Sam Wilde - Tumblr Posts

The Art of a Moment

Summary: This wasn't art.

A look into one of the most intense moments of the game, in Sam's perspective.

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Sam clutched his handbag close when he faced the cold weather outside, shivering involuntarily at the gust of wind that hit him and wiping his nose using the end of his sleeve for the seventh time. The weather was the last thing on his mind right now; he was focused on saving the love of his life and solving the puzzles of this masked maniac. It was hard enough to constantly keep track of what items he had and where he needed to go. His mind was always working and thinking - he doubted he would have a moment of rest until Anna was back in his arms. 

He entered the generator and the intercom above flashed a green light. He was met with the familiar voice of Oscar: 

“I heard once that true art lives in a sparkling moment… that it’s a flash, leaving a bright trace, and is remembered for a lifetime… it never becomes routine…. Do you understand what I mean, Sam?”

He was going on about art and immortality again. Sam really couldn’t care about Oscar’s monologuing. He was constantly putting himself and his ‘art’ on a pedestal. It was enough to have to see the embalmed vessels of dead bodies, but he also had to put up with this man’s justifications for them. He didn’t care how it was done - murder was murder , and he was going to put an end to this bloodshed of young people. 

Sam was grateful for the green scarf wrapped around his person, as he had to return indoors and re-enter the freezer so he could smash some ice to obtain what was underneath. As he reeled back into position, wielding the icepick in both hands, he could hear a voice enabling him from around the room: 

“Go on, Sam, smash that anger out of you, but things are going to change… soon.” 

 And maybe he did. Maybe those grunts weren’t out of exhaustion, but of anger , of realizing what predicament he was in, of thinking of all those innocent people immortalized in green chambers. From musing how a murderer like Oscar could convince himself that thieving these people of their lives to entertain his sick view of mortality was nothing but a favor done to the victims he claimed. 

Sam scowled as he dropped the icepick. Anna was what was important. He could deal with all of this later. 

He pressed a button and a keycard emerged from the frozen device. He knew what it was for. He traversed the house and returned to a locked room he previously could not access. He slid the keycard in and was prompted to enter a code. He grabbed his journal and flipped through the pages until he found the combination he’d written down. A smart move - he had a hard time memorizing what he came across with all that was going on. 

127530.

The moment he entered the code, the door unlocked itself and he threw it open impatiently. He was once again taunted by the cool voice from the intercom above: 

“Ready or not..!” 

This was nothing more than a sick game to him..!

Sam grit his teeth angrily as he moved forward. Anger was a very powerful thing, something he normally did not feel to such a degree, and he felt it pooling more and more inside of himself. He’d reported on stories that sickened him and exposed unjustful doings of people and companies…but nothing stirred him like this . 

He wasn’t surprised to find himself in a rubber room. Someone like Oscar probably needed it. The door across from him was open and feeding light into the dim room. He could see a sliver of elaborate wallpaper beyond it and determined that it led somewhere new. As he moved to cross the threshold, the door suddenly slammed shut - trapping Sam in the padded cell. The light above him flickered off, closing him in complete darkness. 

His heart raced as his eyes widened, overcome with a sense of fear. Yes, Oscar must have control over the doors and lights. It made sense, if he had gone through the trouble of wiring up his intercom system and placing these puzzles everywhere. But he hadn’t done anything like this before - and it took Sam completely aback. 

He had no time to react any further. Oscar’s voice became the only sound in the room. The giddiness in his tone made Sam’s stomach twist unpleasantly. 

“Well, I’ve decided, Sam. I decided to try a new kind of art. The art of a moment will fill the house today. Get ready..!” 

There was a pause, although he was not done recording. Sam took this opportunity to attempt to find a handle on the door, but there was none. He tried banging on it but it did not budge. It was clear that the only way it would move was when Oscar decided to control it again. 

He listened intently to the sound of the killer’s own footsteps. He was clearly walking down a hallway, as Sam recognized the sound of heels hitting hard tile. Why was he still recording if he wasn’t speaking? Whatever was coming next didn’t bode well, and the journalist found himself holding his breath and tensing every muscle in his body so as to prepare for it. 

