them present, there’s no need. There’s one name you don’t have a face for – an Agent Alexander Scarborough, whose name is at the top of the list and is designated the leader, with the other members being you, and agents Arthur Owens and Matthew Wyndham. There is also a sheet listing new duties and responsibilities, most simply dealing with a shift in purpose and organization and proper behaviour; a note with the number to a new office and dormitory bed; and another folder marked Mission #1.

The doors open to let in another, older man – everyone’s heads turn to see him coming in. His clothes seem to have been put on hastily.

“There you are, Mr. Scarborough – we’ve all been waiting for you. As one of the most senior agents still active in MI6, I expected more of you than this.” Deathly silence. The man pales momentarily – is this man really going to be the leader of the group? “A man of such great accomplishments as yourself should certainly possess more than enough manners and willpower to arrive to meetings critical for the war effort with punctuality, wouldn’t you agree?” The Chief, at the head of the table, gives Scarborough a false smile as he finishes his closing remark.

“Yes, I suppose so, but even great men need rest at times. After all, we are but human.” Scarborough replies. “Besides, now that I’m here, I think we’d all be able to agree that the most prudent course of action would be to continue without any further ado.” He ambles toward his assigned seat, seemingly unconcerned with the incident, and examines the manila folder in front of him.

The Chief sighs. “Alright, then. I’ll repeat what’s been said before you came here - the consequences for you having neglected your assigned duties will be discussed at a later date.”

“All four of you,” he goes over the name of each agent in turn as his hand sweeps across the table, “have been assigned to team CARRTEL. Proper introductions can be made later. You’ll notice that you have been assigned new duties, offices and beds, but unfortunately, you won’t have the opportunity to use them; you’re all going to be deployed immediately.”

He paused to let his words sink in. After a few moments in silence, he says, “Gentlemen, there is a folder attached in the documents folders before you regarding your first mission. Please open this so that we may proceed.” A sudden, simultaneous rustling of papers.

You open the folder marked Mission #1, noticeably thicker than the rest of the documents combined in the outer folder. Inside, you find a miniature, black-and-white map of a camp of some sort, with outlines of tents that had been set up and labels indicating names and uses for them; and another map, this time of Europe, on the other side – someone had marked the map with a red dot to show the camp’s location. Against the black and grey shades of matte ink, the lone red dot stands in stark contrast against its Spartan surroundings; catching the dusty beams of light from the flickering fluorescent above, it still gleams slightly and seems almost to be a drop of blood, spilled in accident – or in anger, perhaps – onto the page.

“You will be deployed into a temporary Nazi covert military camp, located in the region pointed out to you on the backside of the map. The front shows a map of the camp’s current layout and some of the surrounding area as collected by our preparatory intelligence agents out in the field a few days prior – most of the structures in the camp are expansive tents, so don’t expect much privacy or cover should things turn ugly. Though their primary purpose is not combat, this camp is heavily armed, so do take heed of that. The surrounding area is mostly dense forest, and should provide enough cover for you to enter surreptitiously.”

Everyone nodded, examining the map. So far, it seemed achievable – if difficult.

“This squad seems to be looking for something in this area that is critical to their war effort and highly relevant to Nazi Germany’s interests; we aren’t sure yet what this is. You will pose as fellow Nazi agents, members of an elite military squad; the details of your cover stories, which each of you will have to memorise, are in the attached package. Your mission, once you infiltrate the camp, is to gather as much intelligence as possible both about what the Nazis are looking for – if you can recover this weapon or artefact yourselves, that would be appreciated as well – and about anything else that you can find, and then eliminate the Nazis in the camp from within. You are to leave no survivors – understood?”

Another set of nods.

“Included also in your mission briefing packages are a threat identification report, the mission plan and objectives in full, some photographs of the camp, your identification papers to match your cover stories, and a list of equipment that you’ll need to pick up from the Ministry of Supply.”

You leaf through the other documents provided. The report, unfortunately, places the number of Nazi agents to be at about two to three dozen, all highly trained and skilled and heavily armed. This is, indeed, a very tall order. The photographs seem to indicate that the camp was set up not too long ago, and is ready to move again at any moment.

“Finally, because of the covert nature of this mission and the vulnerable position this places us in, the only communication that we will allow you to make with base camp is once all the Nazi agents are eliminated and the objectives of the mission are achieved. Furthermore, if you happen to be compromised or find yourself in trouble, you will be alone. There will be no aid and no reinforcements, and if you do not make it back within two weeks, we will presume you all to be dead. You will be deployed tomorrow midnight – we will take you as far as the outskirts of the forest. Once there, the method of entry and infiltration will be up to you.”

