Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mark wakes up on the floor.

Actually wakes up, like from sleep, like the feeling of vague motion sickness he's come to associate with the severed elevator was nothing but a dream.

Was it?

He lifts his head slowly. “Fuck.” And puts it back down. The floor is smooth and cool, a balm to the pounding in his temples. It’s worse than any hangover he’s ever had, which is by no means a low bar.

The half-baked memories drifting through his aching skull certainly feel like a dream. Endless white fractals of hallways upon hallways, doors upon doors with labels that make no sense, his clothes and his face sticky with blood that isn’t his, and Gemma–

Gemma.

His head snaps up. It doesn’t hurt any less this time, but he doesn’t care.

Gemma. He found her. He found her, and she remembered him, and they ran, and they made it into the elevator, lips crashing together in desperation, and then…

Then he was here, lying on his side with his face pressed to the smooth, cool floor.

His vision is a blur of white, entirely unhelpful, and he blinks to clear it. His eyelids are heavy, and so are his hands, fingers sluggish and clumsy when he sweeps his hair out of his face. The texture feels awful, like he’s caked in mud all over.

Except it’s not mud, is it? He stares at his hand, willing his eyes to focus. Blood. There’s dried blood in his hair, flaking and reddish-brown. It’s all over his clothes, saturating his suit jacket and soaking through his shirt, clinging to his skin where it hasn’t dried yet.

It wasn’t a dream.

He rolls onto his stomach and pushes off of the floor, arms shaking with the simple effort of holding him up. Where the hell is he?

A white room. Entirely empty, aside from him.

“Gemma?” He clambers to his feet and nearly falls, catching himself on a wall with both hands. His legs are unsteady, dizzy like the rest of him, but that couldn’t matter less right now. “Gemma!” he calls again, louder, his voice bouncing eerily in the blank space. He stumbles forward, one hand on the wall for support, toward the only exit.

It's when he reaches the small hallway – curving to the left and ending at a featureless door that he’d mistake for just another wall if he hadn't already walked through it himself – that he recognizes the room.

Shit.

He approaches the door, searching for a control panel, or a hidden handle, or something. It had slid open on its own before, while he was leading the briefly amnesiac Gemma out of the room, like it was motion-activated from this side.

It doesn’t open for him now.

“Shit.” He presses his hands to the door, adrenaline overriding the lethargy still clinging to his bones, and tries to slide it open manually. It doesn’t budge. “Shit.”

Is he…locked in?

“Oh, fuck.” He turns and takes two halting steps back into the room. Still empty, devoid of the disassembled crib Gemma had been crouched over when he found her here. Devoid of anything he could use to break down the door or wield as a weapon. The only breaks in the white space are two half spheres of black plastic positioned above his head on either side of the room. Cameras.

“Oh, my God.” He leans on the wall, dizzy again, and doubles over, hands on his knees, eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck.”

He’s stumbling toward the exit again before he even has time to think about it. He rams his shoulder against the door, his jacket leaving behind a tiny smear of red. Then he steps back and kicks it. “Shit.” Twice. “Shit!” Three times. Four. Five. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Stop that.”

Mark whirls around, searching for the source of the voice, but he’s still alone. “Who the fuck–”

“Step away from the door,” the voice orders, from a speaker tucked away somewhere he can’t see.

He acquiesces, but only so he can glare at the camera on the opposite wall. “Let me out of here.”

“Please calm down, Mr. Scout.”

“Calm down?” Mark snorts. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes,” the voice says simply.

He shakes his head, turns and charges at the door, and bounces right off, clutching his shoulder. “Fuck!”

“Stop that,” the voice repeats.

Mark backs up for another running start and tries again.

“You’re going to injure yourself.”

One more time, the impact tingling in his fingertips as he staggers back.

“If you don’t stop, we'll be forced to sedate you again.”

Mark freezes. Slowly, cradling his left arm in his right, he walks back into the room. “What is this?” he asks, in a voice that barely sounds like his own. “Why am I here?”

“You came here of your own accord,” the voice says, with something like amusement. “Despite our best efforts.”

A knot forms in his stomach. They didn’t make it out, then. “Where’s Gemma?”

For a long moment, there’s no answer. “She’s safe. For now.”

For now. “I'll fucking kill you,” Mark snarls at the camera. “You hear me? You lay a finger on her and I’ll–”

“If you'd like her to stay that way,” the voice interrupts, “I suggest you cooperate.”

Jesus Christ. He might throw up. “What do you want from me?”

“Right now, I would like you to calm down, please. And stop trying to dislocate your shoulder.”

He forces himself to take a long, shaky breath, and swallows the bile threatening to crawl up his throat.

“Better.” The voice sounds pleased, and vaguely familiar; where has he heard it before? “Now, I’d like you to answer a few questions for me. Please answer honestly.” A pause. “To begin, who are you?”

Mark blinks. “You clearly don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Please answer the question. First and last name.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Mark Scout.”

“Excellent. How are you feeling today, Mr. Scout?”

He stares at the camera. “I’ve been better.”

“Please describe any and all pain or physical discomfort you’re currently experiencing.”

“I’m–” He exhales sharply. “Why?”

“Leave nothing out.”

This time, he does roll his eyes. “My head hurts,” he says flatly. “And my arm, but you probably figured that out.”

“On a scale of one to ten, where ten is the worst pain imaginable, please rate your headache.”

“Uh…seven? I guess.” His throat hurts, too. He swallows. “Well, maybe six for the headache, and like, three for this,” he adds, gingerly touching the sore spot below his right eye. It feels swollen. “Did…somebody punch me, or–”

“What else hurts?”

“What is the fucking point of this?” The rush of adrenaline is wearing off, now, and he paces back and forth to stave off the coiling dread settling in its place. When he doesn’t get an answer, he exhales again and says, “My throat is sore, and my leg hurts from kicking your door. I slept on my neck weird last night, and I stubbed my toe two days ago. I–” He looks down at himself. “I’ve got someone else’s blood on me, and it’s fucking everywhere. It’s very unpleasant. Is that enough detail for you?”

A pause. “Which toe?”

“Oh, my God.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Left foot, pinky toe.”

“Thank you for your answers,” the voice says, in the same amiable tone.

Another pause, and Mark stops pacing to lean against one wall. He’s cold, shivering slightly, and he hugs his arms over his chest, glancing back and forth between the two cameras. “Will you please tell me–”

“When is your birthday?” the voice cuts him off.

He sighs. “April third.”

“What year?”

“1978.”

“And where do you live?”

Mark shifts his weight uncomfortably. “You already know that.”

“Please answer the question.”

“Baird Creek subdivision,” he says hesitantly. “Unit 34.”

“What day of the week is it?”

“Um.” He looks down, thinking. “It’s…Friday.”

Silence.

“Right?” he adds. He feels like he’s choking. “It’s Friday?”

“Do you know where you are?”

He swallows hard. “Lumon.”

“Where in Lumon?”

“I don’t…” He takes another deep breath to stop his voice from shaking. “Secret basement, I guess, I don’t know.” He pushes off the wall to start pacing again in the small space. He recognizes the voice, now; it’s the one that spoke to Gemma in this same room, that tried to dissuade her from trusting Mark. “This is…the room where you were keeping her.”

“Gemma.”

He wants to rip the name from this stranger’s mouth. Maybe their tongue along with it. “Where is she?”

“She’s fine. You needn’t worry about her.”

“I wanna see her.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“I want to fucking see her. Right now.”

Another pause, followed by another question, “What is the last thing that you remember?”

“Fuck you.” Mark steps closer to the camera. “I’m not answering anything else until you let me see my wife.”

“If you refuse to answer my questions, you’ll never see her again.”

A cold spike of terror pierces his chest. He shuts his eyes tight and struggles to breathe. “The last thing I remember,” he begins, his voice wavering. “We were running. We got in the elevator.”

“And then?”

And then he kissed her. He drags a hand over his face, and his bottom lip trembles when he inhales. “And then… I was here, and she was gone.” He looks up. “Please, just let me talk to her–”

“This is not where we were ‘keeping’ Gemma,” the voice says matter-of-factly. “You’re standing in one of our testing rooms.”

Mark blinks. “O…kay. Is that…supposed to mean something to me?”

“There are designated living quarters on this floor.”

I found a department. One they don’t tell us about. One where you don’t get to leave. As in, they’re down there right now.

“That’s where Gemma is?” Mark asks quietly.

“We’d like to move you to your own room,” the voice says instead of answering. “Somewhere more comfortable. Would you like that?”

“I don’t…” He feels sick. “I don’t wanna stay here, I want you to let both of us go.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Mark begins to worry he’s said something wrong, something that’s going to hurt Gemma somehow. He opens his mouth to apologize.

“Ask me again,” the voice says.

“What?”

“You’ve asked twice to be let go. Ask again.”

He frowns. Is this some kind of trap? “Let us go. Please.”

The sound of the door sliding open nearly makes him jump out of his skin. A blonde woman dressed in white enters the room, and Mark’s eyes narrow.

The woman – the nurse he’d encountered before, the one who’d refused to open the Cold Harbor door for him – stares at him with open disdain. “Come with me.” She turns and leaves.

Mark steps forward hesitantly. The door is still open, the woman standing impatiently outside it. He throws one last glance over his shoulder before following her.

She leads him through the maze of hallways without a word. He gawks at everything, searching for any sign of where Gemma might be, but finds nothing.

He’s taken to an elevator – the elevator, the only way out, as far as he can tell. The woman pulls a card from her pocket and inserts it into a slot beside the doors, then turns to watch Mark, her expression unreadable.

“Where’s Gemma?” he asks.

She doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring at him. The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and she gestures for him to step inside.

Mark doesn’t move. “I’m not going anywhere without her.”

“Then you’re not going anywhere,” she says evenly. “You leave now, or you don’t leave at all. Your choice.”

His hands clench into fists at his sides. He can’t leave Gemma here. He won’t.

But he can’t do shit for her if he’s stuck here, too.

Devon would know what to do, in his place. So would Gemma. Anyone but him would know what the fuck he should do.

“Are you going or not?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Goddammit.” And steps into the elevator.

The doors close immediately once he’s in. There’s blood splattered on the walls, still, the same blood that’s all over him. At least the corpse is gone.

The elevator begins to move, leaving his stomach behind to sink through the floor. He shuts his eyes against the nauseating feeling.

Then the doors open again, and the nurse is still standing there, staring at him.

“What the hell?” He glances down at himself, a bit dizzy. Same clothes, same blood. He felt the transition; he’s gone to work enough times to know exactly what it feels like. Why is he still here?

“Change your mind?” the woman asks, a condescending smile on her face.

He glares at her. “Send me back up.”

To his surprise, she just shrugs and scans her card again. The doors close.

Mark presses his back to the wall, breathing heavily. His innie was the one who got him here in the first place, which means he’s the only one who can get him out.

And considering how their first and only conversation went, well… Mark has some concerns.

The motion sickness hits him again, his vision blurring into nothingness for a brief moment before returning.

The doors open. “Fuck me.”

“I’ll take you to your room,” the nurse says.

“No,” Mark snaps, placing one hand against the slick elevator wall when another wave of dizziness nearly throws him to the ground. Maybe his innie isn’t doing this maliciously; maybe he just doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “Send me back. Now.”

She sighs. “Last time.”

His eyes dart around wildly as the doors close. He pats his pockets, searching for a scrap of paper, a marker, a pen, anything. His jacket is still damp and his hands come away with a fresh coat of red.

That might work, actually.

As the elevator begins to move, Mark finds a clean spot on one door and scrawls GET OUT with one bloody finger, as quickly and clearly as he can. He keeps his eyes fixed on the letters.

“Please,” he says to no one. To himself. “Please.”

The elevator shudders, and the doors open.

“No,” Mark breathes. He sinks to the floor, presses himself into the corner. This can’t be happening. It can’t be.

The nurse stares down at him without a trace of sympathy. “Let’s go, Mark.”

Chapter Text

Mark trudges down the hallway in a daze.

The nurse leads him to a door that’s only a short distance from the elevator, a door that swings open when she presses a button on the wall beside it.

The room he steps into looks like a living room that crawled out of minimalist hell. Everything is too bright, too clean, too monochrome. A dark gray couch sits in the center of the light gray floor, the only furniture in the otherwise empty space. A dark blue counter stretches the length of one wall, with a row of cabinets above and below and a sink set into the middle. And of course, there are cameras everywhere, black half-domes set into the ceiling to cover the whole area.

The woman strides past it all, through the open doorway on the other side of the room. There’s another space beyond, an even more sparsely furnished room to his left that vaguely resembles a room in a doctor’s office.

“This way.” She turns right instead and disappears around a corner.

Mark follows, glancing back uneasily at the exam room. What the hell is going to happen to him here?

He steps into the next area – it’s a bedroom, decently-sized, aside from the claustrophobia-inducing bed set into the wall like some kind of sci-fi pod. Blessedly, the walls are painted a soothing green instead of stark white like everything else, except for a section to his left which could only be called a “bathroom” in the most generous sense of the word; the “doors” concealing the toilet and shower on either side of the sink seem more like a practical joke than any genuine attempt at providing privacy.

The nurse turns to face Mark. “Take off all your clothes and place them in the garbage chute beside the bed. After you shower, there will be a clean outfit in the closet.” She points to a door set into the opposite wall.

