Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you ready?”

Mark glanced up from where he sat—on the edge of the bed that could very well be his grave—to see Reghabi standing over him, some kind of medical device in hand. He nodded, locking eyes with her: partly to show her he meant it, and partly to keep from looking at whatever she was holding.

“Okay,” she said. “And you’ve already called out for tomorrow?”

That had been a whole thing on its own: because his innie had no way of knowing he had to fake being sick, Reghabi had insisted on Mark doing anything he could to make sure he felt like shit today. That had meant minimal food, no water (to create some semblance of a sore throat), and no sleep the night before. He still wasn’t entirely himself—though in the grand scheme of things, he figured he probably never would be again.

“Yeah,” he responded, wiping his hands on his jeans. “All set to go, I guess.”

“Look at me, Mark,” she said. He did. “When you wake up, you’re going to be confused.”

He thought about Petey. “I know. I’ve seen.”

Reghabi almost smiled. It wasn’t kind. “No, you haven’t. When you met Peter Kilmer, he’d already been reintegrated for almost two weeks. Sure, his…behavior didn’t do him any favors, but the first forty-eight hours are a critical period. Do you understand what I mean by this?”

His mouth felt dry. “Um,” he tried. “Sort of, yeah.”

“What I mean,” she continued, perching next to him on the bed, “is that I’m going to have to do things that are going to scare you. Injections, samples, things like that. Most likely, you’ll need to be restrained.”

“I– I mean, like, sure, okay,” he said, puzzled. “Whatever you need to do, right?”

“I know you understand, Mark. You’re a smart man.” She brought a hand up and, to Mark’s surprise, touched his shoulder. “But very soon, you’re not going to remember this conversation. So I need you to look me in the eyes, right now, and I need you to believe down to your core that I’m here to help you. That you can trust me.”

Mark exhaled; hated how shaky it sounded. “Does it help? If I do?”

Reghabi smiled. Shrugged. “Well, it can’t hurt,” she said, “but you are only my second patient.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “Fair enough.”

Reghabi didn’t respond. She was already over at the small cart by the bed: checking and double checking her army of small tools, rearranging them into different—more efficient?—configurations. “Lie down, Mark. We don’t have much time.”

For a second, he thought about bolting; about grabbing his coat and speeding away. Using his fake sick day to hang out with Devon, or maybe asking Alexa for another shot. Living his life, day after day, like he had the past two years.

But, fuck. Gemma was in there. His stomach lurched, and all of a sudden everything was urgent, immediate: what the fuck had he been doing? How did he not know, somehow? Hell, why was he even getting reintegrated in the first place instead of blowing a hole in the side of the Lumon building? That tape Petey had played him—if they had her living in there, living through that—God, he had to do something. He had to do something now.

“Mark? You still with me?”

His head snapped over to Reghabi—and finally, bravely, to what she had in her hand: some kind of drill, it looked like, which made sense. Strangely, it put him at ease. Whatever that thing did to him, he wasn’t going to come out of it the same. This was it. This was him doing something.

He nodded once, then lay down on the table. Sorry about this, he thought to his innie: one last, futile message in a bottle while it still mattered. Don't hate me. His memory of the operation stopped there.

Once he was out—once the thing was done—Reghabi changed. She held his hand, talked him through it. Was Devon, was Gemma, was Petey, was Helly—whomever he called out for in the moment. It wasn’t personal; just part of the job. Mark would never know about it, either way.

Eventually, finally, his breathing evened out. Reghabi set an alarm for an hour later, sat herself in a chair, and joined him.

Mark woke up almost exactly twenty-four hours later to the sight of a doctor—Reghabi, some part of him thought, that was her name—waving a hand in front of his face. He blinked, looked around.

“W–” he tried, hoarse, “which one am I?”

Reghabi just looked at him, mouth a firm line. He craned his neck, glanced from side to side. This didn’t look like Lumon. The outie, then. That made sense. But then why–?

Pain cut him off mid-thought, searing its way down his brainstem and into his spine. He thought he heard Reghabi curse under her breath, the clattering of some drawers, but it all felt very far away. He squeezed his eyes shut, fingers straining as his hands tried to clench even further into fists. He was trying not to panic, but God, hadn’t he just stepped into the elevator? Had they made another plan to activate the OTC? He didn’t remember it feeling like this the first time.

Maybe, he thought helplessly, it’s like childbirth. So horrible that your brain makes you forget.

He felt something wet on his upper lip, tasted it, realized his nose was bleeding. Thought, oh, like Petey. Then, horrified: when did I ever see Petey like that? And suddenly he was too many places at once, none of them right: watching helplessly from his desk as Petey took the fall for him, stumbling hollow-eyed out of the break room day after day; pounding half-heartedly on the office vending machine as Dylan laughed from behind him; sitting in the Wellness lobby, waiting to see Gemma—no, Ms. Casey. Who’s Gemma? And then his heart soared, higher, higher, his innie half feeling all at once what it was like to fall in love with her.

She’s in there, someone said, she’s in there, she’s in there, and it sounded like his own voice; a mantra carried through his brain over and over, centrifugal force pinning it to his skull. And he realized he was right, and what that really meant, and he knew he was going to get her out. It was possible. Petey had done it. He did?

Another bolt of pain shot through his skull, and if he’d been standing he’d have sunk to his knees. There it was: the bleeding, the funeral. God, he’d come and found him. All those days spent agonizing over what he could’ve done differently, he’d been going home to Petey—disheveled and beautiful on his basement couch, wrapped in Ricken’s stupid fucking robe. Even then, he couldn’t save him. Maybe he just wasn’t the saving type.

Mark, a voice said. Mark, I need you to hold still. Was he not? He couldn’t tell. But then it went dark again, and the issue was suddenly, blissfully out of his hands.