“Tomorrow? That’s hardly any time at all! You can’t expect us to convincingly mimic a completely different persona – and that of a German Nazi, no less – and even consider trying something as audacious as taking on an entire camp full of elite soldiers with only a single day’s notice!” Agent Cleeve stands up and shouts. “No amount of faith or skill on anyone’s part will change that.”

“Oh, but I disagree.” The Chief gathers his papers and stands up, pushing his chair back against the head of the table. “You will deploy tomorrow midnight. There will be no further discussion on that matter – and if there are no more questions regarding the other parts of your mission, I’ll leave you to your preparations.” He turns, walking with a steady, confident pace, heels echoing against the parquet. His hands brush against the knob on the far door. “Oh, and there’s a bonus cheque in the back of each of your packets. You likely won’t find the chance to use it, but there it is, nevertheless.”

The knob turns, and the door opens with a brassy click. The echoes fade.

Cleeve slumps into his chair and covers his face with his hands, his jacket riding up to meet them and hugging the sides of his head. From behind his thin hands comes a muffled sniff, and then a choked-up sigh that comes out in parts, small at first, that build up to a great rush of air like a deflated balloon. “Ah, fuck. Fucking hell. I didn’t ask for this. I’m going to die.” Another deep sigh.

You look through your papers, and skim through your cover story again. Realising that there is little left to do, you retire to your room to study it until you are called out again for the mission.

The next morning, you meet with the others in the dining room to have breakfast to discuss your mutual plight in one of the quiet corners of the table. Though unusual and rather inappropriate at this time of day, you have a round of drinks as well – the rationale is to celebrate the raise, though in truth you all know that it is some much needed comfort before facing oblivion. You read over each of your cover stories in silence, aside from a stray few comments on the war, and gather your equipment from the Ministry.

Then at midnight, as planned, you depart for the forest. Stranded at the edge by the military transport, you trek through the suffocating woods and dark heaths until you reach the camp in the clearing. Here, you each enter a tent and sleep – it’s going to be a long night, though you can’t say you’re looking forward to see the dawn.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: Jim Groovester's Cover Role PM for the Americans (click to show/hide)

You are Daniel Ward, spy extraordinaire.

A natural linguist and an experienced journalist, you could have had a shining career in the media, journeying around the world – unfortunately, it wasn’t meant to be. You were a well-travelled sort, visiting foreign locations and reporting news; a rather romantic lifestyle, some would say – and being rather promiscuous, you took advantage of it in whatever way you could. You were happy, and “well stocked”… until you were arrested on the spot entering a US airport on the way home on rape charges. You faced extradition.

Stuck in a small holding cell until the officials could figure out what to do with you, your salvation came when a squad of men, dressed in black suits, approached you with an offer that sounded too good to be true – work for the Secret Service – the OSS – and come out clean when the war is over. Dreading what would come if you didn’t join them, you accepted with gusto, and became a “face” – a spy specialising in infiltration. Though you have managed to upset several superiors with your dislike for authority and idealism, they remain true to their word – you are, after all, too good of a spy to pass on.

You’ve received word of a new mission, and a rendezvous at the Congressional Country Club – the room number, written down in a small planner that you carry around, you brandish to the receptionist. “How do I get to this office? It’s Dr. Lyndon’s.”

“Ah. Just go up those stairs there, and make two right turns, a left turn, then a right turn. It’s the door at the end of the hallway.”

“Thank you.” You pause to take out your fountain pen and a paper tissue; you squirt a generous blob of ink onto the planner paper, then rub it in until it almost begins to tear. You pocket the pen and close the planner – its pages warped by multitudes of ink drops and rubbed thin.

You walk through a multitude of vast chambers lit by golden lamps and shimmering chandeliers. The massive French windows, built into the walls in nearly every room, remain shuttered and blinded for now as the weather worsens. The deep, muffled thrum of rain tapping against the glass echoes around the rooms and soothes your ears.

Eventually, you reach a door at the end of the hallway – a metal plate embedded in the wood reads A[SIZE=7PT]NDREW[/SIZE] L[SIZE=7PT]YNDON[/SIZE], MD. You knock on the door. “Dr. Lyndon? It’s Daniel Ward.”

“Come in. You’re late, but I suppose that can’t be helped,” someone speaks from beyond the door, slightly muffled.

You open the door and come in. “Well, I’m sorry, but this was very short-notice.”

