Dial Tone (Backrooms Fanfic)

Part 4

When I come to, I'm laying on something cool and smooth. Leather, I realize first. The second word that comes to me is "couch." My eyes reach the ceiling, which is smooth and continuous and layered in silent, white light. The room smells sterile, like its recently been painted with antiseptic.

I take in the new sights and smells like breathing oxygen for the first time.

I don't bother lifting my head; instead, I turn it and absently inspect the rest of the room. An office, of some sort, I think. The plaque on the desk says Vice-Director. I can't read the name from here but the organization is clear and familiar to me.

Async.

James said he worked for them. I wonder how he came to be a part of all this and where he might be now.

I hope that the dog is okay.

Someone has laid a blanket over me and finally I sit up a bit and wrap it around my shoulders. I'm not home. I'm not outside. In fact, I don't have the slightest idea where I've ended up. But I've escaped hell. That's all that matters to me.

My head turns at the sound of an opening door. A tall man walks in, dressed nicely, almost formally, and carrying a tray. He sits in a chair across from me, considers me for a moment, then puts the tray down between us.

It's tea and a few sandwiches.

We look at each other for a moment.

"I hope you don't mind roast beef."

His voice is different than I was expecting. From the look of his face, it would be sharp and cutting. Instead, it's just tired. Weary.

I say nothing.

"We don't really have a kitchen here, just laboratories. They don't make the best food."

I eye the roast beef sandwiches with open suspicion.

"That's not where they came from," he adds quickly. "An employee of ours donated his lunch."

This makes me look up. "James?"

For some reason, hearing me speak seems to bring the man immense relief. "No, no. Not him. I'm afraid James is still missing." My head must hang a little. He takes on a lighter tone. "But he's a smart man. He understands the Complex better than any of us, to be frank."

The Complex. So that's what they call it. It sounds about right. Huge and confusing and daunting.

"You're... Cassandra Atkinson." It's a statement, not a question, so I don't answer. I just take a roast beef sandwich. "My name is Ivan Beck."

He says this proudly as if it's something very important I should know.

"I'm the Vice-Director here at Async Research. I oversee a lot of what goes on here, and what goes on, well, in there."

That catches my attention just slightly. So I pour myself a cup of tea. It smells warm and earthy. I take a sip and let it burn down my throat. It feels good. It feels like something.

"... And I want to know, Cassandra, what a pretty young girl like yourself is doing in a place like this? How'd you get in there?"

I take another sip and cough a little on it. "Why is my chest so sore?"

Beck frowns. "You underwent a medical examination while you were unconscious. It's probably a side effect."

I'm irritated that I was examined without my consent but I don't feel like arguing that point. "Is there anything wrong with me?"