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It is a testament to what a quiet year they've had that when the tape recorder on John's desk quietly flicks itself on, his first thought is not that something awful is about to happen, but that Martin might be moments away from slipping into his office for something decidedly unrelated to work. Which, given that Daisy is also in the building, seems less like a bold move and more outright certifiable. He glances from the spooling machine to his closed office door and back, uncomprehending, and then jumps when his mobile begins to ring.
Unknown caller. Probably spam. He answers it anyway, reaching toward the tape recorder as he says a distracted, "Hello?"
"Hello, Archivist."
John stills, head crooked at a harried angle, his free hand hovering inches from the recorder's 'off' button as he belatedly remembers the Eye's preferred menu. Any nascent conviction that the call is merely coincidental dissipates at once, washed away by a sudden rush of dread. He lets the recording continue, straightening in his seat.
"Who is this?" he Asks, the compulsion slipping out of him as the recorder hisses its static protestation.
There is a faint burble of sound from the other end of the line. He can't tell whether it's the caller or some sort of interference; the line sounds thready and weak, as if the call is coming not from a modern phone, but a bloody ham radio. "No need for that," the voice says. Its tone is difficult to read. Perhaps amused. "You may call me Indrid Cold."
"Indrid Cold," John repeats, both for the tape's benefit and to insure he has not misheard. The name doesn't ring any bells, and what little he's heard of their voice offers few clues. The audio quality is rubbish in a familiar, dated sort of way that isn't strictly hard to parse, but the voice itself is... odd. He begins to shape another question, but before he can utter so much as a syllable, this 'Indrid Cold' continues.
"Sasha James. You have forgotten her face. Would you like to see her again?"
John's grip on the phone tightens. He cannot answer; he barely remembers to breathe.
"You will," Indrid continues. "The real Sasha, that is. We both know that certain... imposters... need not apply."
"What?" John finally manages to gasp, caught between stricken and furious.
"I'll be in touch, Archivist. In the meantime, I suggest you keep this to yourself." There is a beat of tinny, polluted silence. "You might start by disposing of that tape."
And then the call disconnects.
John almost drops his phone twice in his haste to confirm both that the call has ended and that he can't return it. Then he lets it clatter onto his desk, staring at the device for a few long moments before his gaze shifts to the tape recorder. He reaches out with a trembling hand and presses the 'stop' and 'eject' buttons in as rapid succession as his current state allows. The machine obliges, offering up the tape for extraction. It isn't until his fingertips brush the edge of the tape that intention and instinct collide, and John jerks his hand back as if he's been burned, his chair rolling a few inches away from his desk with the force of his recoil.
"What...?" he whispers again, face ashen.
Unknown caller. Probably spam. He answers it anyway, reaching toward the tape recorder as he says a distracted, "Hello?"
"Hello, Archivist."
John stills, head crooked at a harried angle, his free hand hovering inches from the recorder's 'off' button as he belatedly remembers the Eye's preferred menu. Any nascent conviction that the call is merely coincidental dissipates at once, washed away by a sudden rush of dread. He lets the recording continue, straightening in his seat.
"Who is this?" he Asks, the compulsion slipping out of him as the recorder hisses its static protestation.
There is a faint burble of sound from the other end of the line. He can't tell whether it's the caller or some sort of interference; the line sounds thready and weak, as if the call is coming not from a modern phone, but a bloody ham radio. "No need for that," the voice says. Its tone is difficult to read. Perhaps amused. "You may call me Indrid Cold."
"Indrid Cold," John repeats, both for the tape's benefit and to insure he has not misheard. The name doesn't ring any bells, and what little he's heard of their voice offers few clues. The audio quality is rubbish in a familiar, dated sort of way that isn't strictly hard to parse, but the voice itself is... odd. He begins to shape another question, but before he can utter so much as a syllable, this 'Indrid Cold' continues.
"Sasha James. You have forgotten her face. Would you like to see her again?"
John's grip on the phone tightens. He cannot answer; he barely remembers to breathe.
"You will," Indrid continues. "The real Sasha, that is. We both know that certain... imposters... need not apply."
"What?" John finally manages to gasp, caught between stricken and furious.
"I'll be in touch, Archivist. In the meantime, I suggest you keep this to yourself." There is a beat of tinny, polluted silence. "You might start by disposing of that tape."
And then the call disconnects.
John almost drops his phone twice in his haste to confirm both that the call has ended and that he can't return it. Then he lets it clatter onto his desk, staring at the device for a few long moments before his gaze shifts to the tape recorder. He reaches out with a trembling hand and presses the 'stop' and 'eject' buttons in as rapid succession as his current state allows. The machine obliges, offering up the tape for extraction. It isn't until his fingertips brush the edge of the tape that intention and instinct collide, and John jerks his hand back as if he's been burned, his chair rolling a few inches away from his desk with the force of his recoil.
"What...?" he whispers again, face ashen.