The door opens to reveal a stately office; dark wooden furniture, grand both in size and execution, populate the room. At its centre dominates an opulent desk, newly lacquered and glowing with a rich warmth; from beneath its mirror-like surface, the wood blazes and flares out in shades of brilliant crimson and scarlet, throwing glittering embers that sparkle and smoulder against the dim light – seated around them are your fellow agents, both dressed sharply; Brett Parker, and the Professor, Walter Quigley, slightly wet. Though two large windows are built into the far wall, they remain shut for shelter and the room is lit instead by a multitude of ornate brass lights affixed to nearly every corner of the room and bathing it in a fiery golden light. Behind the desk reclines an older man dressed in a charcoal-grey suit and tie – tufts of grey are visible amidst his jet-black hair and beard, and his nose, thin and long, supports a pair of small glasses with a thin, golden frame. Dr. Lyndon; the one and only.

“I’m aware, but notifying you all further in advance was impossible. Now please, have a seat.” He remains quiet for a few moments as you pull up a chair, and hands you a folder from the binder.

“I’ll give you all a few moments to examine the folders.”

You open and take a look at the contents of your own folder. Inside, you find a large, folded black-and-white map of a camp of some sort, with outlines of tents that had been set up and labels indicating names and uses for them; and another map, this time of Europe, printed on the other side – someone had marked the map with a red dot to show the camp’s location. Against the black and grey shades of matte ink, the lone red dot stands in stark contrast against its Spartan surroundings; catching the dusty beams of light from above, it still gleams slightly and seems almost to be a drop of blood, spilled in accident – or in anger, perhaps – onto the page.

“Our mission,” Dr. Lyndon begins, “codenamed MAFIAA, is to infiltrate a temporary Nazi military camp that has been found in the location shown on the map provided. We’re not sure what the camp is for, but our intelligence has informed us they are searching for some kind of old weapon or artefact, and that it is critical to the Nazis’ war plan; recovery, while not being the priority, would be appreciated. The layout map and the photos show how the camp currently looks – as you can see, it’s not very well fortified or secure, but blends in well with the forest scenery and defends itself primarily through stealth. This is a double-edged sword; though you will not find it difficult to eavesdrop or infiltrate the camp, you must also be aware that you yourselves will have very little privacy.

“Our goal is to infiltrate the camp by masquerading as Nazi agents. Once inside, we are to systematically eliminate the other Nazi agents present in the camp and gather as much intelligence as possible about the Nazis’ military plan, operations, the goal of this Nazi military camp, and anything else we might find. We'll be escorted to the edge of the camp tomorrow midnight, then left there to our own machinations.”

“Hah! That doesn’t sound hard at all!” Parker, who had come forward to the edge of his seat as he spoke, now leans back into the chair again and crosses his arms.

“Well,” the Doctor replies, “the circumstances of this mission actually make it a fair deal more difficult than the previous ones–”

“Oh, well, there’s always, a catch, isn’t there?”

The Doctor sighs. “Gentlemen, this is a mission that is profoundly different from what we have seen before. It will truly test our limits. It may push us beyond that.”

“We could arrange for some help if we need it – it’s not like we’re doing this on our own.”

He continues, ignoring the comment. “The reasons are thus: First, we have no backup or reinforcements, no support or communication with Headquarters, and failure – or escape – is not an option.”

Parker kicks a garbage bin. “The bastards!”

“Second, the camp is populated not by standard soldiers, but an elite, hitherto-unknown unit designated Division 0 – these are all soldiers that surpass the entire SS in skill and ruthlessness. We must expect heavy and brutal resistance. They will not hesitate to kill and torture.”

The Professor shuts his eyes and leans his head against the back of the chair.

”Third, since the camp contains very little besides canvas tents, we cannot expect to survive if we are discovered or happen upon a firefight. Lastly, if the mission does fail and we are forced to escape, we cannot expect any friendly rescuers or transports to help us navigate what are essentially the heartlands of hostile territory.”

Dr. Lyndon pauses, looking away. ”We’ll be disowned and exiled, and our families will receive no support. Even if we are successful, we will have to travel through the warzone ourselves, as the agency doesn’t want to help any more than is absolutely necessary – I'm sorry, gentlemen, but this may very well be our last mission.”

Professor Quigley sighs deeply; silvery smoke comes out in a great, pale cloud as if from a dying dragon, now too frail to breathe fire. You lean back, eyes shut, massaging your temples. Parker, now standing, shuffles forward to the window. The false smile, having been finished off by your words, is now replaced by a dark, pained frown. He opens the window and, resting his elbows on the windowsill, leans out until he almost seems to be losing his balance, letting the cold evening rain drizzle on his head and soak into his clothes. Finally, after a long, dragged-out moment of silence, he turns his head to you.