He nods stiffly and shrugs off his suit jacket, then pauses. “Are you gonna stand there the whole time?”

She rolls her eyes and walks out, leaving him alone to undress.

Peeling the layers of blood-soaked fabric away from his skin nearly makes him gag. He manages regardless, piling everything into a messy heap on the floor, with only a few wary glances at the cameras positioned around the room. Trying to preserve some shred of dignity, he steps into the shower before stripping off his underwear and tossing it on the pile with everything else.

The water comes out already hot, and he moans out loud, presses his hands and his head into the wall beneath the faucet to let it wash over his back. He shuts his eyes, pointedly not looking down at the cloud of red swirling at his feet and disappearing into the drain. He tries to turn his brain off, to become nothing but the blissful sensation of warm water cascading over his skin.

God, he could use a fucking drink.

He’s about 98% sure that he killed a person today. That huge man probably didn’t enter the elevator already gushing blood everywhere, and the weird gun-thing Mark was holding when he came to may have had something to do with how that whole unfortunate situation unfolded.

He scrubs his face with his hands, wincing when he finds the swollen spot on his cheekbone. “Fuck.”

It was probably an accident; his innie must not have known to keep his finger off the damn trigger. Still, the intent or lack thereof behind the killing doesn’t make much difference to the dead man, who’s just as dead either way.

Mark should probably feel worse about that than he does. Maybe he will, later, when he’s had time to process, when he isn’t staring down the barrel of whatever the fuck Lumon plans to do with him now.

He picks at the blood caked beneath his fingernails with an odd sense of detachment. Maybe he’s in shock; maybe that's why he’s so calm.

He takes his time showering, lets himself pretend he’s luxuriating in the experience rather than stalling the inevitable. He ignores the Lumon-branded shampoo and conditioner in favor of simply raking his fingers through his wet hair until it doesn’t feel sticky anymore. The rest of the blood washes away easily enough, though he keeps scrubbing his skin long after the water circling the drain runs clear.

Finally, when he can’t delay it any longer, he turns off the faucet and thoroughly dries himself with the towel hanging beside the door before wrapping it around his waist to cross the camera-filled room.

He finds the clean clothes in the closet as promised: a single pair of boxers, loose-fitting pants, and a long-sleeved shirt, all roughly his size and all the exact same shade of deep red. They’re made from an odd material, somewhere in between pajamas and medical scrubs, but surprisingly comfortable. He quickly gives up on the too-small footwear he’s provided – a pair of house slippers masquerading as shoes – and opts instead to leave the room barefoot.

“About time.” The nurse sits on a rolling stool in front of a lone chair in the middle of the too-white exam room. She motions for him to sit without looking up from a clipboard in her hands.

Mark steps closer, but stops a few feet away. “Where’s my wife?”

Finally, she lifts her head. “You don’t need that information right now.”

“Oh, I don’t need it?” He laughs bitterly. “Great. Cool.”

Her eyes narrow. “Sit down, now.”

“No, fuck this.” He turns and storms through the living area, ignoring her profanity-laden protests. Unsurprisingly, the door is locked; he rattles the knob. “Hey, let me out of here!”

“You’re not going anywhere, motherfucker!”

A hand closes around his elbow from behind, yanking him back, and he shoves the nurse away without turning around. He pounds a fist against the door. “Hey!”

She grabs him again, spins him around, and decks him in the face.

“Ow! Fuck!” He doubles over, holding his nose. “Jesus!”

“That’s enough!” declares a staticky voice from a speaker beside the door.

Mark stands up straight to scowl at the nurse, his eyes watering freely. She scowls right back, looking far too pleased with herself.

Behind him, the door finally opens. In walks a short man with graying hair, dressed in the same too-white clothes as the woman. He addresses her first, with something like disapproval, “I’d like to speak to Mr. Scout myself. You’ve other duties to attend to.”

“Of course, Dr. Mauer.” She nods and leaves, shooting one last glare back at Mark before the door shuts behind her.

The man – Dr. Mauer – turns to him with a polite smile. “Shall we?” He starts heading for the exam room without waiting for a response.

Mark sighs and follows, still pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

“I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for my assistant’s behavior.” Mauer picks up the clipboard that the nurse left behind and gestures to the chair in the center of the room. “Please, have a seat.”

There’s something unsettling about his voice, something familiar, and it takes way too long for Mark to recognize it as the voice that spoke to him in the empty Cold Harbor room. The voice that told him he had to cooperate, if he ever wanted to see Gemma again.

Hesitantly, Mark sits.

Mauer smiles. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Scout.”

“Wait… I remember you,” Mark realizes aloud. “You chased us to the elevator.”

He nods. “I did. I apologize for my incivility.”

He pauses to grab a tissue from the counter and hands it to Mark, who wipes his nose with a slight wince. Great. More blood.

Dr. Mauer sits in front of him. “You see, your actions disrupted an experiment that was indescribably important. The culmination of two years of labor.”

Mark glares at him. “Labor,” he repeats nasally, undercutting most of the venom in his voice. “You mean, kidnapping my wife and holding her prisoner for two years?”

“As you might imagine,” Mauer continues, unfazed, “The nature of our work on this floor is privileged information that I’m not at liberty to discuss in detail. However, I must emphasize that Gemma was not a prisoner here, any more than you are now, Mr. Scout.”

Mark makes a noise between a laugh and a scoff. “Sure, yeah, so I can just…” He gestures toward the locked door. “Leave any time I want to, right?”

“Of course,” Mauer says with another smile.

Fucking hell. “I would like to see her, now,” Mark says with admirable calm. “That shouldn’t be a problem, right? If we aren’t prisoners?”

Mauer studies him for a few seconds before getting to his feet. “Come with me.”

He leads Mark back to the living area, to a small screen set into the wall in front of the couch, the world’s tiniest television set.

Mauer looks up and addresses the nearest camera. “Bring up the feed, please.”

The screen flickers to life, displaying nothing but grayscale static. Gradually, the picture normalizes to show a high-angle view of a room that’s nearly identical to the one they’re currently standing in. Mark steps closer to squint at the grainy figure sitting on the couch, their head in their hands. Everything about their posture is distraught.

The figure leans back, and Mark takes a sharp breath.

Gemma. He’d recognize the shape of her anywhere, the set of her shoulders, the grace of her slender fingers wiping the tears from her face, clear as crystal even in the low-fidelity image.

Mark bends down to touch the screen with a shaking hand. “Can she hear us? Gemma!” he calls without waiting for an answer.

She doesn’t react. The screen goes dark.

“No no no, bring her back,” he chokes out in a panic, like a child with no object permanence. He turns to Mauer, who’s still watching him curiously. “Bring her back, please, let me talk to her–”

“Unfortunately, we can’t allow the two of you to communicate just yet,” he says matter-of-factly. “However, you may be capable of earning that privilege, in time.”

Mark feels like he’s drowning. “What– What do you want?”

“I’m simply asking for your cooperation, Mr. Scout.” Mauer steps forward to stand in front of him, eye to eye. “The work within these walls cannot be left unfinished.”

“What work? What are you doing to her?”

“Gemma has been an invaluable asset to our research,” he says fondly, and Mark’s stomach twists. “Cold Harbor was the final test we planned to perform with her. Upon completion, her severance chip was to be extracted for further study.”

“I thought…” He swallows against the lump forming in his throat. “I thought the procedure was permanent. Once the chip’s there, it can’t be removed. Right?”

Another smile, all teeth. “Nothing in this life is truly permanent.”

If you’ve completed the file, she’s already dead.

“Taking it out will kill her,” Mark infers in a whisper.

“An unfortunate sacrifice, but a necessary one,” Mauer confirms, oblivious to the way Mark’s legs nearly give out beneath him. “However, if you find this outcome unsatisfactory, I’ve been authorized to offer an alternative.”

Distantly, Mark feels himself already nodding in agreement. Anything’s better than losing her again.

Mauer takes another small step, backing Mark against the wall. “Releasing Gemma from our care, with her chip intact, would merely require that someone else take her place in our research.”

“Me?” Mark bleats.

“You.”

He tries to form a response, twice, but nothing comes out. He ducks around Mauer to give himself some space, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“It’s entirely your choice, of course,” Mauer continues. “In truth, switching to a new subject would be a considerable setback.”

“Why do it, then?” Mark hears himself ask.

“As a courtesy.” Mauer’s eyes follow him as he paces back and forth. “Your contributions to Lumon’s research cannot be overstated, Mark. You deserve the chance to become an even more integral piece of this world’s history.”

Mark clamps a hand over his jaw to hold back the nausea inching its way up his throat. “But…” His mouth is too dry. “It's been two years.”

“Luckily, starting from scratch won’t be necessary,” Mauer explains casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “The data we’ve gathered is such that the remaining tests can be completed in a matter of weeks, rather than months.”

Is that better or worse? “So, let’s say I agree to be your new lab rat.” Mark’s voice shakes. “You run all your tests, and then once you’re done…” He trails off, waiting for Mauer to finish the sentence, but the bastard just stares at him. “You…extract my chip. And I… I die.”

“That’s right,” Mauer says evenly.

Mark swallows hard. “But, you’d let Gemma go?”

“Of course. After the testing is complete.” Mauer’s grin radiates malice. “Better to secure your cooperation throughout the process, you see.”

“But, people know where I am,” he says weakly. “And when I don’t come back, they’re gonna come looking for me–”

“Just as you looked for your wife?”

Mark’s head snaps up hard enough to give him whiplash. If looks could kill, Mauer would drop dead.

“Humans are a funny thing, aren’t they?” he says, amused. “People disappear from our lives so easily. Some more so than others.” He cocks his head to the side. “What do you imagine the missing person report looks like, for a single depressed alcoholic? Do you think they’ll send a search party? Alert the national news?”

Mark staggers to the couch and sits down, drags his hands over his face. “What if I say no?” he mumbles into his palm.

Mauer shrugs. “Then the final test proceeds as planned, with Gemma.”

He’s going to lose her again, no matter what. There’s no reality in which the two of them walk out of here together, alive and unhurt.

And if it’s a choice between saving Gemma or saving himself, then there’s really no choice at all.

“Fuck,” he breathes, squeezing his eyes shut, twisting his fingers in his damp hair. “Fuck.”

“If you’d like, you can have some time to consider–”

“No. I’ll do it.”

Mauer is silent for a moment. “You’re sure?”

Mark stands, nods once, runs to the sink, and throws up.

Chapter Text

“Hold still.”

Mark grips the arms of the chair to immobilize his hands. He hadn’t realized he was fidgeting again.

Mauer had left him alone for around an hour to stew in his misery, locked in the sterile space that he’s still trying very resolutely not to think of as his new living quarters. The nurse, whose name Mark still hasn’t learned and doesn’t care to, had returned just long enough to take his temperature, his blood pressure, and a few X-rays of his head before leading him through the winding hallways to another unlabeled door.

And then he was here, sitting in a fucking OR and being prepped for surgery.

“So…” Mark’s voice comes out rough. He clears his throat and directs his question toward the huddle of people in surgical garb standing in front of a nearby screen, where three brain scans from various angles are currently being displayed. “What exactly are you gonna do?”

Dr. Mauer glances over at him, like he’d forgotten he was even there, too caught up in the hushed conversation. He steps toward Mark, careful to stay out of the way of the technician pinning wires to his head. “To mitigate the risks inherent in this procedure, the importance of your honesty cannot be overstated,” he says instead of answering.

Mark stares at him for a long moment. “Okay…?”

“Has someone tampered with your chip, Mr. Scout?”

He blinks. “Uh…”

What happens if he tells the truth? Surely Lumon is already aware of what Reghabi has been up to, at least to some degree. They must have known that Petey reintegrated; Mrs. Selv– Cobel attended his funeral, after all.

He’s taking too long to answer. “What do you mean, tampered with?” he asks, stalling for time. As if it isn’t clear whether waving an electromagnet over his head and pumping fluid into his brain counts as tampering.

Mauer’s eyes narrow above his surgical mask.

What happens if he lies? Trying to hide anything from the person that’s about to tinker with his brain seems like a horrible idea, but would partial reintegration disqualify him from serving as a replacement for Gemma?

“No,” he says finally, twisting his face into what he hopes is an adequately concerned expression. “Why, is something wrong with it?”

Mauer exchanges a glance with someone behind him – the surgeon, he assumes – and nods once before returning his attention to Mark. “Of course not.” Even with a mask on, the amused smile on his face is visible; it’s one of only two facial expressions the fucker seems to have.

“Lean back,” says a voice from behind Mark, as a gloved hand palms his forehead to move him into place. He holds still, digging his fingernails into the armrests, as a half-circle of metal is positioned around his head and clamped to his skull, immobilizing him. It’s just on the wrong side of too tight, and the feeling is just familiar enough to take him back to the initial severance procedure a little over two years ago. He hardly remembers anything at all from that day, which was sort of the point.

Mauer continues to stand in front of him, asking more questions. “Have you experienced any recent traumatic brain injuries or cerebrovascular events?” and then, when Mark stares at him blankly, “A concussion, or a stroke?”