The work day ended. Mark said goodbye to Irving, thankful it wasn’t his job to shut the office down anymore (like everything else, it had gotten repetitive). He put his jacket on, stepped into the elevator, blinked, and found himself strapped to a bed. The room was dark, cold. If Mark wasn’t so used to being underground, he might have clocked it as a basement—but much as a fish doesn’t feel wet, the thought never crossed his mind.

“What?” he said. “Hello?”

“Mark?” a woman’s voice called. “Are you awake?”

“Helly?” But he knew it wasn’t. “Or, who…who’s there?”

A woman in a lab coat came in, which probably wasn’t a good sign. New people at Lumon rarely were. He must have really fucked up, this time. Maybe it was delayed retribution for his plea to the board. Or maybe, he thought, taking stock of the medical equipment surrounding him, I’m dying. It didn’t seem too far-fetched. The Lumon he’d come to know (the Lumon that was apparently hiding—resurrecting? kidnapping?—people’s presumed-dead wives) would absolutely have a dripping fucking hospital room hidden somewhere in its halls.

“Here,” the woman said, handing him two small pills, “take these.”

Mark blinked, looked down at his hand. When had she untied him?

The pills started to dissolve a little in his hand. “Am I dying?”

The woman shook her head, but her face remained completely unreadable; something about the whole situation told him that death had not been entirely out of the question.

She guided the hand with the pills up toward his mouth, then handed him a glass of water. “I know what you’re thinking, but it looks good. Your readings are much better than Peter’s were at this stage.”

Mark’s brow creased. “Peter? Who–” he dropped the pills in his lap, absentmindedly shaking the residue off his hand. “Sorry, Petey? Petey K.? Is he back?”

The woman’s eyes widened. She collected the pills and water, then turned to open a cabinet behind her.

“Hello? Lady?” No response. Mark’s heart was racing like he missed a stair. “Look, I– what do you mean at this stage? Did you do something to him?”

She came back, this time with syringe in hand. They killed him, he thought, oh my God, I knew it. They fucking killed him. He tried to move but his legs felt heavy, unused.

“Please,” he said, “please, if you’re going to kill me, just tell me what happened to him. I– I deserve to know. I won’t tell anyone.” He laughed, high and strained. “I mean, not that I even could, if–”

“Mark,” the woman said, and he braced himself: for what, he wasn’t sure.

She bent down until her eyes were level with his. One of her hands landed on his arm. Mark still couldn’t read her, and he hated that.

“I’m a friend of Peter’s,” she said. “Petey’s. His last name is Kilmer.” She paused, considering. “Yours is Scout.”

Mark sat, mouth half-open. It was far from the most earth-shattering news he’d gotten this week, but he still wasn’t used to people volunteering that kind of thing. Kilmer, Scout, his brain echoed, almost sing-song. Scout, Kilmer, Kilmer, Scout. “Is…” he swallowed; it didn’t help. “Is he okay?”

The woman’s eyes kept flitting over his face. Mark felt like she was checking him for holes. “He introduced me to your outie. He wanted me to get you out of there.”

Hope fluttered in his chest. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

She paused. “Not yet.”

Yet. Mark could live with that. “Okay. That’s okay.”

“Do you trust me?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then froze. On the right lapel of her white coat, he saw it: a Lumon teardrop, embroidered in thick, black thread. His throat closed up.

“Mark. Mark, look at me.”

He did, against his better judgement. Looked right into her eyes; saw nothing at all.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said, before he could even think about it. It was true, he realized, and he had no idea why.

She sighed. “Good. This is going to sting.” And then the syringe in her hand was poking into Mark’s neck, blurring his vision at the edges.

“You’re just regulating,” he heard her say from underwater. “You’ll feel better soon.”

Regulating, he thought. I’m regulating.

“Though, for the record,” she said, “if you do remember this later, I’m sorry for lying.”

Before Mark could even begin to parse what she meant, he was back under.

When Mark’s memory started back up, he was sitting upright, eating a slice of white bread. He looked down at it, puzzled. Was this a dream?

“–two hours for the next three days,” someone was saying. He looked up. Reghabi was staring at him expectantly.

“...Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“I said, you need to eat something every two hours for the next three days. At least.” She looked him up and down. “I’ll tell your sister, too, in case you forget.”

Mark nodded. “So, it went okay? Like, I’m just the one guy now?”

She sat in a chair by his bed. Mark noticed she had her own slice of bread, though—and pathetically, he felt a little jealous about this—she had spread some butter on hers.

“I don’t know,” she said. “You tell me.”

Mark thought for a second. He remembered Devon, but either of them could’ve said that. Remembered Ricken—how he used to be, before Gemma died and everything became about Meaning. And he remembered Irving, too, sneaking off to O&D, and Dylan cursing Petey out for scooting his mug of finger traps right to the edge of his desk.

“I think so. I think it’s me.” Mark looked at her. “All of me, I mean. Or– both?”

Reghabi sighed in relief, rubbing her face with one hand. “Whatever you want to call it, Mark. Just let me get a drink first.”

Chapter Text

Mark was determined to be the best patient Reghabi had ever seen. Not that he had much of a choice—after what happened with Petey, she'd sent him to a well-prepped Devon’s for a week (no Ricken, thank God; he didn’t know what Mark was doing, but he’d agreed to take Eleanor to his parents’ for a while). If, after a week of monitoring and medication, the effects were still severe, there was nothing more that could be done for him.

Getting back to the house was a blur. Devon set him up in Eleanor’s room (insisting he took the real bed, this time) with a glass of water on the bedside table.

“Thanks,” Mark said, covers up to his chin. “Sorry for, uh, putting you out.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she replied. “I’ll be back in two hours to shove some food down your throat.”

Mark groaned.

“Yeah, I know. Love you too,” she said, and shut the door.

Cautiously—because he knew he wasn’t about to sleep—he started to sort through what he could remember. And then it all fell apart.