“Why are they doing this to us?”

“I don’t know.” The Doctor sounded pained. Brief answers were unlike him.

Raindrops, drumming quietly against the ground. Nothing is said for another long while. “What do we do?”

“What do you mean – what can we do? We can do what they've told us to do… Or get shot, or put back in prison. Or get detained. They’re ruthless. You know that.”

“Yes, I know, it's just... I didn't accept that parole offer just to get killed on a suicide mission.”

“Sadly, we've already been assigned the mission. We can't do anything about that.” You open your eyes at last to look around and reply. You see Parker, no out by the window, staring into the grey distance – seemingly unconcerned by the rain falling onto his head. “I suppose... All that's left now is to have a little faith. It seems they've already put theirs on us.”

Parker jerks around, spraying droplets across the room. “Fuck your faith! Fuck theirs, too! I don't want to die!” He brings out a handkerchief from his pocket and dries himself off before throwing it to the ground and flinging the Doctor’s desk lamp across the room with a loud clatter and crash, then remaining motionless, staring at the handkerchief with a grimace. Then, after a long while, he creaks back into life, and staggers, wearily, back to his chair, and slumps into it.

“We’re not going to survive this, are we.” Not a question, but a statement. His voice seems flat.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” The Doctor averts his eyes.

He reclines in the armchair, looking out at the overcast skies beyond the window. “...I need a drink,” he says at last.

The Doctor takes out a dust-covered whiskey bottle and a tumbler, screws off the cap and pours some into the glass, offering it to him. You frown again. He almost never offers his fine whiskey to anyone – always said it was only for truly special occasions.

“Here. Have some of mine.”

Parker takes it and mumbles a few words of thanks.

“I know that discussing the mission isn't something we want to do right now, but there are cover stories in each of your briefing folders. It would be a good idea if each of us would retire to the dormitories in the second basement floor for the remainder of today and tomorrow – we have been, sadly, placed on a temporary curfew until we leave for the mission – and stay in our rooms to read over our cover stories and relax in safety. The administrators have already relieved you, Professor, and you, Mr. Ward, of your duties for the next few weeks for the mission.”

You stand up.  “I suppose we have no choice, then. I’ll be at the cafeteria if anyone needs me.” Walking toward the door, Quigley gets up to leave with you; you may as well go now to prepare.

[lordnincompoop]

Spoiler: N1 - IronyOwl (click to show/hide)

Tonight, you sleep, dreaming of nothing. Though you have some vague notion of having needed to do something - were you going to use a knife somewhere? Yes? Perhaps? - you are too tired, too deep in a most peaceful sleep to even attempt it.

Spoiler: N1 - Dariush (click to show/hide)

You've always been a master of your own sleep.

You were proud of that, even as a child - you would often wake up in the early morning of your own accord and wander the empty streets, or sit outside and watch the sun rise, gazing in wonder at the infinite subtle variations of colour.

Now, however, your talent is being directed toward a more sinister purpose. At three, you force yourself up and take out a small vial of chloroform from your jacket pocket. Sneaking outside, you peek into the tents until you find IronyOwl's - dousing a bunch of paper tissues with the liquid, you push it against his face and hold it there for a few minutes, looking about to see if anyone is watching.

You are unseen, however, and you made sure to be unheard. You chuck the bunch of tissues into the pit toilet as you walk back to your group's tent - IronyOwl won't be doing anything tonight.

Spoiler: N1 - Toaster (click to show/hide)

The OSS had used you for more than simple reconnaissance. No - using you, a brilliant doctor, for drudgery? It was a waste of talent.

Determined to hold you to your full potential, you worked ceaselessly for various classified projects as the others simply returned to their day jobs. One of those was a search for various means of mind manipulation - a project unethical in the extreme, it was approved by the wartime government as a last resort weapon. You, and a team of dozens of other chemists, surgeons, doctors and scientists from nearly every field, worked in secret to achieve this goal; a time that you look back upon with a mixture of pride and regret.

Regardless, the project was shut down after a few years - but not without some success. Clutched in your hand, hidden inside your palm, you have a small leather case of a dozen small squeeze syringes. Inside each is a potent cocktail of drugs - not especially efficacious on their own, but together, they create a substance capable of absolute subjugation with but a few drops.

Well, for a day, at least. After that, the drugs wear off and the person returns to normal - you never quite found a way to make it permanent without also permanently crippling, blinding or killing the subject. It was fine for field use, however.

