Memoire's of a Sociopath
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Origins
An ancient audio-recording reel, the ones that remind you of old movie projector film reels, lies in a box, on the far reaches of the dust covered shelf. Labeled in fading and peeling yellow tape, it reads "the Glassman case". Reaching, he draws the reel from the cardboard crypt, the room suddenly falls into silence, everything seems so far away. The time difference hits like a truck, horn blazing. The power of what lies locked away in this aluminum casing seems so dangerous, now that it is in his hands. He cant help but feel that by just touching it, he has stirred the monster that he seeks notice, like it is connected to everything its ever touched, and somehow, it knows he is here. He cant back out now, he has come too far, the answers have to be here, everything leads back to this...
Choking back his unease, he carries the reel upstairs, he pauses at the landing, looking back into the storage basement. How like a hungry thing it seemed now, angry that he had taken one of its treasures. The dusty and dry room, seemed to curse him as he left, but blinked into a portal of darkness as he flipped the light switch, and its curses locked behind the flimsy particle wood door as he closed it. He passes the sleeping night guard, without any attempt at stealth, pauses to see if the aging man will wake, he hadnt meant to "steal" the reel, but answers to this killer were here he knew it. He donned his heavy brown Fedora, complimenting his aged trenchcoat, as he stepped into the cold night air. How like a undercover detective he looked standing on the landing to this old records hall, his breath fogging into the night. A stranger, likely a bum, by his sullen gait, and hunched countenance shuffled by, but paused to ask.
He paused to give him another look over, he could be dangerous, you never knew with people anymore, and this case had him more on edge then ever.
He whirled then, something about how he said it triggered his defences, he wanted answers... Gone.
No one there.
Impossible right? He knew he just talked to him. He scanned both ways down the street, empty save the rows of cars hugging the curb and the faded lights of the streetlamps. Definately on edge, maybe the lack of sleep was getting to him now. He needed to get home, get some answers.
Once he got back to his place, he quickly left the old chevy sedan to lick its wounds, the vehicle was over twenty years old, but chevies seemed built to last, so he never bothered to replace her. He scanned his home on the way to the door as he always did, sort of an old paranoid habit, but habits like this kept you alive in this line of work, and it hadnt failed him yet. Satisfied he entered the house, and brisquely crossed the room to the old Audio-reel player he had borrowed from archives yesterday. He layed the reel down, but couldnt help but pause and stare at its dulled aluminum casing again. "the Glassman case" it read, same as before, but something... was there something there? He rubbed his palms over his face, shot the reel another sidelong glance and left the room. Removing his hat and coat, which he discards on the back of his nearby sofa, who's crimson colors were all but a dull dunn now. He goes to the kitchenette, not quite a full kitchen, and begins brewing some joe.
He comes back to the Audio-reel player and open the reels casing. It was just a reel, wound with black audio-ribbon, unlabled, uninspired, such a simple thing. After staring it over, he starts setting the reel in the player, winding the tape through the device and plays it.
Fading and crackling audio-feedback silences all other ambient noise, and a power settles over the room. The Nostalgia is not missed by him, and he sits in the wooden chair nearby, his attention raptured.
The Feedback is suddenly swallowed in a great deal of noise, and commotion, like furniture being overturned and fighting. Shouts in the background for help and security, are nearly impossible to make out over a sadistic laughter.
The feedback abruptly ends, but most the reel is left unrecorded. He leans back in the chair and reminds himself to breath, realizing he had stopped somewhere in the recording. No answers, except a name. The killer has always been a killer, no surprises there. He lets out a long sigh, and remembers the joe! he starts to check on it, when the feedback starts back up from the player.
The familiar crackling of the recording begins again, and background sounds of objects being moved, likely the recorder itself carry on for a moment, then seem to abruptly stop. Then there is a long pause.