“I, um…” Mark frowns. “I…fainted. A few days ago.” A laughable understatement; he’s like 90% sure that Reghabi flooding his chip gave him a capital-S stroke, but maybe he can play dumb enough to imply without stating it outright. “My sister said I was unconscious for a while.”

“How long?”

“A few hours,” he says with an attempt at a shrug. “No big deal, right?” Inwardly, he cringes. Okay, maybe not quite so dumb.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Mauer says, and Mark can’t tell if the hint of sarcasm in his voice is real or imagined.

“Speaking of honesty,” Mark begins, struggling to keep his breathing under control as a short woman in scrubs rolls past with a noisy cart full of sharp-looking tools, “You wanna tell me what’s happening here?”

The woman re-enters his field of vision to hand a blue folder to Dr. Mauer, who glances through its contents before turning back to Mark. “We must modify your severance chip, to make it compatible with the testing rooms.”

Mark opens his hands, awaiting elaboration that he suspects he won’t receive. “Okay, that’s not fucking vague.” Behind him, someone parts his hair and drapes a small square of cloth over the right side of his head. He resists the shudder that rolls up his spine. “What– What does modify mean, exactly?”

“Think of it as a hardware update.” Mauer chuckles. “We’re going to attach a small wireless transceiver, for data refinement purposes.”

“Attach? What, are you gonna do some light soldering inside my brain?” Mark says it like a joke, but Mauer’s lack of response drains him of any remaining humor. “Jesus Christ.” Another piece of cloth gets clipped to his hair, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tries to imagine he’s anywhere else in the world.

“Just relax, Mr. Scout,” Mauer says, in a tone of voice that couldn’t be further from relaxing. “This will only take a few minutes. I’ll be asking you to complete a few simple actions throughout the process, to ensure that your brain is functioning normally.”

“Great.” Mark looks up just in time to see one of them pass a syringe over his head to the surgeon. The sting in his scalp comes a few seconds later, and his knuckles go white around the armrests.

“Relax,” Mauer repeats, as the stinging gives way to a tingling numbness atop his head, like a puffy mouth at the dentist. There’s movement behind him, rustling and clicking that he can’t identify, and then a faint sense of vibration rumbling through the circumference of his skull. He grits his teeth against the uncomfortable sensation.

“What is fifteen plus sixteen?” Mauer asks apropos of nothing.

Mark almost laughs. “Thirty-one.”

Mauer nods and looks down at the papers in his folder. “Please raise your right hand and hold up three fingers.”

He does. He counts down from a hundred by sevens, spells out his name and his address, multiplies a few numbers in his head. He obeys every command he’s given gladly, grateful for any distraction, no matter who it’s coming from.

He’s halfway through reciting the lyrics to the national anthem when the world suddenly goes dark, and the anxiety smoldering faintly in the pit of his stomach roars back to life with a vengeance. “Did…the lights just turn off?” he asks, with a sinking feeling that he already knows the answer.

The rustling behind him abruptly stops. Not a good sign.

“I can’t see.” He blinks rapidly, panic rising in his voice. “I can’t see, what the fuck did you do?”

“Please remain calm,” Mauer orders from somewhere nearby. “Temporary neurological deficits are not uncommon.”

Mark flinches when a gloved thumb presses into his eyelid to hold his left eye open, then his right. He feels rather than sees the penlight waving back and forth over his face, a phantom sensation like the drone of an alarm clock bleeding into a half-remembered dream. “And you know that for sure? That it’s temporary?”

“Yes,” Mauer replies, a beat too late.

“God.” Mark shuts his eyes, so he can pretend that’s the only reason for his blindness. Something taps against the back of his skull, or maybe the inside, and he clenches his jaw tight to hold back the frankly embarrassing whimper humming in his throat.

A new sound reaches his ears, like a sheet of paper crumpling inside his head. His eyes snap open, for all the good it does. “What the fuck is that?”

“Twenty-eight plus forty-three,” Mauer says instead of answering, in the same even tone.

Mark inhales through his teeth, struggling to think through the deafening noise. “Sixty– Uh, seventy-one.” A chill runs down his spine, seeps into his chest, reaches all the way to his fingers and toes. It’s oddly soothing, and he focuses on the feeling, on the way his racing heart slows and his breathing gradually evens out.

“Sixty-two plus thirty-four.”

All at once, the crackling is too loud, his fingers too numb, his tongue too dense.

His chest is too heavy. Filled with lead instead of air. He tries to breathe.

He can’t.

“Mr. Scout, can you hear me?”

He can hear perfectly, even over the noise, he just can’t breathe. His pulse picks up speed again, pounding in his throat and behind his useless eyes. Something starts beeping frantically nearby.

“Shit,” someone says, and the crackling stops.

Light hits his retinas like a physical blow, but he can’t close his eyes to keep it out. His newfound vision flickers and warps, smudges the flurry of movement surrounding him into an incomprehensible kaleidoscope of colors, distant and dizzying.

He’s flung from the chair, limbs flailing, except he doesn’t actually go anywhere. An elevator chimes between his ears and carries him away, leaves him behind, and the sensation is familiar, like a word on the tip of his tongue. The tongue that he can’t feel, the limbs that he can’t move.

The lungs that he can’t fill. He’s still suffocating, motionless in the chair. He should probably find that more concerning than he does.

But how can he, when he’s floating freely in space, his body discarded and forgotten?

The gray ceiling tiles churn overhead, ocean waves in a storm. He reaches for the surface–

And something catches his hand to stop him, a tether that drags him down to the earth. An IV line connected to his forearm, clear tape stretched and sticky on his sweat-soaked skin.

His skin. His arm. His body.

His head aches, a pressure chamber ready to blow, and he presses the heel of his hand into his temple and shuts his eyes tight to stop his brain from squeezing through the gaps of the fucking Play-Doh mold that is his skull. His throat rumbles with sound, alien and unfamiliar to his ears.

He coughs once, a jarring movement that drives an ice pick into the back of his neck, and lets out another groan that more closely resembles his own voice.

He’s awake, then. And alone.

He pulls his hand away from his face to stare at his palm. Blinks a few times. Curls his fingers into a fist and back out again. Static swims beneath his skin, a rush of pins and needles flooding his veins and pressing outward with every movement.

He lifts his gaze to his surroundings. There’s static outside of him too, flickering at the edges of his vision and constricting the veins of his eyes as he struggles to piece together the splintered sensory input. Dim lights. White walls. A faint but steady beeping from somewhere to his left, and a wide pane of glass, a window with nothing but darkness on the other side, occupying most of the space to his right. A spongy mattress beneath him, and a vaguely pleasant smell, like clean sheets and hand sanitizer.

A hospital room.

Is it a real one? Is he outside of Lumon? Is the maze of white hallways and ugly postmodern furniture and non-consensual brain surgery nothing but an unpleasant memory?

He tries to sit up and quickly abandons the idea with a wince, clutching his head again. A tangle of wires tugs at his hair, and he traces a few of the strands to the small sensors stuck to his forehead with tacky adhesive. His clumsy fingers dislodge one, and a high-pitched alarm goes off nearby, shrill and painful like a drill to his teeth.

A door opens, and then there’s a figure in a surgical mask and gloves leaning over him, pressing the wayward sensor firmly back into place. Mercifully, the alarm stops, leaving Mark’s too-loud breathing as the only noise in the room.

“Wh…” His own dry rasping makes him flinch. With some difficulty, he swallows, nearly choking on his tongue. “What…”

“Don’t try to speak yet,” says an all-too-familiar voice, and Mark’s heart sinks like a stone.

The masked figure walks away, their every footfall a mallet to Mark’s throbbing head. In their stead, a familiar face comes into focus – Dr. Mauer, moving silently as a cat toward the bed.

Mark’s head falls back against the pillow, his eyes drifting closed. What a stupid thing to let himself believe, even for a second, that this nightmare could be over so easily.

“You were briefly intubated, so your throat may feel sore for a time,” Mauer is saying. He’s louder now, closer. “You certainly gave us quite the scare, Mr. Scout.”

He forces his eyes open and wills them to focus on Mauer, who’s standing beside him, studying him intently. “What happened?” he croaks out.

“The operation was a success, if a bit unorthodox.” He turns to point a remote at the window, which suddenly flickers to life – a screen, not a window at all. Mark shields his eyes from the bright light. “We were able to attach the auxiliary device to your chip, despite some…unexpected hurdles.”

He squints at the not-window and waits for his vision to adjust. Two nearly identical cranial X-rays that must be his fill the screen – a before and after, judging from the additional fins jutting out from the chip in the second image. It looks like there’s a goddamn helicopter resting dormant inside his head, ready to start spinning at a moment’s notice to obliterate his brain tissue.

Mark looks away. He’s really not interested in seeing the inside of his head, if he can help it.

“How are you feeling?”

He exhales. “Like dogshit.”

“Would you elaborate, please?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Dogshit, noun, the excrement of a canine, from the Old English–”

“You nearly died today, Mr. Scout.”

He falls silent. He’d assumed as much, but hearing it confirmed aloud is…unsettling.

“I’m well aware of the psychological effects one might experience from such an ordeal,” Mauer continues. “Right now, you may be feeling despair. Apprehension. Rage.”

Mark stares blankly back at him.

“These are all perfectly normal reactions.” Mauer smiles. “Rest assured, you’ll be allotted the appropriate amount of time to recover before we begin our testing in earnest.”

“Oh.” Mark tries not to sound too sarcastic. “Well, that’s…good news.”

“Yes,” Mauer agrees, his smile unwavering. “In the meantime, I’d like to ask you a few questions, to assess your current condition. Would that be alright?”

How considerate, pretending that Mark has any say in the matter. He sighs and rubs one eye while Mauer produces a clipboard and pulls up a chair. “Go for it.”

Where am I?

“What?”

Dr. Mauer looks up. “I haven’t asked you anything yet.”

Mark blinks. “Um.” He’s sure he heard a voice, but there’s no one else in the room. Is there? “Okay,” he says after a moment. “Go ahead.”

“Who are you?”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes again. He’s getting incredibly tired of answering that question. “Mark Scout. April third, 1978. Kier. The basement of Lumon. Friday… Or, maybe it’s Saturday by now,” he adds without waiting for a response, because it doesn’t matter either way. “My head hurts. Nine out of ten.” He coughs once to clear his throat and winces. “Does that cover everything?”

Mauer glances up from writing. “Is the pain in a specific place, or all over? Would you describe it as dull and pounding or sharp and stabbing?”

“Stabbing,” Mark replies, closing his eyes. “All over. Feels like a migraine.”

There’s a pause. “Are the lights too bright?”

“The screen.” He gestures vaguely to his right.

The soft electronic hum ceases, and the light staining the insides of Mark’s eyelids bright red disappears. The X-rays are gone when he opens his eyes, replaced by the black not-window from before. He stares at his murky reflection, dark and still a bit blurry. He blinks to clear his vision.

Behind him in the mirror image, something moves.

He whips his head around and immediately regrets the sudden motion, especially when he finds no one standing there. He turns back to the screen, but the distorted reflection in the shape of a person is gone. There’s no one in the room but himself and Dr. Mauer.

Dr. Mauer, who’s still speaking to him, he realizes suddenly. “What?”

“Is everything alright, Mark?”

“Yeah, I…” he begins, frowning again at the empty space to his left. “I thought, uh…” He rubs his temple and shakes his head. “Nevermind. Sorry, what was the question?”

“Any auras or hallucinations?”

“Uh, no. I… I don’t think so.”

“A simple yes or no will suffice.”

Mark steals another glance at his reflection. “No.” He watches his mouth move around the word.

And then he watches his reflection’s mouth continue to move while his own stays shut, articulating the words of the same unidentified voice he’d heard before:

Who are you?

Chapter Text

“How do you feel today, Mr. Scout?”

Mark sighs and rubs his eyes. It’s the seventh time he’s been asked that question. The seventh time he’s awoken to an overhead light shining directly in his face to simulate morning. The seventh time he’s hauled himself out of bed and into a new set of the same red clothes after stumbling through a half-awake shower.

He’s slipped into the “compliant prisoner” routine far too easily.

Not that it hasn’t been an incredibly long week. The sad fact is that Mauer’s daily visits to sit Mark down in the exam room and interrogate him about his health have more or less become the highlight of his day. Aside from his meals of course, which all consist of colorful Lumon capsules made of God-knows-what and only rendered edible by boiling on the hot plate his jailers were kind enough to grace him with, the flavors of which he’d be hard-pressed to describe as “extant”.

He'd fucking kill for a slice of pizza.

He’s going stir-crazy, stuck in a confined space with no change of scenery. The single bookshelf set into the wall of the living area had seemed like a promising source of entertainment, until he got close enough to see that its only contents were a set of encyclopedias from 1973. Lumon-branded, of course. Things were dire enough by the second day that he’s already up to the Cs – “Communication”.

It’s still better than sitting idle, with nothing to do but think about where he is, and what’s going to happen to him, and how this will all end. About the fact that his days are quite literally numbered. Without his job or his TV or his whiskey, he’s had way too much time to contemplate his own mortality.

When was the last time he stayed awake for so long, without turning his brain off for forty hours a week?

He looks up at Dr. Mauer, who’s still waiting for an answer. “Fine, I guess,” he says finally. “Head still hurts, but it’s…bearable.”

Mauer nods. “Any more hallucinations?”