It is with this substance you will be coercing Dariush tomorrow. Plucking out a syringe from the case and stowing the rest in your pocket, you twist off the plastic sheath on the tiny needle and poke it into his neck. In a second, you squeeze out its contents between your thumb and forefinger and pry the syringe off - the deed is done.

You lean in and whisper into his ear. “You will agree with me tomorrow. Everything I say will be what you will say.”

He doesn't move, but he had received the message nonetheless. Outside, you scoop out some dirt with your hand, bury the spent syringe and wash your hands.

Spoiler: N1 - Shakerag (click to show/hide)

 You liked thinking of yourself as quite the detective. Though that may not be true - and when it leads to failed missions, you can be quite sure that it isn't - you've always had a penchant for it and have the habit of examining people you find suspicious.

Like this Dariush fellow. He seemed shifty to you, yesterday - and tonight, unable to sleep, you decide to sneak in and see what you can find.

The camp is dead silent when you get up - save for the nocturnal creatures of the forest, the air is cold and still. Donning your jacket, you step out and smell the brisk night air, letting it cool your skin and run through your hair. You pad over to the tent you remember Dariush entering, with the silence of an experienced sneak - you brush aside the tent flap, sidle over to his sleeping shadow, and look over him.

He seems to be soundly sleeping, and his soft, slow breaths soothe your jumping nerves. His jacket and other larger articles of clothing are on the ground beside him, along with his boots. Peering into the boots yields little, but searching through the pockets of his jacket, you find a vial of some liquid from within its folds. Though the night is too dark to make anything out with certainty, staring into the fluid under the few weak beams of moonlight to be found give no strong indication of colour. Unscrewing the bottle and taking a sniff, you find that it smells pleasant - quite sweet.

Though your curiosity is piqued, you dare not risk any more attempts at investigation. You stuff the vial back into the pocket you found it and come back to your own tent to sleep.

Spoiler: N2 - IronyOwl (click to show/hide)

It's time to kill one of these morons.

Having observed them the past few days, you've been overcome with an ever-increasing feeling of giddiness. None of these Allied agents - none of them - seem to be suspecting anything. Talking to the "Kommandant" during the evenings, you talk enthusiastically, drifting back and forth between discussing the situation and swapping stories, wild tales and small talk.

You wish, however, that it would go faster.

Your knife would help there. A component of the plan was already for you to kill a person of your choosing every night so as to expediate the process - you're not sure what happened last night, but it won't happen again.

You take it out from your pocket. You've cared for it well, and you've had it for as long as you can remember; the blade may have needed replacement sometimes, the shaft may have gone through restoration once in a while, but it is, ultimately, the same knife to you. You fold it out, with a simple flick of your wrist - with another flick, you fold it in.

Tonight, Deathsword would be the target.

It would seem like the doing of some overzealous soldier. You certainly intend for it to be so - he was not a very popular person during the days, but escaped the "Kommandant"'s line of fire nevertheless. You would make sure he wold not do so again.

You walk over to his tent, brushing away the flap. Taking out a small syringe, you gently hold his mouth with one hand as you position yourself over his body and prime the needle. You hold it close against his neck, and in a quick movement, you jab it in and empty it into his carotid vein.

He wakes up immediately, but no matter. Your grip around his mouth tightens and you drop the syringe to use your other hand in a choke-hold around his throat. Your legs lock, quickly and confidently, around his body, preventing any use of his arms or legs. Then, after a few minutes, he fades - his breath slows, his eyes flutter shut. You put the syringe in a pocket and carry him out, carefully.

You put him down a little ways from the camp. You throw your jacket and shirt off nearby and take out your knife, unfolding it with a flick. In one expert movement, you sever both carotids and jugulars and the trachea just below the larynx - blood soon covers his torso, bubbling up at the slit in the throat. Getting up, you wash off the blood with water from a bottle and redress - he will die in a few minutes, anyway.

You return to your tent, done for tonight.

Spoiler: N2 - Dariush (click to show/hide)

And so the second night begins.

You feign sleep for most of the night, thinking about the deaths and what is happening. Fortunately, none of your friends have succumbed – but it seems that such an event would not be far away. You shudder.

Those passports have been stuck in your mind as well. British, and American - why would Brits and Americans be here of all places? Perhaps the passports were meant to be simply covers for the soldiers in later missions that were found - but then, why would the Kommandant not recognise them as such?

Suddenly, you find yourself longing for home, and the familiar storefront. You liked managing the pharmacy. You were good at it, and you enjoyed mixing the medicines, helping people, talking to people.

