The Syndicate

Day 1 vote tally

Spoiler: show

Donald Fagen and Walter Becker looked at this recently unfrozen party.

It still looked ice cold to them. These people were wielding instruments of golf instead of instruments of good times. The duo shook their heads in grave disapproval.

“Chinese music always sets me free,” Fagan mused aloud. “Angular banjos sound good to me.”

Becker was more straightforward. “Give us some funked-up Muzak. It’s party time.”

The Prog Archives Event has been unlocked! Instructions are forthcoming.

In this new world, The Syndicate, were dozens of cryogenically frozen pods, ancient but preserved warriors of long ago. Some specialized in craftiness. Some were known for their perseverance. Some could move mountains with the laughter they induced.

And two of them shared one of the pods.

Eighteen of the pods hissed and prepared to open. In time, the inhabitants of these pods emerged, examined their surroundings, and regarded one another with an uncertain sense of familiarity.

A voice startled them, echoing over an unseen archaic-sounding speaker system.

“This is Andrew Ryan. A man chooses. A slave obeys. Look around you. All of these were elements of your past. Touch those of them would have made the greatest teammates today, would you kindly?”

After a moment of hesitation, the eighteen breathing specimens began touching the remaining closed pods, which recorded each touch with a resonating sound.

As more stepped forward to do as they were asked, one of the pods began flashing red.

A mechanical voice cried, “UNSTABLE. UNSTABLE.”*

Andrew Ryan’s voice returned. “Never mind that, would you kindly? Choose whatever you like.”

When the exercise was complete, Ryan spoke again:

“It is a pity no one chose Nevinera. Have you forgotten? A 60% win record? Formidable as good, evil, or in between? What a shame. What a shame indeed.”

The voice sighed.

“Nevertheless, I have a gift for you.”

A light shone in the corner. It highlighted a set of golf clubs. Some drivers. Some irons. Some wedges.

“Some among your number are honest, hard-working people who would let no government or church steal from them. And then some among your number are PARASITES, who intend to bleed the rest of you dry.”

Everyone looked around.

“So pick up a club, would you kindly? And KILL.”

*We will leave it to you, dear reader, to decide which pod this was.

It is now Day 1. You have 48 hours to lynch someone.

Spoiler: show

Zodac the Cosmic Enforcer wandered the desolate lands of a place he didn't understand. He had sensed there would be an important meeting, something potentially dangerous. He had visited this place with a sense of urgency but no clear purpose.

After apparently aimless wandering, a robed figure emerged from the dust. When at last they met, the robed man spoke. The language was unfamiliar, at least initially. After making an adjustment to his helmet, Zodac understood the Aramaic he was hearing.

"My name is Judas Iscariot. Some just call me the traitor."

Zodac nodded and looked toward the wind-torn, rocky oblivion. This traitor was not the person for whom he was waiting. There was someone, something else.

At length someone else did arrive. He was a long-haired vagrant, but Zodac got the sense that he had other appearances he was capable of adopting. He had a bowl of what looked to be creamed corn.

"Bob," the man said. "Killer Bob. Fire walk with me."

It was as though these words were the incantation to bring forth the expected visitor, who appeared on the horizon, large, overhwlemingly so, and holding the ultimate cup of coffee.

"Ziltoid the Omniscient," Zodac said. "I might have known."

"Yet you did not know, for you are not Ziltoid the Omniscient." A loud slurping sound followed this apparently obvious comment. Ziltoid then eyeballed his guests in turn, first Zodac, then Judas, and then Bob.

"Balance, betrayal, bereavement - I have summoned you here to bring these things upon my new world. It shall be a place where friends will routinely lie to one another, will kill one another, and all will be the happier for it because it was done fairly!"
The world began to take a dark shape, one that molded itself to Ziltoid's twisted imagination.

Before it was complete, a voice rode on the wind, challenging the galactic coffee fiend.

"You have neglected benevolence, the act of looking for the good in others even when you don't know they're on your side. Just like when you don't know what tools will be useful in a given situation."

Ziltoid eyed the location of the voice and looked surprised.

"Richard Dean Ander- I mean, McGyver! I might have known."

The world continued taking shape.

"You forgot something else!" It was Steve. Everyone knew pixelated Steve. "Building better relationships!"

"Doesn't count. Third word doesn't start with a B," Ziltoid countered.

"Building better besties!"

"That doesn't even make sense! You get one bestie." Ziltoid continued slurping.

A muscular blonde man emerged from the dust behind Steve. He wore a bandana and tore his yellow shirt. Then he put one large hand on Steve's pixelated shoulder. "I'm here to tell you Steve's right. Brother."

Ziltoid drank his coffee. "Hello, Terry."

And this was the way The Syndicate came to be: A world of deceit, murder, and friendship.

It is now Day 0. You have 24 hours to check in.

The Syndicate

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