Mark shakes his head. “No. Not since the one.” Telling Mauer about what he saw upon waking up in that pseudo-hospital room may have been a mistake, but he was too rattled at the time to not mention it. He at least had the good sense to leave out some of the finer details, such as the oddly familiar voice he heard.

The voice hasn’t come back, but the unsettling memory of it still echoes in the back of his mind like an itch that he can’t scratch. He’s haunted by the constant urge to look over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of whoever or whatever is stalking him, hiding just out of sight every time he searches for it.

Of course, living in a fucking panopticon hasn’t helped with the paranoia. He’s intimately aware of the cameras in each room, watching him at all hours of the day, and he wouldn’t be surprised if there were more of them hidden in places he hasn’t noticed yet.

He’s been here a week. Gemma’s been here for two years. How did she not go completely insane?

If he’s spent half his thoughts considering his own impending doom, the other half have been reserved for nothing but Gemma. Where she is, if she’s alright. If she knows that he’s here.

And whether she’s even here. Dr. Mauer could be lying about everything.

“When can I see her?” The question falls from Mark’s mouth before he even realizes he’s speaking.

Mauer cocks his head. “See whom?”

Mark frowns. “Gemma.” Who the fuck else?

“Soon.”

His frown deepens. “That’s what you said last time I asked. And the time before that.”

“And it’s even truer now than it was then,” Mauer says with a smile. “That is, now that you’ve fully recovered from the procedure.”

“Oh, really? I’ve recovered?” Almost unconsciously, Mark brings a hand to the sore spot on the back of his head, tracing the edges of the still-present bandage covering the incision hidden in his hair. “That’s good to know, thanks,” he says dryly.

“You’re quite welcome,” Mauer says, unfazed as ever. "As such, we’ll be performing the first of many experiments today.”

The dread Mark’s been struggling to keep at bay coalesces into a block of ice at the back of his throat. He swallows to dislodge it. “Okay. What exactly does that…entail?”

“Don’t worry.” Mauer gets to his feet. “I can assure you, it will be quick and painless.”

Mark watches him warily. “Yeah, that’s usually the kind of thing people say when they mean the opposite.”

“You’ll see.” He walks away, gesturing toward the bedroom with one hand. “You’ll find a change of clothes inside the closet. Please get dressed, and someone will be along shortly to escort you to the testing room.” And with that, he leaves.

Mark stays seated, staring into space, for several long seconds after hearing the door shut. He waits to stand until he’s sure that his legs won’t give out altogether beneath the uncertainty and fear threatening to drag him down, the lead weight buried inside his skull.

Finally, he makes his way to the closet to find a dark gray suit, not unlike the ones he wears – used to wear – to work every day.

The reflection that stares back at him from the mirror looks almost presentable, all things considered. He combs his hair neatly, more out of habit than anything else, and scratches the scruff covering his jaw with a frown. He should ask for a razor. It’s strange that the plastic bag of toiletries beneath the sink didn’t include one in the first place. Maybe they don’t want to give him access to anything sharp, anything that could be used as a weapon; he actually smiles a bit at the mental image of him breaking out of this place armed with nothing but a fucking Schick Quattro.

The door in the other room opens with a faint beep. Mark sighs and straightens his tie.

Why are you going along with this?

He whirls around, eyes darting wildly.

The voice. It’s back. Where the fuck is it coming from?

Another hallucination? It must be.

He turns back to the mirror, half-expecting to see someone standing behind him, but he’s alone.

Still, he can’t get out of the room fast enough.

The nurse – the same one who nearly broke his nose – stands outside the open door waiting for him, and he follows her without complaint. Anything’s better than spending one more second locked in that prison cell masquerading as an apartment, even a dizzying maze of hallways stretching out in every direction.

His dress shoes are too loud on the polished white floor. He counts his steps and makes mental notes of the turns they take and the labelled doors they pass, attempting to piece together the beginnings of a map in his head.

She leads him to a door that he’s seen before, one that makes him feel sick to his stomach. He stops a few steps away, glancing back and forth between her and the black lettering on the wall. Cold Harbor.

The nurse rolls her eyes at his reaction. “Come on, Mark.”

He approaches cautiously. “You’re not just gonna…” He hates how nervous he sounds. He clears his throat. “Lock me in there again, are you?”

She laughs, or scoffs, or some mix of the two, and places her hand in the indentation on the nearby console. It draws a pinprick of blood from her middle finger with a beep, and the door slides open.

He faces the short, curving hallway on the other side, squares his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

The moment he steps across the threshold, his muscles seize all over, a surprisingly painless feeling that’s totally foreign and hauntingly familiar all at once.

The elevator. It’s just like going down in the elevator, except it’s not; he feels his eyes roll back, feels something shift inside his head

like he’s careening around a curve at 80 miles an hour,

and the door shuts behind him.

Okay. That was weird. He expected to find himself walking right back out of the door he’d just entered. That’s what usually happens whenever he feels the severance transition starting.

So why is he still here, staring down the same short hallway from before? Was that the test?

“Enter the room.” The order comes from a speaker somewhere overhead, staticky and compressed; it’s Mauer, he’s pretty sure.

So, no, not the test, not yet. Mark moves to obey the command.

Except. He doesn’t. His feet don’t move. He stands stock-still on the spot, staring straight ahead. Something is horrifically wrong.

He can’t move. He can’t move.

“Enter the room,” Mauer repeats, more forcefully.

I’m trying! He wants to scream the words, but his jaw won’t open. He can’t even frown.

Oh, God, is he having another stroke? How is he still on his feet?

“Enter the room, now.”

Mark blinks and takes a small step forward.

Except, wait. That wasn’t him.

What the fuck?

Another step, his legs moving of their own accord.

Don’t freak out.

Mark whips his head around to search for the source of the voice – or, he tries to, but his head doesn't move. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck–

Hey, I said don’t freak out!

Is it coming from inside his head? Is he having another hallucination? What kind of hallucination steals away control of his body, turns him into a prisoner in his own mind?

His body is still walking, in slow, hesitant movements that he has no control over.

Just calm down! I know it’s weird too, okay?

What in the actual fuck?

It’s me, alright? It’s– I’m your–

Oh my God. Realization strikes him like a baseball bat to the head. You’re my fucking innie, aren’t you?

Yes, I’m your fucking innie. Please stop shouting, you’re making it really hard for me to think.

Mark wants to throw up.

He can’t, of course. He can’t do anything but scream at the inside of his skull.

For you to think? Why the hell are you the one thinking?

He steps into the room proper, eyes sliding around the featureless space without his permission. The room’s still empty.

Give me back my fucking body, right now!

I can’t. Look, I don’t understand what’s happening here any more than you do!

Jesus Christ. He focuses all his willpower on breaking through the terrible paralysis holding him in place. He tries to clench his hand into a fist. To hold his breath. To blink.

It won’t work, okay? Believe me, I’ve tried.

He tries to frown. What do you mean, you’ve tried?

I mean that this? He glances down and shuffles one foot awkwardly. What you’re experiencing right now, this– Being a passive observer in your own body, this is what the entirety of the past week has been for me.

Are you– You’re saying that you’ve been awake, in my head, this whole time?

Since I woke up– Well, we woke up in that hospital bed, yeah.

What the fuck. This is insane. What– Why didn’t you say anything?

I didn’t know I could, okay? Not until you started shouting at me just now. Which you’re still doing, by the way.

“Who are you?”

Mauer’s voice snaps Mark out of one panic spiral and into a wholly new one.

Shit. I don’t think this was supposed to happen.

What was supposed to happen?

I don’t know. He tries to calm down, to take a breath. He can’t, but imagining the action helps a little anyway. When I found Gemma in one of these rooms, she didn’t know who I was until we walked out the door.

Oh. Mark’s eyes widen with understanding. Different rooms, different innies.

What?

“Who are you?” Mauer asks again.

Mark’s face twists into a frown. “I…” His voice sounds strange. It’s his, but it’s not. It’s his mouth moving, but he’s not the one moving it. “I don’t know.”

What are you doing?

Just trust me.

“Where and when were you born?”

“I don’t know.”

Wait, I can tell you the answers–

I don’t think we’re supposed to know the answers. We’re not supposed to be a we at all, we’re supposed to be a whole new innie.

Multiple innies, in the same person? In Gemma?

How do you know that?

“Where are you now, and how did you come to be here?”

He looks around the empty room again, his expression gradually morphing into exaggerated confusion and fear. “I don’t know. I– I don’t remember,” he replies, his voice wavering.

Mark cringes. Surely he’s better at lying than that? He’s not gonna believe you.

He shakes his head, then catches himself and stops. It’s fine, I’ve done this before. A pause. Well, not the pretending part. I mean, I’ve been new before.

I fucking haven’t. Not like this.

The questions continue, turning to white noise in Mark’s head along with his own voice answering them.

This can’t be happening. How is this his fucking life?

Look, I’m not thrilled about the situation either, okay? Let’s…get through this, and then we can figure it out together.

“California,” he’s saying, a bit uncertainly.

“Excellent,” Dr. Mauer says. “One last question: to the best of your memory, what is or was the color of your mother’s eyes?”

Mark is quiet for a moment. What’s the answer?

I thought we weren’t supposed to know the answers.

We aren’t. He swallows. I just…would like to know.

If he could, he’d roll his eyes. Brown.

“I don’t remember.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Dr. Mauer says after a moment. “If you would, please turn around and exit through the door from whence you came.”

A nauseating mix of unease and hopefulness swirls in Mark’s stomach as he faces the exit.

Are we gonna switch back? He tries not to sound too eager.

I don’t know. He takes a small step toward the door.

We fucking better.

Uh. Okay. You do remember the part where I said I’ve been trapped inside my own head for a week, right?

Okay, first of all? It’s my head. And also–

He stops walking.

What are you doing? You can’t just stand there, they’ll get suspicious.

I don’t know, maybe I want that. Anger bubbles in his chest, constricts his throat. I didn’t have to cover for you in here, you know.

If he’s feeling his innie’s anger, does it go both ways? Can his innie feel the panic threatening to take him over?

He tries to think calming thoughts. Placating thoughts. Okay, fine, you’re right, I’m sorry. Please, just… Do what they say for now, and I promise you, we will talk this through, alright?

After what feels like an eternity, Mark’s head bobs once, almost imperceptibly, in a nod.

The door slides open automatically as he approaches. He takes a deep breath

and steps through, his stomach lurching

as he sets foot on the other side of the threshold.

He blinks twice, deliberately, and heaves a sigh of relief, bringing a hand to his forehead. He’s back in control, thank God.

Hey, play it cool. You just walked in and then right back out, remember?

Right. He struggles to suppress a sudden, cruel surge of disappointment upon hearing his innie; he’d sort of hoped leaving the room would leave him behind.

Hopefully, neither of them can read too deeply into the other half of their mind.

“How long was I in there?” he asks the nurse, who pushes off the wall she’d been leaning on beside the door.

“Five minutes.”

“That’s not very long.”

She shrugs. “This was a trial run. Tomorrow’ll be longer.”

With that, she motions for him to follow her back down the hall. Mark falls into step behind her without a word, relishing his ability to walk in a way that he never has before.

She leads him back to his quarters and informs him that Dr. Mauer will be coming by shortly to speak with him. Then she shuts the door behind him, sealing him into silence.

Mark stands still for a few seconds, breathing slowly in and out, before sitting down on the couch and dragging his hands over his face.

“Okay,” he mutters, now that he’s alone with himself. “So. What the fuck?”

Chapter Text

What do you mean, the numbers were her?

I mean, that’s what Cobel said. The numbers we were refining were her tempers, and each file we completed was a new innie for her.

What the fuck. Mark leans back on the couch, his fingers tightening around the encyclopedia he’s pretending to read. Why?

I don’t know. I still don’t understand it, not really. But, those names by the doors? They’re all files that MDR worked on.

Absently, he flips a page. And how many of those files did you finish?

A brief pause. Cold Harbor was my twenty-fifth.

Jesus Christ. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand. Are you saying there are twenty-five goddamn innies inside Gemma’s head?

At least. I mean, that’s only counting the files I completed. There were four refiners, so…

Jesus Christ.

Who is that, by the way?

What?

Jesus Christ. Everybody in MDR knew that name, but none of us could figure out why. Is he like a president or a celebrity or something?

Mark shakes his head and leans forward. Look, he begins, with the patience of a goddamn saint, I need to know what the fuck happened up there. Because one second I was with Gemma in the elevator, and the next, we’re both prisoners down here.

His innie is silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. We ran for the stairwell. Me and Ms. Casey– or, uh. Your wife’s innie. Well, her main innie. The one I knew, I mean.

And?

And, we…

He’s struck with an odd urge, one that isn’t his, to take a deep breath.

Well, clearly we didn’t make it out. She…and I got separated, and–

You WHAT? He leaps to his feet, throwing the book to the ground. You fucking lost her?

Not exactly, it was just… It was really chaotic, and…

“Oh, my God.” He starts pacing, one hand on his hip and the other twisting in his hair. I can’t fucking believe this.

Hey, calm down–

Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!

There are cameras in here, remember?

Shit. The little fucker is right. Mark forces himself to take a deep breath, and another, and another.

So. You lost my fucking wife. Then what happened?