Oscar started speaking again, but it clearly wasn’t to Sam. There was the sound of glasses moving, of murmured voices and conversation carried far in the background. Were there…other people here? Besides him ? 

“Distinguished guests, as you all know, today I prepared a private presentation of my new variety of Goldvale Whiskey. Its wonderful taste and aroma will astound you. So let us drink.” 

He listened - horrified - to the audible sound of clinking glasses. There were groans, he even heard a voice asking ‘what was that? ’, before the recording was overcome with coughing and exclamations of agony. There was the sound of tables being knocked over, glasses shattering on the floor, woman audibly fainting and exclaiming…Sam processed all this with his jaw agape and desperately tried at the door again. No matter how much he pounded and attempted to rip at the padded walls with his fingernails…nothing happened. 

He didn’t even know when he started screaming. He was exclaiming at the top of his lungs to warn those people to get out of there - don’t drink the whiskey! - this was a murdering madman and they were at his mercy!!! 

The column he’d written in the Wellshire Telegraph briefly flashed before his eyes. His warning to the public, of the man who moved in the same rich, highly educated circles who was firm in conviction. That he could be anyone - even naming a random situation like a business partner inviting someone to a charity dinner in his mansion. He compared him to a chameleon - changing to fit his surroundings, suspecting him to reside in a country mansion. 

Has Oscar gained inspiration from his column? His random example of masking himself and inviting others to dinner? Except now it was a whiskey presentation? 

Sam wanted to pull his hair. He wanted to scream his lungs out. The murderer’s voice rang over the intercom, sounding disgusted and disappointed with what just happened. 

“And they call this The Art? Mass murderers are not worthy to stand with me! Oh, now I ruined so many beautiful showpieces and I will never forgive myself for that!” 

The light flickered back on and the door opened again. Sam hesitated before moving out and into the room that he had been sealed from. A horrifying sight greeted him - five bodies laying limply on the couches and chairs, facing a table with a bottle of poisoned whiskey and four full shot glasses. He could see the shattered remains of one by one of the bodies, who had dropped his share in the fit of the moment. 

He was in a room full of dead bodies. Not one embalmed and dressed person - but several people, who had been breathing and talking mere minutes ago. The aura of death reeked heavily here and he could almost taste it on his tongue. He feared touching them because he knew they would still be warm. They were fresh and effective kills - not a sight of a massacre, but several murders, nonetheless. 

As his eyes studied the scene, widened and full of discernment, Oscar’s voice surfaced in the room. 

“Are you condemning me? Well…I must admit you’re right. That was…sloppy.” 

Sloppy . 

That was how he was going to describe it? Because they weren’t preserved pieces of ‘art’? Oscar single handedly poisoned five people by hosting a fake presentation, while also monitoring and steering Sam in this gigantic circle of a puzzle. How and when did this happen? Had he planned for this to happen, and have him witness the sounds of people dying? 

He felt sick. He felt numb. He had no idea how to grasp this situation as his eyes hovered over the slumped bodies. He started imagining Anna as one of them, eyes shut and no longer moving. Just the thought caused him to retch a little in his mouth, and he adamantly turned away from the sight. 

His hand shook as he went to record this in his journal. 

This wasn’t art.

To get around the whole Sam-having-a-voice-recorder plot hole thing, Oscar should've nabbed that and his journal when he was unconscious. So Sam could've woken up to the sight of him flipping through what he wrote and tsking.

"Sam? You seem to have written here that you were going to 'stop me' and see 'who's playing whose game'. How did that work out for you? Care to give any updates on that?"

I always think about the ending scene to Brink of Consciousness: Dorian Gray Syndrome. Anna saved Sam and the two of them are safely reunited back at home - but they had no idea Oscar survived the fall and escaped Goldvale Manor until they watch the news report later that night.

Can you imagine, for those 2+ weeks, how uneasy they would be? Knowing their killer is still on the loose? Sam *knowing* that Oscar blends in to his surroundings, and how hard it would be to spot him on the streets..? The fear that they're still being tracked down and more young people will get killed?