He thought of the way Petey had looked at him in the diner, of how he’d felt nothing for him. Wanted to go back, to kiss him, to scream it’s me! I’m here! and tell him he finally got his stupid joke. He thought of Gemma, fuck, his wife, beautiful and unharmed and alive, thought of her candle burning between them, of you know, I never, like…Ms. Casey and I never felt that way—’Ms. Casey,’ Jesus Christ, who was he? He remembered seeing her in the morgue, burnt all over, finality incarnate. Remembered Petey, God, that was Petey who had died alone in that parking lot, eyes wide and pleading for a version of Mark that wasn’t there.

And there was so much more. Little things, like Mark secretly, guiltily agreeing that Ms. Casey was strange. Meeting June at the funeral; not having known Petey well enough to see him in the way her eyes narrowed and her arms hung at her sides.

He wished his innie was there so he could choke him to death. Wished he could thank his outie for trying and break his nose for doing it wrong. But it didn’t matter anymore, he realized, because they were both just him. And, sure, he could kill himself, but one simple fact—one matter of unfinished business—still loomed over his head: Gemma was in there. And he could doom himself any day of the week, but he could never, ever do the same to her.

Mark woke up in Kier Eagan’s replica bed: confused, thoroughly weirded out, and wishing he could go home. Whatever that even means, he thought.

“Hello?” He said. “Anyone?”

No response. When had he fallen asleep?

“Do I leave now? Or is there– is there more?”

“Mark?”

He looked up. There was a woman standing in the doorway—Devon, he remembered. His sister. He had a sister. What was she doing in Perpetuity? Hell, what was he doing there? Petey had promised not to make him refiner of the quarter anymore. His palms were sweating, he realized. And then he looked back up, and it wasn’t Devon anymore—who was Devon?—it was Woe, and she was shaking him lightly.

“Is it over?” Mark said. “Sorry, I must have–” He tried to get up, but she stopped him.

“Woah there, slugger,” she said, “not sure you’re ready for that just yet.” And that was weird, right? They weren’t supposed to speak, were they?

And then it was over, and Devon was Devon again. Mark froze.

She frowned. “You feeling okay?”

Mark scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“Still not all here, huh?” Devon asked. He shook his head. “She said it would probably be like that.” She put a sandwich—where had that come from?—on the bedside table. “You were talking in your sleep. Something about a waffle party?”

Mark laughed, low and dry. “God, you do not want to know.” He took his hand off his face; looked at her, then at the sandwich. He started eating.

“Weird Lumon shit?”

“God, yeah,” he said, mouth full. “Like, I knew they were weird—both of me did. I mean, the goats!” That got an eyebrow raise out of Devon, but she didn’t interrupt. “But it’s like this feedback loop: I remember something from Lumon, and then I get to look at it with, like, the context of the whole world. And I think, what the fuck was he doing in there? And then I think about the world in the context of Lumon, and I’m like—oh, that was really weird, what they were doing to us. Like, even for other companies.” He met Devon’s eyes. “Does that make sense?”

“Not even a little bit,” she said. “But don’t get too down on yourself. You have time to workshop it.”

He laughed. “Well, thank God for that, I guess.”

It went surprisingly okay, considering. Devon, Mark knew, was a saint: feeding him every two hours (though not without plenty of comparisons to Eleanor), bringing him back when his mind sent him hurtling through time, and listening to him recount whatever escapades he’d just relived. By the third day—when the pills ran out and Mark could finally eat at human intervals—it almost felt normal.

They were standing over Devon’s laptop at her kitchen island, jotting down notes as they tried to locate the rest of MDR’s outies. Dylan had been pretty easy (a disused LinkedIn profile had come up on the first page of results for dylan g* “lumon”). Irving was slightly more difficult, but his name was uncommon enough that when they saw it on a decade-old local news write-up of a gallery opening, they were fairly sure they had their man.

Helly, though, was a different beast entirely. Even after hours of searching and countless shots at "R" surnames, it was as if she didn't exist. Something about the whole situation was nagging at Mark, but try as he might, he couldn’t crack what he was missing.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, they were both getting hungry, and Mark’s grip on reality was starting to slip—nothing like those first couple of days, thankfully, but him being tired didn’t help. He knew they’d have to stop for the night, but it was Devon who called it.

“Well,” she said, shutting the laptop, “maybe she doesn’t want to be found. I mean, you said her outie’s, like, a total bitch, right?”

Mark just looked up at her, eyes bleary and overwhelmed.

She sighed. “We’ll try again in the morning. Okay? But you clearly need some sleep.” She went to open the fridge, then paused. “Maybe we can start with Petey tomorrow. Like a warm-up.”

Mark froze. “What?”

She turned to look at him. She was tense, Mark saw, but her voice stayed level—like she wanted to give him the chance to play it off. “Petey. I hear you calling out for him, sometimes. He’s one of your work friends, right?”

He looked down at his hands. Imagined himself picking at the skin of his palm, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Yeah. He was.”

“So, what? He quit? Got fired?”

He took a deep breath in, still not looking at her. “Um…sort of. Not really. He did the same thing as me.”

“What, reintegrating? ” He looked up to see Devon staring at him, mouth half-open. He nodded. “Oh, cool, great. So you were going to tell me this when, exactly?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t, um. I didn’t want you to worry? So I didn’t say anything. But it’s looking like it’s okay now, so there’s nothing to worry about anyway?”

“Mark, what the fuck are you talking about?”

He exhaled, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Do you remember that businessman? The one from your yard?”

“Vaguely?”

Mark grimaced. “Okay, well. You were in labor, so that’s actually fair.” He opened his eyes, keeping them locked on the counter in front of him. “So, that was Petey. He was Reghabi’s first-ever reintegration patient. And it, um.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Well, it killed him. I watched him die.” He looked up, expecting the worst, and got it: Devon was staring at him like he was a deer with a broken leg.

“And you knew him? Inside?”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, we–” and then he couldn’t speak anymore; didn’t trust his voice. He looked down at his shoes, gripping the edge of the counter in both hands. Focused on blinking until he felt he could move again.