It… It’s all kind of a blur. It’s hard to remember.

Mark grits his teeth. Try.

I guess… I got caught. I was on the ground before I even knew what was happening, and… I don’t know. I think…there was a needle involved.

He closes his eyes and nods. Mauer did mention sedatives when he woke up in the Cold Harbor room. So, what, you got tackled by security or something?

Uh. Yeah. He doesn’t sound sure. I…guess that must’ve been it, yeah.

And they caught her, too. He exhales and starts pacing again, dragging a hand through his hair.

You’ve seen her, down here?

Yes. Well, a video of her.

And you’re sure it was real? Like, it was live and everything?

He exhales. I don’t know.

His innie is quiet for a moment. Have you considered the possibility that–

Yes, it could all be a fucking lie, I know. He shakes his head. But I can’t take that chance.

He can’t risk getting her killed. He can’t even think about it; every time he does, he starts shaking and sweating all over, gasping for air, melting into a functionless puddle on the floor. He’s back in the night of the crash, hearing the news all over again–

He squeezes his eyes shut. No, he can’t think about that either, not right now.

Can you answer some of my questions now?

Mark frowns. I’m telling you, Jesus is really not relevant at the moment.

Not that.

He sits back down with a sigh. What do you wanna know?

Can you tell me what the hell happened to us? Why were we in a hospital bed?

I had brain surgery for the second time in a week. At least it wasn’t in his basement this time. Gingerly, he touches the bandage on the back of his head. They made some kind of modification to the chip. To make it “compatible with the testing rooms”, whatever the fuck that means.

Oh… Okay, that must be why I was in control, once you stepped into that room.

He squints. That doesn’t make any goddamn sense.

I mean, it kind of does. He’s oddly defensive. Think about it, if there are severance thresholds on all those doors, then it tracks that you’d become an innie when you go inside. Even if it’s not a new innie, like it’s apparently meant to be.

But we’re both in there.

Well, we’re both here right now. But you’re still you, right? While I’m just…along for the ride.

He frowns again. Why do you sound pissed about that?

His innie scoffs. You spent five minutes in the backseat, and you nearly had a meltdown. Now multiply that by about two thousand, and you can maybe see why I’m not having the most fantastic week.

Right, because my week has been just peachy. With a quick glance at the camera overhead, he retrieves the encyclopedia from the floor. Having a great time trapped in this secret torture basement.

Hey, I’m here, too.

You realize that doesn’t make things better, right?

Wow. Okay, fuck you too, then.

As if it wasn’t enough that I’m being watched every second of the day, now I’ve got a fucking peanut gallery inside my head to keep me company while I eat and sleep and shit and–

You understand that none of this is new to me, right? We’ve been sharing this body for two years now.

Not at the same time!

No, but your bodily functions don’t just grind to a halt when you step into the elevator. It’s my body too, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

Mark rolls his eyes. Oh, that makes me feel so much better.

Look, we’re not gonna get anywhere if we just keep arguing in circles. We should be spending this time trying to figure out what we do next. I mean, two heads are better than one, right?

He pauses. Or. One head, but with two…

Another pause. You get it.

What we do next? He scoffs. Sorry, I guess I missed the part where we had any fucking options whatsoever.

Jeez, are you always this pessimistic?

Oh, really? You want me to look on the bright side, is that it? He lets out a humorless laugh. Sure, yeah, I guess at least I won’t have to deal with you anymore, once they yank this stupid chip out of my head.

Wait, what?

And you won’t have to deal with me, either, so everyone wins. That optimistic enough for you?

They’re gonna remove the chip? Won’t that, like–

Kill me? Yeah. Guess you missed that part.

Shit.

The panic bleeding from his innie’s mind feels familiar. Which makes sense, considering that he’s spent the past week trying to ignore that same panic.

Shit.

It almost makes him feel bad for snapping at him.

Well, then, we have to get out of here.

You think I don’t know that? He shakes his head again. I can’t go anywhere right now, not without–

Wait a goddamn second.

Hey! Why the fuck didn’t you leave?

What?

I tried to get out of here, a week ago. They were gonna let me go. I went up in the elevator, and then I came right back down.

The elevator…?

Yeah, the fucking elevator. The one that goes to the severed floor. You know, the only way out of this hellhole? I tried three times to leave, and you sent me back. I even left you a message on the door.

Oh. Right. Sorry, it’s all kinda…fuzzy. “Get out”, right?

He nods. So. What the fuck?

The…doors didn’t open. I remember waking up in the elevator, for just a second, and then it started moving back down. Twice. I woke up again, and I saw your message, and then I was waking up in the hospital bed.

The doors didn’t open? So…they didn’t let you out at all?

No. I mean, why would they?

Shit. He massages his temples with one hand. Well, that explains a lot.

He looks down at the book in his lap. He’d grabbed K off the shelf at random; it’s open to “Karma”.

Did you see… I’m assuming there wasn’t anyone else down here with you, when you woke up. Was there?

No. He flips through the pages. Kleptomania. Knights. Krill. Why?

No reason.

The wheels turn slowly in Mark’s head; once they click into place, he nearly laughs out loud. Are you worried about Helena fucking Eagan?

I’m worried about Helly.

Mark resists the urge to roll his eyes. I’m sure she’s fine. She’s like, the leader of Lumon. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to her.

Helly isn’t. Helena is. And she’s actually the leader-in-waiting, he corrects. Jame Eagan is the current CEO.

Whatever. She’d described herself as head of the company, hadn’t she, on that night that she happened to run into him. Right before she started flirting with him. Before he saw a flash of her beneath him, whispering his name.

Hey, he’s asking before he can stop himself, did you seriously fuck Helena Eagan?

A surge of something like embarrassment floods around the edges of his mind.

I– We– Helly and I, we...made love, yes.

“Jesus,” he mutters out loud.

Oh, I’m sorry, should I have asked your permission? You’ve always been so good about consulting me before you show up to work with a hangover.

I don’t think that’s the same–

And I suppose you’ve been totally celibate, then, since getting severed? If you’re so concerned about both of us having a say in what our body gets used for.

As a matter of fact– He cuts himself off. He’d nearly forgotten about his night with Alexa. Though to be fair, a lot of things happened that night.

He exhales. Whatever. It’s fine. He sits in blissful silence for a few seconds, studying the flag of Kuwait.

When his innie speaks up again, he’s quieter. But also, yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, I also…had sex…with Helena Eagan.

Mark blinks. You mean… Not just with her body, her innie, you mean you actually–

It wasn’t on purpose, I didn’t know it was her. He’s distressed suddenly, almost apologetic. She tricked me. I thought she was Helly, so when she…

Oh. He drags a hand through his hair. How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? That sounds…pretty shitty. Sorry that happened to you. Or, to us, I guess.

You weren’t there. Back to anger, now. We’re not the same person.

He opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it. Okay. I guess not. He looks down at his hands and flexes them thoughtfully. Though, it seems like we’re a lot closer to it now.

Is this what you meant by reintegration? You said it wouldn’t be like a top-bottom thing, but–

No, this isn’t how it’s supposed to work. We should be one person with all our memories combined, not two personalities in a fucking timeshare.

How do you know so much about it, anyway?

He hesitates, and settles on honesty. I…met your friend, actually. Uh, Petey.

His innie perks up so suddenly that Mark’s back straightens a bit. Petey? He's okay? You found him? On the outside?

He found me, actually. Mark fidgets uncomfortably. He…reintegrated, and he tracked me down somehow. He’s kinda…the reason all this started, the reason I started digging into Lumon a little deeper, and, uh…

So you know him! The unbridled joy radiating from the foreign half of his mind only makes the knot in his stomach curl tighter. He told you that we're best friends, right? Did he tell you about–

Look, here’s the thing. He swallows. The reintegration wasn’t– It didn’t really agree with him, I guess.

What does that mean? The question comes like a nervous laugh.

I mean, he… It fucked him up, bad. He called it reintegration sickness. And, well…

Well, what?

God, why does this feel like kicking a puppy? It killed him.

A long silence passes between them.

Oh.

I'm sorry. It sounded like we were– Like the two of you were close, down there, so… I’m sorry.

No response.

Are you… You okay?

Oh, I’m fucking great. A bitter laugh. My best friend’s dead, the woman I love probably doesn’t even exist anymore, and I can’t do anything about it because I’m stuck inside my own head while someone else pilots my fucking body, which is being held prisoner in Lumon’s secret torture basement. Who wouldn’t be okay?

A pause, almost like his innie is trying to catch his breath.

God, I can’t even fucking cry.

Do you want me to… He rubs his eye and clears his throat. I guess I could, like, try to cry, if you think it would–

The door opens, and Mark snaps the book shut, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Scout.” Dr. Mauer pauses in the doorway to watch him stand and re-shelve the encyclopedia. “I wasn’t expecting to find you still dressed so formally.”

Mark glances down at the suit he’s wearing. “Uh…”

“Why don’t you go and get changed, and I’ll meet you around the corner?”

“Okay. Sure.”

He finds the red pajama-scrubs lying in the same spot he’d left them on the bedroom floor.

What do you think he’s doing here?

Mark shrugs. Today was the first test. Maybe he’s here to tell me how it went.

Do you think they know? That something’s weird?

Let’s hope not. He buttons up his shirt with a heavy exhale. ‘Cause if my brain is too fucked for their experiments, they’ll probably go back to using Gemma. And that’s not happening.

But are you, like, really sure they have her?

He shakes his head slightly as he leaves the bedroom. Don’t distract me right now, okay?

Dr. Mauer stands in the exam room waiting for him, hands clasped behind his back. His face twists into that fake-warm smile Mark’s seen a thousand times already as he gestures to the chair. “Have a seat.”

Mark sits, and watches warily as Mauer brackets the arms of the X-ray machine on either side of his head. He draws a deep breath and takes a stab, “So, how’d it go?”

Mauer presses a button on the machine. “You don’t remember?”

“No.” He sets his face carefully into a mask of ignorance. “Was I supposed to?”

Mauer sits on the stool in front of him. “Tell me about your experience.”

He shrugs. “I went through the door, and I came right back out. It felt just like going to work.”

“You remember nothing from inside the room?”

“Nope.”

Mauer nods slowly. “And how did you feel in the hall? Did you feel differently than before, when you left the room?”

“Nope,” Mark repeats. “What…exactly happened in there, anyway?”

“That’s nothing you need concern yourself with.”

“Alright. Whatever, I guess.”

You called me a bad liar?

His eye twitches. Shut the fuck up.

He leans forward, out of the machine's reach. “You said if I went along with all this, I’d earn the right to see Gemma,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “I’d really like to see her, now.”

Dr. Mauer stares at him for a few seconds, then nods. “Come with me.”

Mark’s heart leaps into his throat as he gets up, quickly, to follow. Then it tumbles back down through his chest, clattering painfully against his ribcage, when Mauer stops beside the tiny screen on the wall. “I meant actually see her,” Mark clarifies. “In person, not on a screen.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible at this time,” Mauer says. “It’s this, or nothing.”

Mark drags a hand over his face and closes his eyes for a few seconds. “Fine.”

Mauer looks up at one of the cameras with a nod, and the screen lights up. Mark steps closer as the picture gradually comes into focus.

It's a different angle than before, but the same room, identical to his. Gemma stands in a strange stance on the right side of the screen, one leg bent in front and the other stretched out behind her in a lunge.

He's ready for it this time, but seeing her still knocks the breath from his lungs in one fell swoop. He reaches for her, hand trembling, the static electricity warming his fingertips when he rests them beneath the image of her.

She raises her arms above her head and tilts her face toward the sky.

“What are you doing?” Mark breathes.

I don't think she can hear you.

“Yoga,” Mauer answers from nearby, startling him.

She twists to the side, every movement smooth and graceful as she forms a straight line with her arms and stretches forward.

“Why?” Mark asks without taking his eyes off her. He’s afraid to blink, afraid she’ll disappear.

“In living conditions such as these, a certain level of daily physical activity becomes essential for one’s well-being.”

Why aren’t they making you do it, then?

“Probably not gonna be here long enough,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

Shit. He didn’t mean to say that out loud. “I said, I’m probably not gonna be here long enough for that kind of thing to matter. That’s why you aren’t worried about my fitness. Right?”

He feels Mauer’s eyes on him. “Not necessarily,” he says after a moment. “We can provide you with a yoga mat as well, if you'd like?”

Gemma shifts her weight to balance delicately on one leg. The picture is too grainy to make out the details of her face, but she looks calm. Focused. She doesn’t seem to be in distress, for the moment at least, and he slowly lets out a heavy breath he’s been holding onto for the past seven days.

I think that was a question.

Mark shakes his head. “I think I’ll pass.”

We are pretty out of shape though, aren’t we?

I’m not doing fucking yoga.

Okay, but some exercise might not be a bad idea. Aren’t we like, 40?

43, and we’re good as dead anyway, so who cares?

We could try to escape. It’d probably be helpful if we could run without getting winded after thirty seconds.

He suppresses a sigh. At least it would give him something to do. “Could I have a treadmill?”

“That wouldn’t be suitable,” Mauer says. “You could easily fall and injure yourself.”

On the screen, Gemma has moved to the floor, folding forward to press her forehead to her outstretched legs. He doesn’t remember her being so flexible. But then, she’s had plenty of time to practice.