You stop yourself before going too far, however - you are forced to remind yourself that it was precisely the reason that you entered the Resistance; the Nazis had forced you to shut it down because you lacked a license - having apprenticed instead of being educated formally - as well as the necessary paperwork. You had to take a job as a manual labourer instead, loading and unpacking crates. Unimportant, silent, stupid drudgery.

You get out of your bed and take out the vial again, and a packet of tissues. Sneaking over to the tent Toaster sleeps in as quietly as possible, you dab some tissues with the clear liquid and press it to his face - after several minutes, you remove them. The deed is done. You throw away the tissues in the same place and walk away.

Nevertheless, you likely won't be able to sleep tonight.

Spoiler: N2 - Toaster (click to show/hide)

Tonight, you sleep, dreaming of nothing. Though you have some vague notion of having needed to do something - were you planning on using some needles? Yes? Perhaps? - you are too tired, too deep in a most peaceful, sweet sleep to even attempt it.

Spoiler: N2 - Shakerag (click to show/hide)

Tonight, you head toward Toaster's tent.

Brushing aside the tent flap, you rifle through his jacket, a black one, double breasted and of thick wool like yours - nothing. You are about to sigh and leave, when you suddenly notice something slightly strange - infinitely subtle, so that you can't put a finger on it. On a whim, you lean in and smell his face; you smell that sweet smell again, similar to the one you smelled last night. Odd.

You pat him down, from top to bottom. In a back pocket, you find a leather case - but hearing something outside, you put it back and sneak out the other way.

Spoiler: N3 - Dariush (click to show/hide)

You smother IronyOwl’s face roughly with a soaked handkerchief.

You pay little attention to the act - your mind is elsewhere tonight. What’s happening in this camp? This Kommandant is revealing signs of Brits and Americans, and then there’s a killer on the loose, who butchered one of your friends, your brother-in-arms, like a pig - left to rot on the ground, no better than a an animal, a dirty stray.

You turn toward IronyOwl’s sleeping figure. At least you found the killer - there will be no more death tonight.

All that remains is to see what lies in store tomorrow. What could they be planning?

Spoiler: N3 - Toaster (click to show/hide)

You open the case with a click and pluck another syringe from its ranks. Closing it with another quiet click, you deposit it back into your pocket.

You’re not sure what happened yesterday, why you didn’t manage to wake up. The day before that didn’t work out as planned - perhaps that had something to do with it. Tonight, however, you’re determined to do it right.

You twist off the plastic sheathing on the needle and drop it into your pocket - they might notice the refuse otherwise, and get suspicious - and, the metal tip wet with drugs and anaesthetics, you prick IronyOwl’s neck with the syringe and squeeze its contents into his veins. His eyelids flutter slightly, but his mind remains lost in the fog. You lean in.

“You will help Hapah tomorrow.”

Spoiler: N3 - Shakerag (click to show/hide)

You decide to visit Dariush again tonight.

That bottle you found earlier made you suspicious. You’re not sure what a soldier, or spy at that, would do with what most of your co-conspirators thought was perfume - no, it must be something else.

After some light patting and searching, you find the vial again; he hid it better, but it was still no match for your skills and a good deal of perseverance. Opening the vial, you swirl the liquid around and take a few light sniffs - no, it isn’t perfume. Nor is it very strong.

You put the stopper back into the bottle and return it to where you found it. You take a look around, make sure there is nobody watching you, then continue searching. Eventually, inside a hollowed out paperback book - you don’t pay attention to the cover - you find a passport. Success!

On the front, the coat of arms of the République Française. “Nom: Campagner. Prénoms: Antoine.”

You return the passport to the hollow and put the book back. You had seen enough.

Spoiler: N4 - Dariush (click to show/hide)

You have a feeling that this mission is drawing to a close.

You didn’t find the artefact, but then again, the circumstances have changed. Your friend had been a Russian, and an enemy out to kill you. The man who had been in your team for years, someone whom you respected, confided in in your darkest moments, celebrated with in your brightest - you shiver. This was the last thing you expected to happen when you were briefing for the mission with your comrades.

Speaking of which... Can you trust even them, now?

But you shake your head. Such thoughts can wait until later - you need to do something important tonight. Taking out the vial of chloroform from your pocket, you douse a handkerchief with the sweet liquid and hold it to IronyOwl’s sleeping face. With your free hand, you stopper the vial and drop it into a pocket.

Several minutes later, you remove the handkerchief and leave. That’ll take care of it.