And there was Devon’s voice again, closer this time. “Mark, if–”

“No, ha.” He turned around, avoiding her eyes, and headed for the stairs. “You’re right. It’s been a long day. We’ll find Helly tomorrow.”

“Mark,” he heard her say, but he was already gone.

The next day’s search was another bust, and Mark and Devon found themselves migrating to the living room—which wasn’t really giving up, Mark thought guiltily, just taking a break—at around hour 4. They turned on the TV, and for a second, it almost felt like real life: like when, once in a blue moon, Ricken’s retreats and Gemma’s conferences would sync up, and Devon would gleefully tell Mark to haul his lonely ass over to her place for the night.

But she wasn’t one to let things lie. “So, you guys were pretty close, then?”

Mark turned his head; stared at her blankly.

“You and Petey. You were close?”

His head jerked, shaking “no” like it was a reflex. He turned back toward the TV. “Could we not talk about this right now? It’s just been, like, a lot lately.”

“Hey, look, if you need some time, I totally get it. I’m just trying to get the full picture, here.”

Mark clapped his hands together, opening his mouth. Tried to make the words come out. “I just don’t want you to think I was, like...I don’t even know.”

“Like what?”

He looked back up at her; steeled himself. “Devon, I moved on in there.” He paused, searching her face. “Like, really moved on.”

She frowned. “With…”

He sighed. “Yes, fuck. With Petey. Sorry.”

“Mark, that’s okay. You know that’s okay, right?” She shifted, moving closer to him. “You think I don’t want you to be happy? That’s all I want. Hell, that's why I set you up with Alexa.”

He snorted. “Oh, yeah. Because that went so well.”

“I mean, your words. But the point stands. You’re allowed to let yourself have things, you know.”

“I know.” He stared into his lap. “Or, like, I know you feel that way. But it was different.” How could he even put it? “It was more. And so soon after the– I mean, I didn’t even know there was anything to move on from. It was like–” he choked up; collected himself. “Like she never even–”

“Mark. Hey, Mark.” She bundled his hands in hers, leaning in until he was forced to meet her eyes. “That wasn’t you. You weren’t there.”

Something in his face must have shifted. Mark watched her realize her mistake.

He cut her off before she could speak. “It’s okay,” he said. “But it was. I was. I know it’s probably easy to forget that I’m, uh, both of them now.” He exhaled—a little too sharp. “And forever, I guess.”

For a moment, Devon looked distraught—then, decisive. “Okay, fine. Maybe it was you. But you weren’t you.” She kept going, steamrolling his attempts to argue. “You weren't out here, either. Not all the way. Not since you started at Lumon. But you are now. No more sequestering parts of yourself, right? No more only having half the story.” She cupped his face in both hands, just like she used to do when they were kids: see?, she’d tell her school friends, pinching his cheeks, he’s just a baby!. “You’re my brother, Mark. They both were, too, but you especially are. And I’ll always love you—whoever you are, as long as we’re around.”

Mark wiped at his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, “that baby really did a number on you, huh?”

She smiled, shoving him lightly into the couch as she stood up. “Whatever, dude. I’m ordering dinner. My choice.”

Mark closed his eyes, tipped his head back. Listened to the room: the whirring of the central heat, the roof creaking in the wind, the murmur of the evening news. Your choice, he thought. That sounds nice.

A few hours (and two pizzas) later, Devon caved.

“Can you tell me about him?”

Mark jerked like he’d been shot, wine glass straining under his grip. “I–”

“Because I knew Gemma, right, and I loved– I love her. And when you’re ready, I want to hear what she’s like, um, in there.” She ran a hand through her hair. “But I can’t imagine Lumon lets you talk about that kind of thing. And it’s not like anyone out here knows to ask.”

“I, uh…” he tapped the glass, one-two-three one-two-three. “It’s hard to explain, I guess.”

“Try me? Please?”

He looked up at the ceiling, then at her. His eyes shone. “Um…” His voice was soft, teetering between laughing at himself and crying. “He was the first voice I ever heard. The first face I ever saw." He cleared his throat. “I know that isn’t something that really…translates to out here, but it still makes it…I don’t know. It’s just a whole other thing. Logically, I know I only knew him for two years—and also logically, I know I’m way older than that—but I can’t, like, square it. I don’t feel like I’ve ever lived without him.”

Devon smiled. “So you were, like…adult childhood sweethearts, or whatever?”

Mark laughed: because it was funny, because it wasn’t. “Yeah. I guess we kind of were.” He went silent, refilling their glasses to stall for time.

“I always–” he started, then considered his wording. “After Gemma, sometimes I wished I’d never seen her– like that. Or I’d see people on the news, people with missing kids, and I’d think, fuck, those kids are dead for sure, but at least everyone lets them act like they aren’t. But now…I mean, God, when he just stopped showing up–”

“It was worse,” Devon guessed, tentative.

Mark considered that. He thought about the weeks after Gemma died: her body, her parents, her funeral. Her clothes still on the floor, her coffee still on the desk—lukewarm, then cold, then white with mold. He’d left it there when he moved.

“No,” he said, and he meant it. “Just different.”

“Mm. Yeah.” Devon took a long drink, smacking her lips as it went down. “So. When did you guys start, um…”

“I don’t know. Time is…it’s hard, in there. As you can probably imagine. But it didn't take long.” Not long enough, he thought.

Devon nodded.

“We were best friends. And then, you know.”

And she couldn’t, not really, but Mark did. He knew that talking to Petey had felt like doubles tennis—every shared grin a point scored against the other two refiners, game-set-match, undefeated and undefeatable. Knew the thrill that went through him when he realized they had been finishing each other's sentences for weeks; the thrum in his veins whenever Petey reached over to hand him a pen without looking. They understood each other, then, and it kept Mark happy enough to believe in the mysterious, important Work for almost two years.