His throat constricts at that thought, and he coughs once to clear it. “What about a bike?”

“A bike?” Mauer repeats.

“Yeah, like a stationary one.” He shrugs. “Hard to fall off one of those.”

Mauer cocks his head, considering. “I’ll see what I can do.”

There. Happy?

I’ve never ridden a bike before, his innie replies, with almost childlike wonder.

Mark decides to take that as a yes.

Gemma rolls up her mat and places it in a nearby cabinet, then walks off-screen.

Panic seizes tight in his chest. “Where’d she go? Can we– Can you switch cameras?” He sounds utterly pathetic, but he doesn’t care.

The picture changes to the same angle he’d seen before. Gemma selects a book from her own shelf on the wall, then sits at a desk in the far corner of the room, flicking on a too-bright lamp that blows out the picture for a few seconds before it re-calibrates.

“I’ll allow you three minutes,” Mauer says from somewhere to his right. “After that, this feed will be disconnected.”

Mark feels himself nod. It’s not enough, but it never will be, not until he can hold her in his arms again.

Mauer walks out, leaving him alone with the silent image on the screen. It’s just the two of them.

Is there any way to tell if this is live?

Well. The three of them.

No.

Then, it could be a recording.

Yeah, maybe. His back is starting to hurt from leaning over at an awkward angle to keep his face inches from the screen, but he doesn’t move.

You said she’s been here for two years, right? So, this could be footage from any point during that time.

I know.

So… The word is tinged with impatience, frustration. Like Mark just isn’t getting what he’s trying to say. They might not even have her. She could have made it out.

I know.

So, if she’s not here, then there’s no reason for us to lie down and be Lumon’s guinea pig.

Gemma turns a page and takes a sip of water.

But what if she is?

What if she isn’t?

Chapter Text

So, when are we gonna talk about it?

Mark stares himself down in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. Talk about what?

This. Us, both being conscious at the same time. Why is it happening?

Reintegration.

No, that’s bullshit. You said we'd be one person.

I guess I don't actually know how it’s supposed to work, he admits to his reflection. Pretty much everything I know is based on what Petey told me.

Something aches in his chest at the mention of Petey.

But you said yourself that he was a whole person, right? Not two people in a Petey-shaped trenchcoat.

Maybe it’s different for me. Us. He spits in the sink. Maybe Reghabi fucked it up somehow, I don’t know.

Reghabi?

She’s the one who’s been helping me reintegrate. He pauses, then shrugs. Or, she was, until I stroked out and she up and left.

Wait, we had a stroke?

I did. You weren’t there.

Annoyance lodges itself behind his eyes, then dissipates. Whatever.

He rinses his mouth and spits again.

It must have something to do with whatever they did to your chip. Our chip. The chip.

Probably. I don’t see why it matters.

Another spike of annoyance. So, what do we do?

He rolls his eyes. We go along with their shit, just like yesterday. Let them do their experiments until we can get to Gemma, and then figure out a way to get both of us out of here.

And then…what? You skip off into the sunset with your wife and forget I ever existed?

Ideally, yes.

I don’t know. I’ve got a funny feeling that I’m stuck with you, even after we get out of here, so… I don’t know. He shrugs again. I guess we try to find Reghabi. See if she can finish the reintegration.

And what if I don’t want that?

Mark frowns. Why wouldn’t you want that?

I already told you. You’re 43, and I’ve only been alive for a little over two years. If we reintegrate, it seems pretty likely that you’d just like…absorb me completely.

He cringes. Gross. Don’t ever describe it like that again.

Am I wrong?

Probably.

Probably, okay. Thanks a lot, that makes everything better.

Look, I don’t think we’ve got any other choice right now.

We could tell Lumon the truth. I could tell the truth. He says it like a threat.

In the mirror, his eyes narrow. Yeah, you could. And then they’ll probably turn you off.

…What?

You said they want new innies in each room, right? So, no matter what’s causing this– He gestures to himself and his reflection– It means there’s a malfunction somewhere. Which means they either wheel me back into surgery to fix it, or they decide I’m useless and kill me on the fucking spot. Either way, you stop existing.

You don’t know that, he asserts, but he doesn’t sound sure.

We can’t unopen that can of worms. You understand that, right? As soon as we stop pretending that everything’s normal, there’s no going back.

Well, what makes you think they even believe us in the first place? They could be pretending, too.

He flinches at the beep of the door opening in the other room.

Look, let’s just keep playing along for now. We’ll figure the rest out later.

Is that your solution to everything?

He rakes a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and walks around the corner.

The nurse, not Dr. Mauer, waits for him in the exam room. Mark sinks into the chair without being asked as she pulls a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff from the cart nearby.

I think, before anything else, we should figure out whether they actually have your wife.

Mark waits to respond until she’s done listening to his lungs, as if she might be able to eavesdrop on the conversation inside his head. They do.

Okay, but how do you know that?

Because I’m still here. He rolls up his sleeve. If Gemma had made it out, her and Devon would’ve already gone to the police – or the media, or whatever – to bring Lumon down.

Would that be enough? I mean, I don’t know what things are like out there, but your sister said Lumon has their hands in a lot of pies.

Well yeah, but I think kidnapping and faking someone’s death probably merits an actual investigation, no matter how well-connected they are, he states as the nurse checks his blood pressure. It wouldn’t be business as usual here, if Gemma escaped.

But if Lumon is as powerful as it sounds, they could probably like…silence people. Right? He pauses. And if your sister and your wife are the only ones who know what’s happening down here–

No! He clenches his jaw tight and shakes his head when the nurse turns away. No. Don’t fucking say shit like that to me, ever.

The same annoyance from before creeps into his mind. Fine, okay, maybe it’s because we’re here.

The fuck does that mean?

Maybe your sister’s afraid to do anything while Lumon’s still got their hands on you, in case they decide to cut their losses and kill us. Which means rescue isn’t coming, which means the only way to get out is to get ourselves out.

We’re not leaving without Gemma.

Dude, I’m getting really tired of you asking me to die for your fucking wife.

Will you just–

Mark jerks away from the needle the nurse tries to stick in his arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Blood sample,” she says flatly.

“Yeah, I gathered that. Why the fuck do you need it?”

“Just hold still.”

Does he have a choice? He complies with a frown and lets her draw his blood, remains perfectly still as she points an infrared thermometer at his forehead, even stands on the scale without complaint when ordered. He cranes his neck to steal a glimpse of her clipboard as she records his weight, but nothing particularly sinister jumps out at him, aside from the obvious Lumon logo in the top right corner.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asks, gesturing for him to sit back down.

“Last night.”

That earns him a disapproving scowl. “You’ll need to start eating breakfast every morning.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll make sure to do that.”

She returns to her own seat on the rolling stool and opens a drawer on the cart to retrieve a pair of pastel red… Well, he’s not sure what they are. Giant plastic kidney beans? She offers them to Mark palm-up, one in each hand. “Hold these, like this.”

Hesitantly, he takes them. “What are they?” he asks, gliding a thumb over the smooth surface. They’re deceptively heavy, like there’s metal inside.

Instead of answering, she produces an unidentifiable device from the same drawer. It’s rectangular with rounded edges, its case the same color and texture as the bean-things. She flips a switch, and a light comes on inside the round center display, where a pair of red needles begin to twitch in asynchronous patterns.

Mark laughs uncomfortably. “What, are you gonna check my thetans?”

What does that mean?

You don’t wanna know.

“No,” the nurse replies, fiddling with the knobs of the device in her lap. Finally, she looks up. “If a person you loved was dying, would you rather it be caused by poisoning or cancer?”

Mark’s blood runs cold. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Please choose an answer,” she says in the same neutral tone.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t… I don’t know, uh…” His mouth is too dry. He swallows. Poisoning would imply malice of some sort, wouldn’t it? Unless it was accidental. “Cancer, I guess?”

She studies the needles’ movements for what feels like an eternity before nodding once and switching off the device.

“Why did you ask me that?” he asks as she returns it to the drawer. “What were you…measuring?”

“You’ll be visiting two rooms today.” She takes the bean-things back from him and places them beside the device before shutting the drawer. “Go to the closet and get dressed, and I’ll wait for you outside.”

She leaves without another word.

I’ve seen that kind of device before. Well, sort of.

Mark blinks. Wait, really?

In the break room. There’s a machine there that… When you apologize, it can tell whether you actually mean it or not.

What, like a polygraph?

I guess?

You think it’s the same thing? He drags himself to his feet and heads for the bedroom.

I don’t know. Maybe not.

There’s a new set of clothes – more casual than yesterday’s – waiting for him in the closet; it must be accessible from the other side somehow, though his brief investigation of the back panel didn’t uncover any method for opening it. He changes into a pair of jeans, a green t-shirt, white tennis shoes, and the ugliest fucking sweater he’s ever seen, and takes a moment to survey himself in the mirror.

“God. I look like a dork.”

A goofy laugh echoes in his head, quick and loud like it caught his innie off-guard.

Glad one of us is enjoying this fit, he says, a half-grin creeping onto his reflection’s face.

Sorry. He laughs again. You do, though.

He combs a quick hand through his hair and turns to leave. If those rooms we’re going to are anything like the other one, I think you’re the one who’s gonna be on dork duty pretty soon.

Right.

Mark half-expects the nurse to laugh at his outfit too, but she merely fixes him with the same disinterested gaze as always before leading him away. He tries to keep track of all the turns as they weave through the maze of hallways once more. He’s not entirely unconvinced that they haven’t made a full loop at one point, but eventually, she stops at a door.

Astoria, he notes as the nurse places her hand on the control panel. That one of your files?

Yeah. My fourth.

Great. The door slides open. You ready?

I think so. Are you?

He exhales. No. And steps forward anyway.

Try not to freak out again, okay?

One more step

over the threshold

and into the room.

The door slides shut behind him, too loud, but he doesn’t flinch.

Even knowing what to expect, he can’t hold back the panic that claws its way up his throat when he tries to breathe and can’t do it.

His body is breathing, though, even if he’s not the one in charge of the action. Deep, even breaths, the only sound in the room. The only sound in his head, too.

All at once, he’s struck with a fear that he hadn’t even thought to consider: what if Cold Harbor was a fluke? What if all the other rooms work as intended, a new innie with every new room, and he’s trapped inside his head while a fucking newborn pilots his body?

Hey, he calls out tentatively. Are you…still you?

Yeah.

Thank God. Can they both feel his relief?

He takes a hesitant step forward. You doing okay in there?

He tries to shrug before remembering that he can’t. I guess.

This time, the room he finds around the corner isn’t an empty white void.

What the fuck?

He’s standing in a garage, not unlike the one that was attached to his parents’ house growing up. It’s in a similar state of disarray, littered with miscellaneous sports equipment and boxes of various sizes and shapes, a set of golf clubs in one corner, a bike with flat tires in another.

And in the middle of it all sits–

A car?

A sedan of indeterminate make and model, probably white at one time, now yellowing and speckled with road dust, the paint rusted out in a few places.

Old-ass car.

He approaches it cautiously. What am I supposed to–

A different door opens – he hadn’t even noticed it amid all the clutter – and a bespectacled Dr. Mauer, wearing a fake beard and a sweater nearly as dorkish as his own, enters the garage. “Aha! Looks like I’m right on time.”

Mark blinks. “Uh…?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot!” Mauer grins. “It’s your turn to drive the carpool this week.”

I repeat, what the fuck?

“Carpool,” Mark echoes helplessly. “I don’t…”

“Ann’s still out sick, so it’s only the two of us today.” Mauer strides to the passenger side and opens the door, still smiling brightly at him over the roof of the car. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

He gets in, and Mark stares blankly at the space where he was standing.

Carpool.

Apparently.

He shakes his head. I don’t–

He flinches when the passenger door slams shut, way too loud in the confined space.

I think you should probably…get in?

He frowns, but nods. Okay.

The handle sticks, and he has to plant his feet and pull with both hands to get the door open. He lowers himself into the seat awkwardly and shuts the door, his pulse racing in his ears.

Take a breath, he suggests, since he can’t do it himself.

His hands hover over the steering wheel, afraid to touch it. I don’t know how to drive.

Well, you’re probably not supposed to know, right?

I don’t know. His heart thuds against his ribcage like it’s trying to break out. What if the data we refined was stuff like this, skills that I’m meant to have? What if this innie was supposed to come into existence already knowing what they’re doing here? What if–

Okay, listen, you told me not to freak out, and now you're freaking out. Just take a deep breath and calm down.

“Oh, let me get that for you.” Mauer leans over to press the button on the garage remote clipped to the visor. The windshield flickers, along with every other window and mirror in the car, before displaying a slightly grainier replica of the garage around them.

Screens, Mark realizes with an incredulous laugh. It’s a fucking driving sim.

“What–” He gawks in astonishment as the fake garage door rattles open, complete with tinny sound effects from the car’s speakers.

“Shall we?” Mauer says. “We’d better get going if we want to beat the traffic.”

“Traffic,” Mark repeats, hands still poised nervously above the steering wheel. “Right. Yeah.”

What do I do?

Mentally, he rolls his eyes. You’re a new innie, remember? I think you just gotta figure it out, man. You must have some muscle memory floating around in there, right?