Spoiler: N4 - Toaster (click to show/hide)

Looks like Ward had been double-dealing.

You sigh. You should have known - you had seen all the hints, found indications - but you didn’t. You refused to believe it. You had known him for so long, after all, and it seemed impossible.

Yet there it is. His corpse, his papers, all of it pointed to the same thing. When the others came out during the discussion, a veil had been lifted from your eyes.

You pry off the needle cover and squeeze its contents into IronyOwl’s neck in one smooth move. You should have seen it already when French and British spies were falling here and there - this was supposed to be an American mission, dammit! - and thought of it already. After all, the Frenchmen and the British are allies in the war.

“You will do as I say tomorrow,” you whisper into IronyOwl’s ear.

But the Russians are allies too. So why had they infiltrated their allies? What was the point to all this?

Pondering this puzzle, you stow the refuse in your pocket and walk away.

Spoiler: N4 - Shakerag (click to show/hide)

The discussion yesterday had been enlightening. Besides finding out that one of your teammates had been quadruple-dealing - MI6 will get a good shake-up when they hear this - you found out that there is one person who doesn’t belong anywhere.

IronyOwl.

You suspect that he had conspired with Karl Dunst, but you con’t really be sure - at least, not without investigation.

Sneaking into the tent he sleeps in, you look around for his jacket - making sure not to wake anyone else in the tent - and pat it down. Inside, you find a knife; you don’t see any maker’s marks on it, and it seems to be nearly impossible to tell how old it is - the blade and handle, though well-fitting, both seem to come from different knives. It seems to be clean and quite well-cared for, you note, before folding it and putting it back.

You pat him down as gently as possible. With some effort, you find a small leather case on his person - opening it, you find a small syringe and three sharp needles that look like they would fit on it. Underneath those, buried in the bottom of the sleeve, you find a small squarish corked vial, with its label torn off, half-filled with a clear liquid. Not daring to search further, you place the items back into the case and return it.

[lordnincompoop]

What else is there? Reserved just in case.

[Hapah]

PFP

The flavor.

Did the game play out how you thought it would, LNCP? What flavor clues did we miss?

EDIT: Oh yeah. Did you hand-pick Jim for the mastermind, or did he random into it?

[Leafsnail]

I haven't been following the game but I must say this is a really interesting setup.  It's clearly a tough game for scum but that's made up for by the fact that all the other players wrongly thought that they were the informed minority.  The mastermind in particular had a hilariously difficult job, but could probably win provided he prevented the truth of the setup from coming out.

[Shakerag]

I wonder how the game would have played out had Jim stayed in. 

Excellent flavor, LNCP. 

[lordnincompoop]

As you can see, there wasn't a single Nazi in the entire game - not even in the flavour. It was all a Soviet trap (which adds another layer of "disturbing" to the Kommandant's blithe killings of NPCs, no?).

That's the game concept, really, in a nutshell. The experimental part of the setup was to see just how long it would take for the players to realise that their entire world was staged (which, sadly, never truly happened despite the spy win) and begin progressing to the real game, and then how long it would take (or even if) for them to uncover the third secret layer to the game added by the artifact mentioned in every role PM - I've chosen to leave just that part obscured. As RedWarrior0 described it: "The rough concept is absolutely nuts and hilarious."

This is strictly a one-off game; I won't be doing Mein Kampf again or any spin-offs because after this one, it has lost the element of surprise.

I was slightly disappointed in how slow the Allied Spy players were in understanding the nature of the situation. I suppose that was because everyone got stuck in the scum-mentality and looked out primarily for their own faction's win.


There were clues to the false nature of the Nazi camp peppered everywhere in the flavour - as this is a mostly historically accurate Mafia game (and yes, used real-world and not movie logic), if you noticed any of these, they weren't due to me being lazy research-wise.

Possibly the most prominent such hint was the Kommandant's silenced revolver - a thoughtful person would have (I hoped) realised that such a thing isn't that common, and a gun-wise person might even have known that most revolvers can't be silenced due to their mechanisms, and Googled it. As it happens to be, the only WWII-era silenced revolver known to exist is the Nagant M1895, a Soviet revolver with an unusual gas-seal system to enable silencing.

Another was the Kommandant's heavy use of the word "Comrade". Another was the Soviet Mastermind shaking hands with even the guards on-duty in the British flavourtext (supposed to be evocative of the Communist everyone-is-equal ideology, though I'm not sure how well that went). Another one which may have been picked up by some was the contrived nature of the mission the agents received. There were a massive bunch more, but I can't remember them - if you're interested in these, feel free to comb through the text!