Devon hummed, bringing him back to the present. “Yeah.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and started to idly play with his hands. What could he tell her? “He was…a good leader. Better than me. He cared about people. I mean, God, the shit he had to put up with my first week. I tried—really tried, you know, to be like that for Helly, but I don’t think I did a very good job.”

Devon snorted. “Well, you have to cut yourself a little slack. There are only so many ways you can say,”—and here, she gestured broadly, wine sloshing at the sides of her glass—”hey, welcome to Hell; feel free to chill the fuck out at your earliest convenience!”

Mark cracked a smile. “Yeah. I guess not, huh? And none of them ever really worked on me, either. Obviously I was right to freak out, but it took me a while to realize Petey knew that. And by that point, I was already… man, you would’ve hated me. Throwing myself on every sword in sight.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He paused. Tapped on his glass some more. “I told you about the break room?” he asked, and she nodded. “I think– I think that was what started it. Not right away, but there was a shift. The third time I went.”

Devon’s eyebrows shot up, like she hadn’t considered how many times Mark had been subjected to that. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to tell her.

“It…I must have pissed him off pretty bad,” he laughed. “Milchick, I mean. They kept me in there for a whole week. I started to forget who I was—or, you know, what little there was to forget at that point.”

“Jesus, Mark.”

“That’s not the point.” He didn’t tell her the rest: the ruler snapped over his knuckles, again and again. Cobel giving him a change of clothes on his way in so his outie wouldn’t notice if he pissed himself. The way his joints cracked all week, both inside Lumon and out, and how he always came home with migraines so piercing that his innie would stumble near-sleepless out of the elevator the next morning.

He breathed in. “The point is, Petey took care of me.” And he couldn’t really tell Devon about that, either. Not about him sobbing on the floor of the supply closet; not about Petey holding him, face pressed into Mark’s hair, whispering I promise you, kid, it won’t be like this forever. “He loved me. I think…I think he reintegrated because of me.”

Devon furrowed her eyebrows. “How?”

“When I met him out here,” and that hurt, he thought; hurt the same way it did to think about seeing Gemma in Wellness without ever seeing her, “he played me a recording of the break room. But it was me in there. I think he snuck it out somehow—scratched the writing off the tape, maybe, or unspooled the ribbon. Which is so– God, so stupid. Like, it doesn’t make any sense. What did he think was going to happen? That his outie would hear my voice and think, ‘oh, well, if Mark is in trouble, I’d better get in there!’ I mean, if it worked like that, Gemma wouldn’t–” but he couldn’t finish that thought, could he? “But it makes sense for him. That he would believe that. It just also makes me want to kill myself.” He looked up at her. “Kidding, kidding.”

“I mean, maybe that is what happened,” Devon said. “He did come and find you, right?”

Mark smiled thinly. “I guess so. We used to joke about that. At least, I thought they were jokes.” He cleared his throat. “When he stopped coming to work, he left me a map of the severed floor. Totally against protocol. I was furious.”

“Why?”

“I thought he didn’t trust me, you know? And he was right not to. I was such a kiss-ass—looking back on it, I want to believe I would’ve helped him, but...I don't know.” But he had trusted him, even when Mark didn't know him. Mark didn't even know where to begin with that.

He took a deep breath. "And then he left, and I didn’t have anything to lose anymore.” For a split second, he was at Lumon again: holding Helly’s legs in the elevator, hoping to God she was still alive. “At least, for a little while.”

She paused, trying to read his face. “Did you and Helly ever– you said she kissed you, but. Did you feel…?”

“I…did, I think. I really did. Or maybe I do?” he said. “Or, you know. I could have. God, it was nice. Really nice. Now, there’s…I mean, Jesus, Dev, there’s Gemma. But even if there weren’t, I would’ve needed some more time.”

“Yeah.”

“Otherwise, I would’ve been like I was with Alexa.”

“A total disaster?”

Mark laughed. “Hey. Your words.” He leaned back on the couch, reaching for the remote. “Enough of this shit. I’m finding us some Cheers reruns.”

“Sweet.” Devon got up, taking the empty bottle with her. “I’ll get the ice cream.”

He flipped through the channels, eyes glazing over, until he saw a flash of red hair on the screen. Hang on. He knew that smile.

Before Mark knew it, he was back at Lumon, the pull sharper than it had been in days. It was recent: after the OTC, after the Board had granted him his family back. Mark, of course, didn’t register this; all he knew was that he was in the corner of some hallway, flyer in hand, and Helly was looking at him expectantly.

He felt Ms. Casey's drawing wrinkle between his fingers. Should he kiss her? He should, right?

He took a cautious step forward. Nothing. Something was weird about her, he thought, but he didn’t know what. Why wasn’t she making fun of him for this?

He frowned. Come to think of it, when was the last time she made any joke?

Yeah, he thought, something was definitely–

“Mark?”

Off.

“Helly.”

“Mark.” And he blinked, and it was Devon again, standing in front of the TV.

“Move,” he said, and the back of his neck felt hot. “Devon, move over.”

She took a step to the side. “Are you–”

“Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

Devon turned to look at the TV, eyes narrowed. “What? The Eagan photo op?”

“It’s Helly,” he said, getting up off the couch to point. “That’s Helly.” He couldn’t feel his hands.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, wow,” she said. “Okay. Wow. You’re sure?”

It was a ribbon-cutting ceremony, he saw. He watched her walk into place on the steps of some building, scissors in hand. An older man—Jame, he realized, from Perpetuity—had his hand on her shoulder. Mark’s stomach rolled.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s her.”

He bent down until he was eye level with not-Helly. Remembered: I am a person. You are not. Remembered: he said there were no microphones in here. And then it all clicked into place: why would Lumon have ever let her come back? He hadn’t seen Helly in weeks, he realized. Lumon had taken her—Like Gemma, like Petey—and had been letting him walk around with her reanimated corpse. Anger burned through him, white-hot and invigorating. He felt like he could kill someone. He felt like he could do anything.