He barks out a near-hysterical laugh and quickly disguises it as a cough. “Okay,” he breathes, closing his eyes.

Finally, he grips the wheel. His right hand drifts to the ignition, fingers tracing the edges of the already-inserted key before slowly turning it.

The engine starts, shaking the car around him, and his eyes fly open in surprise. “Whoa.”

Nice. There’s something oddly close to genuine pride warming his chest, and he’s not sure which of them it belongs to.

“Ah, don’t forget your seat belt,” Mauer says, buckling his own.

“Right.” Mark fumbles for only a few seconds before managing to strap himself in. He returns his attention to the instrument panel, eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration. His foot finds the accelerator and taps it experimentally, revving the engine.

You gotta put it in drive, he interjects despite himself. It’s the–

Got it. He grabs the gearshift and pulls, but it doesn’t move.

Foot on the brake– There you go.

He lifts his foot off the pedal, then slams it back down when the car begins to roll forward. The sudden halt nearly gives him whiplash.

Jesus!

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“That’s quite alright,” Mauer replies, amused.

This is only a simulation, Mark says, to remind his innie as much as himself. It’s like one of those fucking…4D movies, you know?

…No?

He tries to shake his head. The car isn’t going anywhere, it’s just designed to make you feel like it is. So, like. Chill out a little bit. You can’t actually crash. Probably.

“Right, okay.” He eases off the brake, slowly this time. The virtual surroundings change as the car “moves”, gradually leaving the garage behind.

Give it a little gas.

He does, cautiously, his knuckles white around the steering wheel as the car accelerates and pulls out of the imaginary driveway without incident.

See, you got it. If he could, he’d lean back and heave the weary sigh of an air traffic controller finishing their workday. At least it’s an automatic.

“Left here,” Mauer says calmly, as the car approaches a red light and squeaks through a series of too-quick stops.

Reflexively, Mark clicks the turn signal on. He twists in his seat to peer at the on-ramp projected on the window, the image jumping slightly like an old VHS that’s been rewound too many times.

Anxiety curdles in his stomach; he’s not sure whose. Are we getting on the goddamn interstate? Surely Mauer isn’t expecting a 5-minute-old innie to merge onto a highway at 60 miles an hour, simulation or no.

In his peripheral vision, the light changes.

Light’s green, that means–

Go. He navigates through the turn surprisingly well. I got it.

The tentative sense of confidence he’d been developing evaporates in an instant when the highway ahead comes into view, its four lanes packed with bumper-to-bumper traffic. “That’s a lot of cars,” he says weakly.

“Looks like we missed the worst of it, at least,” Mauer muses, and Mark stares at him in disbelief.

Eyes on the road!

The cars are practically at a standstill; Mark manages to maneuver into the mess without hitting any, at least.

And then there’s nothing to do but wait, inching forward just often enough that he can’t shift into park.

Hey, he begins after a few minutes. You haven’t figured out how to like… Turn yourself off, temporarily, have you?

What?

Like… He fumbles with his phrasing. I don’t know. Go to sleep in here. Is there a way to do it?

You mean re-sever?

No, I mean… Well, yeah, I guess.

He clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt them both. No, you can’t turn yourself off. You’re stuck here, just like I am.

The sudden vitriol catches him off-guard. Okay, sorry. Forget I asked.

He keeps his mouth shut after that – figuratively, of course. He focuses on the texture of the ancient leather covering the steering wheel, on the feeling of the cool air from the vents blowing on his face. He reads the license plates of the surrounding cars, cursing inwardly when his eyes dart away too soon from where he’s trying to look.

He ignores Mauer’s inane chatter, and his innie does too, aside from the occasional “Yeah” or “Uh-huh” or polite chuckle in response. He tries to ignore the clock on the dashboard too, but his eyes won’t stop sliding back to it without his permission.

This fucking sucks. How is his innie still sane, after being stuck like this for a whole goddamn week?

At least he doesn’t seem to be mad anymore. For the moment.

“Almost there,” Mauer says, after nearly two hours of crawling down the road at a snail’s pace.

Finally.

So what kind of test is this, anyway?

Fuck if I know.

He sighs, disappointed. I thought being in a car would be fun.

It’s not usually like this. He pauses, thinking. Feels like this simulation was intentionally designed to be as miserable as possible, right? So, maybe they’re measuring your response to different kinds of stress, or some shit like that?

But why would they need to make new innies for that?

He tries to shrug. I don’t know. Maybe something about starting with a clean slate? Or–

No, he interrupts, intense with sudden realization. They wanna sever people for everything.

Mark understands immediately, though he wishes he didn’t. You mean…not just work, but anything that could be…stressful, or boring, or…

There was that cabin for giving birth, remember?

Shit. He feels sick. So all these rooms are probably–

Unpleasant experiences.

Jesus. Is that what Gemma has been going through, day after day, for the past two years? At least she probably doesn’t remember any of it.

Her innies do. His grip on the wheel tightens. And we will.

“That’s our exit,” Mauer says, pointing to a sign overhead.

Mark nods and starts to change lanes.

Wait, check your blind spot–

He glances over his shoulder, just in time to see the red car he was about to collide with blink out of existence. That’s probably not…how actual driving works, is it?

Not quite.

One eternity later, he finally makes it to the off-ramp and turns onto a side street at Mauer’s direction, then pulls into the world’s tiniest parking garage and stops the car. His fingers ache when he releases the steering wheel.

“Alrighty then,” Mauer says, annoyingly chipper, as he gets out. “Let’s hop to it!”

Mark opens the door and nearly strangles himself before remembering to unbuckle the seat belt. He climbs out of the car and surveys his surroundings with a slight frown.

Wait, what?

The room – the real room – has changed to reflect the fake one now displayed on the windows.

Weird, his innie agrees, largely unimpressed.

Did they fucking…rotate the walls? How did… Desperately, Mark wishes he could take the reins to search for the secret behind the magic trick, the seams that must be visible somewhere.

But his body is already walking away, disinterested.

“After you.” Mauer gestures toward the small hallway Mark originally entered from.

He nods. Hey, get ready.

Right.

The door slides open as he approaches, and he doesn’t bother looking back to check whether Mauer is actually following him

as he crosses the threshold

into the sterile white hallways of Lumon.

Back in control. God, it’s like coming up for air. He inhales deeply and shakes out his hands as the door shuts behind him.

Another sigh of relief, this one nonverbal, fills his head. That sucked.

He couldn’t agree more. Bad news, I don’t think we’re done, he replies as the nurse walks away, motioning for him to follow. Instead of another testing room, though, she leads him back to the door that he recognizes as his own. “I thought…you said two rooms?”

She nods. “Eat lunch and change clothes. I’ll be back.” She presses a button on the wall, and the door swings open.

Mark steps toward it, then stops. Turns around.

He's never gotten a good look at the outside of the door, or what's around it; on the few occasions that he's stood in this spot, he's been too distracted to pay attention. 

He's not distracted now. The door is situated in one corner of a four-way intersection of hallways. In the three other corners are three other doors, identical to his. Presumably, they lead to three other rooms, probably also identical to his.

“Mark,” the nurse says impatiently.

Which means–

What are you doing?

He rushes for the door across from his. Tries the knob and finds it unlocked.

“Hey, stop!”

If it’s not locked, there’s probably no one inside. “Gemma!” he shouts into the room anyway, for good measure, before moving on to the next door. It’s unlocked, too. “Gemma!”

“Stop that!”

When he turns to the last door, the nurse places herself in front of it. Guarding it. That must be the one. He shoves past her.

The door is locked.

You don't seriously think they’re keeping her next door?

“Gemma!” He pounds a fist on the door, slaps the button on the wall, rattles the knob. “Can you hear me?” He throws his weight against the door. The nurse tries to pull him away, but he shakes her off and tries again, to no avail.

“Fucking stop it, right now!” She grabs his arm, and he half-expects her to punch him again. “Or you’re gonna regret it, and so is she.”

Mark freezes. “Is she in there?” he asks, his voice shaking with fury and fear.

The nurse wrestles him away from the door, fingernails digging into his skin through his sleeve, and drags him back to his own, still hanging ajar.

She kicks it open and shoves him inside. “Don’t try that shit again.”

He glares daggers at her until the door slams shut.

Chapter Text

“If you were going to kill someone with a knife, would you do it by stabbing them in the heart, or slitting their throat?”

“Uh…” Mark squints, thinking. “Stabbing.”

Ew, why?

Less messy.

The nurse nods and takes the bean-things from Mark’s hands, putting them away alongside her matching mystery device. It’s the blue one, this time; he’s counted four of them over the past two weeks – red, green, blue, and yellow. She brings a different one each day, seemingly at random. He’s not sure what the difference is, especially since the questions she asks him are always the same shade of unsettling.

Seems like stabbing would require a lot more precision though, with the ribs in the way.

Maybe, but at least there wouldn’t be blood gushing everywhere. He suppresses a shudder.

There probably could be though. Like, what if you miss the first time and have to try again?

I thought we agreed that we weren’t gonna dwell on any of these fucked up hypotheticals?

Right. Sorry.

“How many today?” he asks.

“Just two,” she replies without looking up from writing on her clipboard.

He stands and heads for the bedroom, relief and disappointment warring inside his chest.

That’s an all-too-familiar occurrence, these days; it’s become increasingly clear that while his actual emotions are distinct from his innie’s and vice versa, the physiological effects of those emotions are decidedly not. At all hours of the day, whether he’s in control or not, his innie's worry and frustration bleed through him, pushing from his pores as sweat or flooding his veins with adrenaline while he’s just trying to eat or read or sleep or think about nothing at all. The human body was not meant to bounce back and forth like this on the whims of two separate consciousnesses whose emotional states are constantly in flux.

He fucking hates it. He’s never thought of himself as being particularly in touch with his feelings, and now he's got twice as many of them to deal with. He feels way too much. Maybe this is what it’s like to be Ricken.

The worst part is when he can’t tell whether a particular emotion is actually his or not. Teasing apart their respective anxieties is damn near impossible when there are so many to go around, so he’s spent the past several days in an increasingly unsustainable spiral of stress.

And that’s all on top of the emotions that do belong to his own half of their limbic system – mostly anger, and despondence, and the residual grief that’s carved out a home in his bones for the past two years. He’d hoped it would begin to fade, after seeing her alive with his own eyes, but it hasn’t. He’s still without her, after all, and probably will be for the rest of his short life.

That ever-present specter of doom hanging over his head hasn’t exactly improved his emotional state either. Every day that passes and every testing room he visits only brings him that much closer to the completion of Lumon’s experiments. On several occasions now, he’s considered asking Dr. Mauer how much time he has left, but he just can’t summon the courage to do it. Knowing would make it real.

Let’s get this over with. Mark opens the closet. White shirt, dark jeans, brown jacket.

“Shit,” he whispers. Is this the dentist one again?

Hm? No. The jacket for Wellington is blue. This is a new one, I think.

Is new better or worse? I thought Loveland was the blue jacket.

No, you’re thinking of Minsk. And that’s like, a winter coat. Different shoes, too.

Whatever. He pulls everything off the hanger and tosses it all on the bed in a heap before starting to undress. The fuck do you do that, anyway?

Do what?

Keep track of all this shit. Why are you so good at it? Do innies have photographic memory or something?

No. There’s a long pause, like he’s thinking hard about something. My theory's that it’s a quantity versus quality thing. You’ve got decades of memories stored up, and I’ve only got the past two years. There’s not as much clutter rattling around in my head. Or, well. My half of our head.

Clutter? He raises an eyebrow, but there's no real hostility behind it. Yeah, I guess that’s one way you could describe the entirety of my life’s experiences.

You know what I mean.

He chucks the pajama-scrubs into the basket in the corner, where clothes go to disappear. There will be a freshly laundered set waiting for him when he gets back; there always is. So, what, you've got more free space available, and that's where you keep all the irrelevant details of everything that ever happens to you?

Something like that, yeah.

Sounds exhausting. He finishes changing and pauses to study his reflection in the mirror. “Not a bad look, actually,” he muses, tugging at the sleeves of the jacket.

Hey, you wanna talk about things that sound exhausting? I wanna know how the hell anyone decides which clothes are supposed to go together.

A half-grin creeps onto Mark's face. What?

Like, obviously that's not applicable down here, but… He pauses, like he's searching for the right words. I mean, there's so much variety. Suits are nice and simple; it's always the same pieces. But, how do you wake up in the morning and look at a closet full of t-shirts and sweatpants and polos and cardigans and blue jeans and hoodies and… And fucking shorts, and– and–

Hats? he provides.

Hats! Oh, my God, don't even get me started on hats.

He nearly laughs out loud at that as he returns to the closet to retrieve the rather stylish brown boots he's been given. I would actually love to get you started on hats. 'Cause it sounds like you've got some big feelings about hats. And I think we could both use–

He freezes. There’s one more item he hadn’t noticed, hidden on the floor behind the boots. A small black ring box. He picks it up and opens it.

Is that a–

Wedding ring. Not unlike his own, still collecting dust at the bottom of a box somewhere in his basement. This one’s uglier though, the sheen of the gold too bright and artificial, or maybe that’s all in his head.

Why would that be a thing? His innie sounds almost as weirded out as he is.