I'm also slightly disappointed by the fact that nobody bothered to Google their characters, cover or otherwise. Where I could, I used real-life spies and double agents as a basis for the characters - for TolyK (Arthur Owens) and Tiruin (Brian Cleeve), for example, I used many of the real-life person's events in your PMs. Nikolai Ivanovich Kuznetsov was a real spy who worked with Nazi stuff, albeit not a double agent. Aleksandr Langfang was a real Lieutenant-General who worked in the NKVD in our setting period.

I know I wrote myself into a corner by using Russians instead of Axis nations as the opposition - I hope I covered that hole with the rationale for this trap given in the Soviets' flavour (Soviet Russia trying to cover their asses entering the war), but in retrospect, it would've been more streamlined had the Russians been Italians or Japanese.


I'd like to give some postgame props to Hapah for playing the investigator, which really helped the game go. He correctly surmised that the vial was chloroform, and not perfume: Chloroform is a colourless liquid with a distinctive but weak sweet smell, and in real life, it takes several long minutes to take effect (which is why Shakerag felt nothing sniffing that bottle). Shakerag was fortunate enough to be within ~2 hours of Toaster's roleblock to smell the chloroform that had wetted his face (not perfume this time either) by seeing the slight sheen on his face that would have been present had this occurred in real life that specific night.

I haven't been following the game but I must say this is a really interesting setup.  It's clearly a tough game for scum but that's made up for by the fact that all the other players wrongly thought that they were the informed minority.  The mastermind in particular had a hilariously difficult job, but could probably win provided he prevented the truth of the setup from coming out.

Thank you - I'm honoured.

I didn't really know how to make it easier for the Soviets, to be honest. I considered giving them more powers, such as a nightkill for the Mastermind, but both Meph and RedWarrior discouraged me from that - I don't know if any setup-related finagling would have helped besides choosing experienced players as they, again, advised (which I did, by the way).

Jim had a different strategy in mind endgame - I do wonder what would have happened had he stayed on.


EDIT: Corrected incomplete sentence.

[lordnincompoop]

By the way, Jim, this was also my gift to you for what happened in the second Witches' Coven.

[Hapah]

Possibly the most prominent such hint was the Kommandant's silenced revolver - a thoughtful person would have (I hoped) realised that such a thing isn't that common, and a gun-wise person might even have known that most revolvers can't be silenced due to their mechanisms, and Googled it. As it happens to be, the only WWII-era silenced revolver known to exist is the Nagant M1895, a Soviet revolver with an unusual gas-seal system to enable silencing.

Aw, damnit. I thought that silenced meant something else along the lines of subdued or non-reflective, as Kommandant's gun was described as being loud or deafening more than once, I think. I don't think I would have followed the information through to the end, though.

I'd like to give some postgame props to Hapah for playing the investigator, which really helped the game go.

<3

[Leafsnail]

I don't know if it needed to be easier for the Soviets.  Without Hapah's claim they probably could've won, and it may have been possible for an active mastermind to stop his buddies from claiming like that.

[Urist Imiknorris]

By the way, Jim, this was also my gift to you for what happened in the second Witches' Coven.

What about me?

[zombie urist]

UI claimed just as I was about to tell him not to claim, which was the biggest reason for their win. I was luckily able to convince Hapah not to include me on their team.

My endgame plan (up until I got lynched) was basically to lynch Dariush, convince Toaster to give me the double vote and then have IO kill him, and then lynch IU or Shakerag. Then we would have gone the next day 2:1:1:1, which probably would have given us the win, since I was on all three teams.

A backup plan I had was to lynch Shakerag, then have IO kill whoever got the doubled vote for the rest of the game, leaving us with a distinct advantage.

After UI claimed, I considered the option of telling the USA and FR teams that UI was full of shit vs full claiming.

Then Hapah and Shakerag both claimed I was on their team also and that plan got fucked. 

My last hope was that Hapah and Dariush would go along with the plan I outlined, but they didn't and that was that. 


I'm still not sure whether eliminating one team completely would have been a better strategy than to chip at each team. It definitely would have made it easier to round up the fake claims.

[Leafsnail]

Eliminating one team actually sounds like a decent idea (it arguably stops the entire setup from being rumbled) but then you're left with the issue that one or both of the remaining scumteams thinks they've gained a majority/ parity.  It's difficult to say how the game would progress from there.

[Urist Imiknorris]

I would have murderized the British, then got the Americans to votesteal and lynch French and have Irony kill Americans.