Devon looked at him, then back at the screen. “Well,” she said. “I guess we found her.”

Chapter Text

After they figured out who Helly was, Mark wanted to go back to work right away. But Devon managed to talk him down after much negotiation (“You’re no good to them half-asleep, Mark” / “Then what the hell do you call Severance?”), and they decided he would go back the following Monday.

This left them four days to convince the rest of MDR’s outies to reintegrate. Since they still weren’t entirely sure what to do about Helena—and since Mark figured he’d see her at work, anyway—they started with the other two. This didn’t help him feeling completely out of his depth: if he’d had his way, he would have gotten Helly out first; would have asked her what to do. He knew as well as she did what needed to happen, but he missed the comfort of her taking control. And there was another thing he should have known was off about her: since when had she just gone along with whatever he said?

They found Irving first, and once they got past his initial insistence that he knew nothing, he was shockingly receptive to the idea. Mark was struck by the whole image of his life: the leather jacket, the paintings strewn across the living room, the dog that came up and sniffed their hands. He explained that he’d been severed in order to see what Lumon was really up to, and had been purposefully going into work exhausted to send his innie some sort of dream signal. Mark couldn’t help laughing out loud. He was so relieved that Irv was normal—i.e. not evil—that he felt like he could lift a car. This man was someone his Irv would be proud of; someone he would be proud to be, if it came to that.

And so the three of them sat around the living room, drinking Irving’s instant coffee. Mark tried his best to give him a broad-strokes idea of who his innie was, which earned him more than a few good-natured groans (so you’re saying I’m, what? Some kind of Jesus freak?). He didn’t mention Burt: it wasn’t his story to tell, and he trusted the reintegration process to do it justice.

“So, where do I find her? This…Reghabi?” Irving said, taking a sip.

“You don’t,” Mark said. “After I’ve talked to your innie–”

“Woah, woah, hey,” he said. “I’m ready now. You said an Eagan was in there. That means we need to move, no?”

Mark’s hand twitched. “I get it. I do. But he’s a person. If we don’t let him have a say, we’re as bad as Lumon.”

Irving scoffed. “Right. And what did your innie have to say when you asked him?”

Mark paused. He spared a quick glance toward Devon; she looked back at him, confused. “There was a lot I didn’t know,” he said. “Okay? But I know better now. And I really, really need you to trust me.”

Irving kept his gaze level. For a blink, Mark was at Lumon again: let’s burn this place to the ground.

“Alright.”

Mark sighed. “Okay. Thanks– uh, thank you. When it’s done, I’ll give you her number. You’ll need a burner phone.”

“Will a payphone suffice?”

Devon screwed up her face. “They still have those?”

Mark shrugged, turning back to Irving. “If you can find one, sure.”

“And you’re sure he’ll agree to it?” he said, still searching Mark’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah,” Mark smiled. “I’m sure.”

They left Irv’s place optimistic about their chances with Dylan. Once they found him, though, that optimism lasted about five seconds.

“Yeah, man, uh… I dunno. I think it’s cool what you’re doing, but I have kids to feed. And after Milchick fired me the first time, I think it’s pretty clear how the job market treats severed people.”

They’d intercepted him in the drinks aisle of a convenience store near his house—they weren’t sure how his family would’ve reacted to two strangers showing up in the middle of the night.

“Wh–,” Mark started, “so that’s it? You don’t wanna, like… think about it a little?”

“Nah, sorry. Cool to meet someone from work, though.” And with that, he started for the door.

“But– wait, Dylan,” Mark said, jogging to catch up with him. “Don’t you care at all? That there’s some version of you that can never see the sun? Your kids?”

Dylan frowned. “I mean, it probably sucks, but at least they’re letting us see our spouses now.”

Mark blanched. “Sorry, what?”

“Yeah, dude. My wife had her first visitation session this week. Maybe you could talk to them about getting your, uh…girlfriend?” he gestured towards Devon, who gagged. “Oh, cousin? Whatever. Maybe they could figure something out for you, too.”

“Yeah,” Mark said, defeated. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna pretend I never saw you. Okay?” Dylan clapped him on the shoulder. “See you Monday, Mark-from-work.”

“Well, shit,” Devon said, climbing into the driver’s seat of her car.

Next to her, Mark tried to fasten his seatbelt too fast, gave it a couple of frustrated tugs, then let it go. “We can’t do this without him,” he said. “They’ll kill him in there. Not literally,” he said, seeing Devon’s wide eyes. “But, you know.”

“So, what? We’re just gonna give up?” She turned her whole body to look at him. “Mark. We can’t. I’ll go in there and get her out myself."

“I know, I know. I just need to think.” He hit the dashboard. “Fuck. Fuck.”

A beat. “What about his wife?”

“What?”

“He said his wife had been there. If she’s actually seen him, then, hey. Maybe we can get her to care.”

He sighed. “Sure. Fuck, sure. It’s something. What else are we gonna do?”

She nodded, starting the car. “I mean, if it were—buckle your seatbelt—if it were Ricken, I’d be able to convince him. Like, extremely easily.”

He laughed. “Okay, well first of all, Dylan is not–”

“I’m gonna stop you right there, actually. Because I love you.”

“Fine, fine. But only because you’re driving.”

Gretchen George was the night guard at a cemetery. Of course, there were worse ways to make money—Mark knew this well—but there weren’t many worse places to meet someone at their job: especially in the middle of winter, and especially when they weren’t expecting you. Despite Mark and Devon’s best efforts, she still yelped a little when her flashlight landed on their silhouettes as they crested a hill.

“Woah! Hey,” Mark said. “Sorry about that!”

“We just want to talk!” shouted Devon, hands cupped around her mouth.

“Is, uh…” He looked at his sister, searching for the right words. “Is now a good time?”

Really? Devon mouthed.

What else am I supposed to say? Mark shrugged.

