It's raining. You have no hat. You're pretty sure you've lost your handkerchief along the way, but you are too tired to care. It's starting to get dark as you watch the sun slink slowly toward the horizon. Behind you, you can see the smoking remains of your once bustling city, decimated by the attacks of the Mafia.
Most of the people around you are unknown to you, but you know that the ten of you are the only ones who remain of your beloved city, and that you must trust one another to survive out here in the wild.
A familiar voice breaks the silence, 'Let's stop and eat something, eh? I'm starving.' It was the voice of Oscar Wilde, poet laureate of Canada. Wilde was the only recognisable face out of the bunch of you, and for that you are glad. If it weren't for his sharp wit and lingual genius, you probably would have went insane ages ago.
'What'll it be? Beans again, eh? Wait a minute, we should say our prayers before eating.'
The rest of you let out a soft moan. Oscar had been going on about some make-believe deity he had seen in his dreams. He thought it was fate, the rest of you thought it was heatstroke.
'Come on now, don't be shy, gather 'round. O Great Nikanor, I'd like to give my thanks for this meal you have given to us, as well as for the strength to carry on. We'd also like to ask you for your protection from the Mafia, who you showed to me in a dream-' The rest of you shared surprised murmers. Nobody had mentioned the Mafia for days. Why now?
Suddenly, a gunshot goes off. A gasp is heard from the poet's direction. Wilde clutches his chest, stares forward for a couple seconds, then falls over. Nothing is said for one minute, then two. None of you want to be the first to say anything.
Night falls, and you all go to sleep without saying a word. You all know that the Mafia is present within your group, but none of you want to admit it. You know that tomorrow will be a difficult day.