AUDITION [UNHEARD]
The first thing he noticed, before the light, before the noise, was the
heat.
It was like stepping off a plane in the middle of a wildfire, being hit by that sudden cascade of warmth so intense it made him nauseous; more like water than air, the heat somehow making it
thicken. Ivan leaned against the doorframe, anticipating a wave of vertigo that, thankfully, hadn't yet hit him. Just sickness. Just discomfort.
He stepped forwards into the hallway, looking up at the walls around him. Bare brickwork, cracked and greying, lit up red so dimly from beneath that they seemed to stretch up forever, despite the ceiling hanging as low as it usually did. Thick cables ran up the side like writhing veins, snaking into the gloom to stare in yellow, tiny dots; cats' eyes at the side of the road, waiting for the truck to pass over the carcass. They blinked at him. He looked away, at his feet, as he shuffled further into the stifling warmth. Concrete subfloor, he noted, replete with nail-spiked planks; something to nail down a carpet, most likely, should this project have ever been completed. A low, mechanical rumble shuddered through his spine, as if the sick-warm air had grown arms to shake him by the shoulders-
pay attention, pay attention, there's something you're missing, pay attention.
The door shut behind him, with the familiar
click of a household lock.
It would've been a nice house, if it hadn't been abandoned. A little cramped, perhaps, and in a terrible location, but nice nonetheless. It was a shame that this was all that remained; a whalefall of setpiece and backdrop, perfect for some costumed maniac to skitter through and devour for his own. The man in the hat wasn't a maniac, costumed as he was. If he wanted to kill Ivan, he wouldn't be going about it like this. Suspicious as it all was, that much he was sure of; Ivan knew he wouldn't be dying by his hand.
"Up-"
-His voice-
"-stairs."
-was firm and detached, expecting obedience with so much certainty that he saw no point in demanding it. And, of course, he was right. That made Ivan deeply uncomfortable; moreso than the heat, than the noise, than the light. This felt like a dream, with that same level of detached helplessness, that same level of
dread, not knowing what horrors your subconscious mind would dredge up to parade before you; except, it wasn't
his subconscious. It almost certainly wasn't the stranger's subconscious, either. This whole thing seemed so planned, so
staged, Ivan would be more surprised if the man
didn't have a script running through his head; stage directions and all.
[IVAN accepts the STRANGER'S offer, following him to the abandoned house in the middle of the night.]
He kept his distance as he was led up the stairs, as if trailing behind the man would give him enough time to change his mind before he reached the top, to suddenly turn around, take off his mask, and tell Ivan the take was over- he did a good job, here's the evidence as payment, you can go home now.
[IVAN falters as he enters the abandoned house, but pushes through the discomfort.]
It was a short flight, but he felt winded nonetheless. It could've been nerves that did it, sapping all energy from his body to fuel his brain, the only thing allowing it to tread water in the paranoid flood that threatened to pull him under. It could just as easily have been the heat, slowly melting through him, making soft and pliable what once held firm; his resolve, his rationality, and, yes, his energy.
[IVAN follows the STRANGER up the stairs, and into a large, blank room-]
-Although, weren't all the rooms blank? The house was unfinished,
undecorated. This could've been a master bedroom, or a large home office, or a particularly extravagant bathroom; but, now, it was just a blank room. And, whilst there was more going on in here than there was in the hallway, there was little in the way of actual furniture. What replaced it seemed more industrial than domestic; backstage clutter, best kept behind the curtain.
A metal chair sat between two caged and glowing heat-lamps; no doubt a painful place to sit, no doubt
Ivan's place to sit. He looked up at the stranger once more, one last chance to see if he'd change his tune, but the one-eyed stare that met him said more than words ever should. Ivan grit his teeth and lowered himself onto the chair, leaning forwards to keep his back away from the burning metal. His legs hurt, but it wasn't as bad as he was expecting. As with everything else in the house, it was more
uncomfortable than anything else. Was he meant to be thankful for that? Pain was tangible. Pain
meant something. If Ivan was in pain, it would jump-start his brain like a car engine, and he'd be walking out that door in a heartbeat, rather than sitting here in the murk.
"You didn't tell me your name."
"I didn't want you to expect it."
Ivan frowned. The man turned away, walking towards a metal crate at the side of the room; what looked like a coolbox of some sort, if Ivan could be trusted to make out shapes in the darkness. He pulled it forwards, towards the chair, allowing the shriek of metal scraping concrete to fill the room like a swarm of locusts. Ivan winced. The blinking yellow had followed them here, watching from what he assumed must be corners, though the darkness smoothed all edges. The man sat down on the crate, idly turning something over in his hands.
"Stay still." He said,
"You'll make it worse if you move."
Make what worse? And- wait, what
was that thing he was holding, anyway? It was small and rectangular, thin and light. On closer inspection, Ivan recognised what it was almost immediately; a cassette tape. Was... was this the evidence? What kind of caveman idiot records valuable evidence on a fucking cassette tape? Was this some sort of joke?
The man took note of his skepticism, it seemed, as he reached into his pocket and produced a tape player.
(Make
what worse?)
"This is the only copy. Couldn't risk making more- if one got out and got tampered with, it would render the evidence null."
He clicked the tape into place and pressed play, allowing the tinny-voiced ghost of his brother to speak his last words once more- this time, to someone who cared to hear them.
"-ey, look- look! I didn't- what the fuck are you doing? Damon- I-"
"Shut the fuck up! Just- shut up!"
"Damon, I can't- what the fuck am I going to do to you now, huh? I can't fucking shoot you like this! I'm not a threat!"
"You can talk."
"Huh?"
"I said you can talk. That's what matters."
*BANG*
*CLICK*
He stopped the tape.
"It's not much on its own but, combined with what was left at the scene, it's a smoking gun."
He leaned forwards on the crate, resting his elbow against his knee- casual,
too casual, as he had been this whole time. Then, he stood up, walked over to Ivan, and held the tape in front of him, only to snatch it away as soon as he reached up to take it. He let out a laugh; calm and callous. Ivan felt sick.
(Make what worse?)
"Not yet, cowboy." The man smiled through his words; a viscous, cloying tone,
"I've got something else to show you. A favour for a favour, mm-hm? We've got plenty of time later on for this Lament of his."
Ivan had no idea why he remained seated as he stepped away, sitting back down on the crate and sliding the tape into his jacket. Perhaps he felt threatened; perhaps the man would kill him, or destroy the tape, or simply
leave if Ivan showed any signs of disobedience. Yeah. Yeah, that made sense. It made a hell of a lot more sense than anything else he could come up with.
The man pulled out another device; another rectangle, though smaller, more modern than the cassette player before. He looked up, inspecting the ceiling--or perhaps the walls--for something. The yellow lights stared at him, blinking steadily. Then, as he pressed a button, they all turned green-
(Make-
"Lament...?"
-And the speakers all turned on.
[IVAN sits silently and listens.]
-And the speakers all turned on.
[LAMENT sits silently and watches.]
-And the speakers all turned
on.