“Um,” came Gretchen’s voice; it pierced through the fog, high and clear. “Not really? Because I’m working? But I guess you’re already here, so, uh…come on over?”

“Okay!” Mark said, stunned to have gotten this far. “Uh, yeah! Be right there!”

They stumbled their way down the hill, snow crunching under their shoes, and found her shoveling a large, flat gravestone.

“Hi!” She said. Mark thought that if he were to transcribe it, he would have spelled it h-i-e . “So! What’s this all about?”

“Well, uh…okay, so I’m Mark, and I work at Lumon. And this is my sister, Devon.”

“Hey,” Devon waved.

Gretchen took a step back. “You guys are from Lumon? Is this about the, uh…” she lowered her voice, “did I say too much to him? The other Dylan?”

“What? No! No, it’s nothing like… we’re not, like, with Lumon. I work with Dylan, actually.” He paused. “We’re friends. Inside.”

“Oh! Okay. Nice to meet you, I guess.” She stared at him for a long moment. “And, um, how do you know that?”

“I– right, okay. Do you know about reintegration? Is that something people, uh…”

“What, like undoing the…” she motioned like she was drilling her index finger into the side of her head. Mark nodded in confirmation. “Oh, wow, really? Okay. Wow. I didn’t realize they could…”

“Well, it’s– they can’t. I mean, maybe they could, but they don’t want to? Sorry, I’m making this into a whole–” he hugged his torso, “fuck, it’s cold.”

“We talked to Dylan today,” Devon cut in. “We think he needs to reintegrate, too. And soon.”

Gretchen’s face hardened. “Oh.”

“No, it’s not–” Mark exhaled quickly. “Look, I get why he doesn’t want to. And I promise I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. But Lumon is up to something, and I think we’re in danger—all of us, including you. Including your kids. And the only way to get to the bottom of it—to finally put a stop to it—is by reintegrating.”

“Look, I know Lumon probably isn’t…” She sighed. “I mean, it’s Lumon. But it’s also a job, and those are in pretty short supply right now.” She gestured to the gravestones: you think I chose this?

“You don’t understand. It’s– they, like, actually stole my wife.” Gretchen’s eyes widened, and Mark kicked himself for tearing up in frustration. “I thought she was dead. For two years. Come to find out the whole time, she’s been running wellness sessions for innies. She doesn’t even have a life outside of Lumon.”

“What?” she said. “Sorry, what? Okay, because I thought it was weird—like, with the child labor–”

“Wait, sorry,” Devon said, “child labor?”

Mark sighed, frustrated. “Yeah, our new deputy manager is this, like– sorry, can we circle back to this later?”

“Oh, we definitely will.”

“Guys?” said Gretchen. “Look, I appreciate you coming, but I really do have to get back to shoveling soon, so if we could stay on track here, that would be…” she sighed. “Jesus, they really did that?” She looked at Devon, who nodded. “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk to him. But I can’t make him if he doesn’t want to.”

“We know,” said Mark. “It’s okay. Just…thank you for trying, either way.” He pulled out a scrap of paper. “Here. My number. Just text yes or no.”

He and Devon turned to leave, waving over their shoulders. When they were about halfway up the hill, they heard Gretchen call:

“Would he– would he be different?”

Mark slowed to a stop. Turned around. “I mean, sort of. Yes and no.”

“In, like, a bad way?”

He paused. “You met him, right?”

“Yeah,” and her voice was softer, now. “I did.”

“What do you think?”

She was quiet for a long time. Just when they were about to keep walking, she repeated: “I’ll talk to him.”

It was an extremely close call. Mark got the text in the Lumon parking lot on his first morning back, and it was all he could do to keep from jumping for joy on the spot. He sent Devon a quick thumbs-up, shoved his phone in his pocket, and hurried his way up the front steps. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“Morning, Judd,” he said, slipping his innie's keycard around his neck.

“Morning, Mr. Scout.”

Mark tried to keep still as Judd waved his wand over him, front and back. He couldn’t help drumming his fingers against his thigh. When it was over, he half-jogged into the elevator.

The doors closed. Less than a minute later, they opened to reveal Kier Pardons His Betrayers, still hung in all its glory for anyone entering the floor to see.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—part relief that it had worked, part dread that he’d actually have to follow through.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, letting his legs carry him to MDR. “Okay. We’re doing this.”

The first couple of hours were spent a) pretending to refine and b) trying to act normal around not-Helly. It was almost unbearable, now that he knew; his stomach turned whenever she sent him a look that was too kind, too uncanny. He hated her; couldn’t stop thinking that she had stolen Helly’s body for herself, no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t work that way. It was a new feeling, being this angry at work. He stared through the carpet under his desk, garish and unavoidable, and wished he had a match.

But there would be time enough for matches when the job was done. Right now, he was focused on getting Dylan alone—he’d been weirdly attached to work lately (which, duh, Mark thought, if they’re letting him see his wife), and the odds of him being up for a “mental health walk” seemed slim.

He found his opportunity about an hour before lunch. “Helly” was starting to pester him—in her weird, drawling way—about going to look for Ms. Casey. Irv took the opportunity to bring up an unspecified errand of his own, which was a gift horse Mark was not about to look in the mouth.

“You know, Helly, I think I might actually get some work done today.”

She stared at him. “Oh. Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, I have to at least pretend to care about...” he looked at his screen, “uh, Cold Harbor.” And that was interesting—he could’ve sworn he saw just a twitch of relief on her face. Did they really care about the work that much?

Helly—Helena—paused. “You’re sure?”

He laughed; hoped it sounded normal. “I can’t exactly help Ms. Casey if I get fired, right?”

“Right. Yeah, totally.” She moved to sit back down. Irving, Mark realized, was long gone.

“But, uh, if you feel like you’re in a good place, you could go map out that hallway past Mammalians?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “No real snooping, obviously, if you think it’s dangerous. Just, if we get the doors marked down, we can make a plan for the rest of the week.”

