|The following is based on Creation Club content and has not been confirmed by canon sources.|
The note can be found at Shroud Manor, in the basement vault.
When I was kidSilver Shroud. I had a hat, a squirt gun I called the Silver Sidearm, and a jacket from my uncle's closet that was three sizes too big. I'd go out into the schoolyard and tell the bullies their time was up, but it never quite worked out the way I wanted to. Life rarely does.
I guess the same could be said for my career as police. I wanted to work myself up to detective, solving murders and putting the bad guys behind bars. Yet here I am, on the other side, working with the very men I swore to put away.
On top of that there's the mansion. Living here, surrounded by all this imagery, it feels fucking surreal. That kid in the oversized jacket would've been thrilled to live in this house. The reality, of course, couldn't be more different.
But however I got here, I'm still a cop, and I've got a job to do. I've managed to get Trevisani to start using a holotape. My hope is that the fat fuck will make my job easier by incriminating himself.
I've been trying for weeks to get Trevisani to open up about the business, but he's been reluctant to mention what happened to the carpenter crew. On the other hand, it makes for a good excuse for why I won't sleep with him. If he won't budge, then neither will I.
Of course, if he does budge I might have a problem, but that's why God invented handcuffs.
I might have more luck snooping around. I caught one of his goons blabbing to his friend about taking someone for a drive down river. It's a long shot, but it might be worth mentioning to the Sarge next time I see him.
I left a note at the Warren and let my frustrations be known. I've given them the location of the bodies, information on Trevisani's operation, and the existence of his secret vault.
But Lieutenant Mitchell's still frustrated that the initial raid turned up nothing, and now he won't so much as scratch his balls unless I have Trevisani confessing to the goddamn Lindbergh kidnapping.
Compared to busting jaywalkers and pushing papers, going undercover seemed like a big break. But this is way beyond what I signed up for. I'm starting to question whether the department truly has my back. Either way, I'm gonna have to do something risky if I want out.
The irony is he was willing to tell me everything, but only after everything else. When I asked him flat out if he murdered those carpenters, he got rough. I got rougher.
I'm not sure how I'm gonna get out of this. There's a guard at the door at all times, so I can't get out. But I can't stay in either, because at some point I'm gonna run out of food or his men are gonna get suspicious.
It's hard to process just what happened last week. Even though it's on the monitors, I still can't believe it's real.
Inside the house, everyone's dropping like flies. Trevisani's gang, the help, everybody. Bless those carpenters. I don't know what materials they used to build these walls, but somehow it's keeping me alive.
Pretty soon I'll be the only one left, which means I finally have a way out. But into what world, I don't even know. And the way my skin's looking, I'm not sure I'll live long enough to see it.
It's been thirty years since I've picked up this holotape. Not sure how much space is even left on this thing.
First thing I did when I got out was head to the station. Dead or not, I was gonna check in the evidence on Trevisani, close the case, and maybe have a drink with Sergeant Callahan's corpse. I showed up in full uniform, with a badge and a baton and everything, but no one was there. Then I opened up the Sergeant's terminal. Big mistake.
It turns out they didn't give a shit about my safety. They left me in this house of horrors to get raped, killed, who knows what.
I guess I should be thanking them. If they pulled me out, I would've been blown to bits along with the rest of the world. But it still doesn't make it right.
So I tossed my baton in a box and burned my uniform. From that day on, I was done being police.
A hundred years since the bombs dropped, and I'm still alive. In fact, I've turned into quite the successful mob boss.
Living in this house, it was only natural to use the resources it provided. I took the connections Trevisani built through his fake comic book business, and found some were still alive and kicking. Together we rebuilt the organization the same way he did, from small time protection rackets to smuggling chems and deals with the mayor.
Of course, in that world I'm Candy, the old boss' main squeeze. Not that it's a lie. I've spent more time as Trevisani's so-called Mistress of Mystery than I ever did as a cop.
But these days I'm starting to feel nostalgic. If I'm still alive, I'm beginning to wonder who else survived. Case in point, the other day on the monitors I saw someone that looked like Sergeant Callahan. The boys might think I'm crazy, but he had on that same cheap tan suit he always wore, with a ticket in his breast pocket. It was for the Warren Theater.
After the war, the thing you tell survivors is to head back to old haunts. If you met your friends at a bar on Saturdays, go back to that same bar and see if your pals show up. If Callahan is out there, maybe he stops by the Warren every now and then for a drink. Maybe that ticket is his way of identifying himself to an old friend. If only he knew.
A century is a long time to hold a grudge, but time was never a concern for him. Why should it be for me.