“...Okay. Yeah.” She smiled, all smooth edges and calm waters. It was jarring, how unfamiliar she felt. “See you guys later, then.”

Mark listened as the sound of her heels faded into the hallway, then slowly lowered the divider between him and Dylan.

Deep breath. Here goes nothing.

“Gemma was an architect.”

Dylan glanced up. “Shit. Is that your wife? Ms. Casey?”

Mark nodded.

“You didn’t tell me you knew her name. Is that from your outie’s sister?”

He nodded again. “Devon, yeah. It’s stupid. I don’t have to talk about it.”

Dylan swiveled around, scooted his chair closer. “No, dude, please. If I don’t get to know my family, I might as well get to hear about yours.”

Mark huffed out a laugh. “Sure. Uh…well,” he started, meeting Dylan’s gaze, “we met in college.” A pause. “Or, you know, so my– my outie’s sister said.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows. “So you’re an architect, too?”

“What? No. God, no. I would’ve been hopeless. No, I studied history.”

“Is that why you’ve been spending so much time in Perpetuity lately? Like, to study?”

“Something like that. But, um, yeah. I was in the library when I met her. Apparently.”

“Extremely Mark activity. Continue.”

“Well, so, there I am, working. And I’m maybe the most stressed I’ve ever been in my life—I have to edit my thesis, you know, if I’m going to get honors, and it has to be perfect, but I’m running out of time. And on top of that,” he laughed, “I’m realizing that I completely misinterpreted, like, my third-most-cited source. And from behind me, I hear this– this voice. Excuse me, would you mind answering a couple questions about the library?, you know, something like that. And I’m still working, so I don’t look up, but I’m not gonna shut someone down; we’re all in the same boat, ultimately, even if my part of the boat is objectively worse right now. So I say sure, whatever, hit me. And she says, is there anything you wish were different about the building’s design? And I tell her the truth, which at that moment is something like well, right now I’d kill for an exposed beam or two. You know, so I could hang myself.”

Dylan whistled. “Woah, Outie Mark is dark.”

“Well, no, it was– never mind. But then the voice laughs, just a little, and when I turn around, I see…” Mark stopped; shocked himself by tearing up. He hadn’t told this story in a long time, he realized. “I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“So, Ms. Casey?”

Mark winced. “Yeah. Gemma.”

“Good choice.”

Mark smiled. “I think so.”

“So,” Dylan leaned back in his chair, “then what? You two do it in the library?”

“What?” Mark spluttered, “no! Dylan, what the fuck, no.”

“Lame. But go on.”

Mark sighed, “fine. So. Obviously—or maybe not obviously, I don’t know—that all happens pretty close to summer break. I finish my thesis. I get my honors, but only because the department doesn’t check my sources too closely, so that becomes a whole thing, like, mentally. And then I come back to start my Master’s in August, and I go to the library, and the whole inside is different. Like, they completely tore it out and remodeled it, and it’s beautiful. And up on the ceiling—well, you get it.”

“Exposed beams?”

“Yeah,” Mark smiled to himself. “All over.”

“So, what? She wanted you to kill yourself?”

“Ha. Well. I was hoping not.” Mark turned his chair toward Dylan, leaned in. “So I ask around, and eventually I find out that at the end of last year, the kids in Gemma’s cohort had been working on proposals for the new library interior. It was a big deal, something like that—obviously, they all came out of it with portfolio pieces either way, but to leave with something of yours having been built—I mean, it was amazing. And because she won, and they want the winner to get jobs and all that, I’m able to get her email pretty easily. And I say, hey, Gemma! Congrats on winning the contest! Unfortunately, the library is now much too fulfilling a space to die in, and to top it all off, I’m fresh out of rope. And a day later, I get a reply: Hi, Mark—nice to finally get your name. I’m afraid I can’t help you with the library, but I could probably pick you up some rope; maybe I could meet you somewhere to drop it off? How does 7 sound?”

“Christ,” Dylan said. “You lucky fuck.”

“So of course I say yes, because I’m not a fucking idiot, and when I see her—God, it’s like she’s glowing. Like there are neon arrows pointing at her from all directions saying, this one! This one, here! Don’t fuck this up!. But I don’t even have to worry about it, because the date is—somehow, impossibly—perfect.”

“Sorry, are you bragging? Is that what this is? Because it’s working. I’m jealous as shit, dude.”

Mark smiled. “It was a long time ago.”

“So she designed it for you? The whole thing?”

“Well, no,” Mark laughed. “I mean, she used to say that to me—it was like our little joke. Her favorite ending to any argument. She’d say, hey, Mark, remember when I redesigned a whole building for you? And I’d say, You mean the interior of a building?. But we both knew better. She would have won with anything—any design, any restrictions. I’m convinced she would’ve won even if she built it with her bare hands. I just happened to bait her into a good idea completely by accident, and she took it and ran. To her, getting some guy’s number out of it was just the cherry on top. A trophy, you know? And eventually, miraculously for me, a marriage.”

Dylan didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “And your outie’s sister told you all that, too?”

Mark paused. Took a breath. “I know what they’ve been doing for you. With Gretchen.”

Dylan went wide-eyed at that. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Mark cut him off.

“I’m not mad, okay? Any of us would’ve done the same thing. But there are better ways, Dylan. Ways where you get to know everything, to feel everything. Ways where you get to meet your kids.”

He sucked in a breath. “Woah, hey. Woah. Mark. What did you do?” He rolled his chair backwards, just a bit; tried to get a better look at Mark's face.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Mark whispered. He moved to sit on the edge of Dylan’s desk; put a hand on his shoulder. “Or– I can, if you want. But I talked to your wife. I talked to you. They’re in if you are.”

Dylan searched his face. “Is he happy?” he asked. “The other me, I mean.”

“I have no idea,” Mark said, smiling. “Do you wanna find out?”

“Yes,” Dylan breathed. “Fuck, yes. Absolutely.”