Yeah, I’m not fucking wearing that. He snaps the box closed and tosses it back into the closet.

It must be related to today’s room somehow, right?

He plops down on the bed to put on the shoes. How?

I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with being married, like… Like… He feels his innie trying to shake his head, clearly at a loss. I don’t know, what do married people do? Fight about car wash coupons?

He scoffs. You think they built a room around having an argument with a fake wife?

Or husband, he adds quietly.

He freezes again, halfway through tying his second shoe. In all these rooms, there has only ever been one other person there. Jesus. You don’t actually think he would… The idea of Dr. Mauer roleplaying as a brand-new innie’s spouse sends a full-body shudder through him.

Mark shakes his head to shake off the feeling. No. This whole situation is already fucked enough without imagining new and terrible ways to make it worse. Let’s just get through it. Whatever it is.

He leaves the bedroom and crosses the living room, stepping around the stationary bike that had been waiting for him on his return from the Tumwater room, two days after he’d asked Dr. Mauer about it. Mark’s never been much of an exercise guy, even when Gemma went through her brief cycling phase and dragged him along for the rides shortly after they’d first moved in together. Even so, he’s ridden at least fifteen miles every day, according to the tiny odometer on the handlebars, just for something to do.

When he reaches the door, he takes a deep breath to steel himself, and then presses the button beside it. There’s a hiss of static from the intercom, as there always is right before the door swings open. His best guess is that it’s controlled remotely, that the button only functions as a signal to someone in a security office somewhere – maybe the same person monitoring him through the cameras.

The door doesn’t open.

Mark frowns and presses the button again. Glances over his shoulder at the camera on the far side of the room. Nothing happens. He exhales and jams the button three times in rapid succession. “Hello?”

The white noise gives way to a loud crackling, followed by a voice he doesn’t recognize. “Please put on all of the items provided.”

Mark turns to glare at the camera. “Fucking really?”

There’s no response, just the same soft hiss.

He stomps to the bedroom, then back out, flipping off the camera with his left hand to show the ring on the adjacent finger. “There. Happy?”

The door opens as he approaches it, giving him his answer. He follows the nurse, still fuming, to a room that he hasn’t entered before.

Siena, his innie notes. He sounds sad, almost.

Another one of your files?

No, not mine. He doesn’t elaborate.

It doesn’t particularly matter, anyway. Here we fucking go, he grumbles as the nurse opens the door. Hope this doesn’t suck.

It will. It always does. That’s the point.

Well. Hope it sucks less than the average amount.

He takes a deep breath

and steps forward,

and the door slides shut behind him.

He blinks a few times, flexes his hands at his sides, and slowly enters the room.

“Ah, there you are!” Dr. Mauer, wearing a suit and tie and the fakest fucking mustache Mark’s ever seen, calls out from behind a desk that’s sagging beneath the weight of several stacks of paper.

An office? Mark glances around the cluttered space, uncertain. One wall masquerades as a window, frosted glass with artificial sunlight and the vague suggestion of a quiet city street behind it.

Looks like it.

Mauer stands and stretches an arm over the desk to offer him a handshake as he hesitantly approaches.

“I was delighted to hear that you’d be coming in today!” Mauer says, squeezing his hand a bit too tight before gesturing to one of the two chairs in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Hesitantly, he does. “I’m…sorry,” he begins, in the same stilted, confused voice he always puts on. “Do I…know you?”

Mauer laughs and waggles a finger at him. “Oh, your wife warned me that you were a kidder!”

Wife, he repeats. That explains the ring.

Yep.

But why?

Mark tries to sigh. I could not be less interested in trying to figure this garbage out.

He frowns. Okay, but–

Just go along with their bullshit like always.

“I’ve already sorted everything neatly for you,” Mauer is saying, gesturing to the haphazard stacks on the desk as he opens a thick black binder. “Why don’t we go ahead and get started?”

Mark picks up one piece of paper. It’s covered in tiny rows of text, numbers sorted into boxes labelled with smaller numbers.What…is this?

It takes him longer than it should to understand what he’s looking at. It doesn’t click until his innie finally reads the text printed beneath the form name at the top left – “Department of the Treasury, Internal Revenue Service”. Tax form.

He stares at the next sheet in the pile, eyes already beginning to glaze over. This is what filing taxes is like?

No. Well, not normally. This looks like a bunch of small business shit.

He puts the papers back. “This looks like it’s gonna take hours.”

Mauer looks up from his binder. “Well, yes. That’s why I’m here, to help you through the process.” He pulls out a different form, this one blank, and smiles as he passes it across the desk. “We’ll start here.”

Mark makes a face, but nods and accepts the pen he’s given. “Okay, uh…” He skims the form. “Where, exactly?”

Mauer points to a box and starts rattling off the form numbers he’ll need to dig out from among the various stacks.

If he could, Mark would sigh and rub his eyes. If the past two weeks of testing rooms have proven anything, it’s that zoning out while he’s in the backseat of his body continues to be damn near impossible. He can’t turn his brain off while the other half is still processing sensory input, still thinking and focusing on the task at hand. The best he can do is try to divert his own attention elsewhere, to hone in on background noises or search for shapes and patterns within his innie’s ever-shifting gaze.

One shape jumps out at him, gone again before he can fully register it. Hey wait, look back down.

His eyes return to the desk, scanning the handful of papers directly in front of him.

No, no, left. Left, a little bit– There, you see that thing?

The…letter opener?

Yeah. Think you could smuggle it out of here?

Why?

I think I could use it to unscrew the knob on our door, he theorizes. Maybe bypass the lock. It’s the best of his half-baked escape plans so far, though that bar isn’t exactly high.

He frowns a bit. That won’t do us any good, though. We can’t get up the elevator without a key card.

If it works on our door from the inside, it should work on Gemma’s from the outside, he continues, undeterred. Once we get to her, we can all figure out what to do from there.

His eyes flick back and forth between the letter opener and Dr. Mauer, who’s watching him like a hawk. No way. I’ll get caught.

Come on, grow a fucking pair. Do you wanna get out of here or not?

Yeah, I just have this weird thing where I’d like to avoid getting killed in the process.

He tries to shake his head. They’re not gonna kill us until they’re done with all their weird fucking experiments. We’re too important.

No, you’re too important. I’m not even supposed to be here, remember? He pauses to add up a few numbers on the form. You said it yourself. The second they figure out that these tests aren’t actually working as intended, I’m history. So, let’s not take any unnecessary risks, okay?

If he could, he’d roll his eyes. We have to do something, sooner or later. You understand that, right?

Yeah, but we should bide our time until an actual opportunity presents itself. I have a feeling we’re only gonna get one chance, so let’s make it count.

He imagines himself crossing his arms. Whatever.

The next few hours pass at a tedious crawl, full of numbers and spreadsheets and math that has to be double- and triple-checked. His innie settles into the process quite easily, and Mark tries not to feel too jealous.

Finally it’s done, and he stands, legs stiff from sitting still for so long. Once again, Mauer shakes his hand – now sore from writing – with yet another string of inane pleasantries that he doesn’t bother responding to, and then it’s time to leave.

He steps

through the door

and into the hallway.

It’s a fairly short walk back to his quarters. As always, he locks his eyes on the locked door beside his for as long as he can, until his own door swings shut to cut off his view.

Lunch consists of two Lumon capsules: “liver pâté” and “mac and cheese”. He takes his time eating, with plasticware that’s too rounded and flimsy to function as a makeshift screwdriver – he’s tried already, feeling his way through the pitch-black room after the lights turned off for the night, with nothing but a few broken forks and butter knives to show for his efforts.

He changes directly from the Siena clothes to the outfit waiting for him in the closet – it’s another new one, and he still can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or not. There’s no wedding ring, at least, though it’s been replaced by an incredibly douchey-looking scarf that he also considers trying to leave behind.

Finally, when he can’t put it off any longer, he returns to the door and lets the nurse lead him away, with only a few lingering glances over his shoulder at the locked door.

The path to the second room is much longer, long enough that he complains about it a few times, though she doesn’t bother to acknowledge him. The clothes are too warm for the ambient temperature of the hallways, especially after so much walking; he’s uncomfortably sweaty by the time they finally reach the door.

Trinity, he reads.

One of mine, his innie confirms, answering the question that Mark asks at every door. The second file I ever completed, actually.

Oh. Well. He searches for something meaningful to say as the door slides open, but all he comes up with is sarcasm. Happy birthday.

There’s an inaudible snort of laughter from inside his head in response. Stupid.

He holds back a half-grin

as he steps

through the door.

It’s noticeably colder inside, at least. He rounds the corner into an abnormally small room, its walls all the same sterile Lumon white as the hallways. Aside from the size, the only things that set it apart from the Cold Harbor room are the three green chairs lining each of two walls, and the white door set into the other.

Waiting room?

Looks like one, he agrees. How do you know what a waiting room looks like?

He starts to shrug but quickly stops himself. Same way I know what a car looks like, I guess, I don’t know.

He crosses through the small space to the door on the opposite side, but finds it locked, and turns back to the chairs with a sigh. Guess we’re waiting.

Guess so, he says with a mental sigh of his own.

Think this is it? he asks as he settles into one of the chairs. The whole test is just…waiting?

Probably. As far as boring experiences go, it’s gotta be close to topping the list.

Right. He fiddles with the fringe of the scarf.

You should take that off.

Why?

‘Cause it’s fucking hideous.

He shrugs. I dunno, I kinda like it. It’s…colorful.

It looks like something my brother-in-law would wear.

Really? he says, clearly interpreting that as a compliment rather than an insult.

He tries to roll his eyes. Okay, when we get out of here, you and I are gonna need to have a fucking talk about Ricken.

The locked door opens suddenly, and he nearly jumps out of his chair.

“Good morning!” Dr. Mauer greets him warmly. Rather than another one of the ridiculous outfits Mark has come to expect, he’s dressed largely the same as usual, with the addition of a white lab coat. “You can go ahead and come back now.”

“Oh, uh– Okay,” he stammers out as he gets to his feet. It’s not just waiting?

Apparently not.

He steps through the door as directed and flinches when Mauer shuts it loudly behind him. The second room-within-a-room is larger than the first, though not by much. It’s nearly identical to the exam room in his quarters, but with an actual examination table replacing the comfortable chair he’s grown accustomed to.

Got a bad fuckin’ feeling about this one.

Uh, same.

“Please, sit,” Mauer says, gesturing to the table.

He does so hesitantly, flinching again at the loud crinkling of the paper cover, and warily watches Mauer retrieve a blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter from a drawer. Why are we getting another checkup?

I don’t think it’s a real one.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the oximeter, like he’s worried it’s going to bite his finger off. Is going to the doctor that bad, that people would want to sever for it?

Sometimes, I guess. Depends on what the visit’s for, probably. The anxiety churning in his stomach begins to solidify into cold, heavy dread. I’ve got a very bad feeling about this, he repeats without really meaning to.

“Your heart rate and blood pressure are a bit elevated,” Mauer notes as he puts both items away. “Are you nervous?”

“Uh…yeah,” Mark replies. It’s not a lie, after all. “I guess so.”

“This is your first time here, isn’t it?”

“I…think so?”

“Well, don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” He returns with a long cotton swab in one hand and a tongue depressor in the other, and with no warning, forces the latter into Mark’s mouth. “Say ‘ahh’.”

“Uh–” He chokes and jerks away from the swab that Mauer abruptly shoves into the back of his throat.

“Close enough,” he chuckles as he backs away. He tosses the tongue depressor into the trash and seals the swab into a plastic bag, indifferent to the coughing fit he's just induced.

Fucking hell. It feels like the swab left an entire cotton ball behind to scratch at the back of his tongue and burn his throat. Somehow he’s even more of an asshole than I thought.

Mark’s barely managed to stop coughing when Mauer grabs the side of his head to stick an otoscope in his ear. “Do you have any history of sinus issues?”

“Uh,” he begins, with the same rehearsed confusion as always. “I…don’t know?”

Other ear. “Hearing problems?”

“I don’t know. I can’t…remember.”

“Migraines?” Mauer shines a light into his eyes. “Stomach issues?”

Mark stares blankly at him. “I don’t know.”

For several minutes, Mauer continues to orbit him with various instruments – checking his reflexes, his heart, his lungs – and asks him questions the whole time, all things for which a new innie wouldn’t have answers, and a few about his family’s medical history that even Mark himself isn’t sure about.

“And have you had anything to eat today?”

“I don’t know,” Mark replies for the thousandth time, struggling to hold still as Mauer’s gloved fingers prod at his neck. “I told you, I can’t really remember anything.”

Mauer takes a single step back and stays there, studying Mark silently for long enough to make him even more uncomfortable. “Any urination troubles?”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Mark blinks. “Uh…”

Say no. Please, just say no.

“No,” he says, with far too much certainty.

Mauer cocks his head. “Well, we can never be too careful, can we?” he says with another smile before stepping over to one of the cabinets.

Oh, my God. For a wild second, Mark’s glad that he’s in the backseat, because he’s about 95% sure that he would vomit otherwise. He might anyway. These people are fucking insane.

Why? What’s happening?

He tries to shake his head. I hope I’m wrong. I hope to God I’m wrong, but…

Mauer pulls out a small needle with a tube attached.

If he could, Mark would collapse in relief. Okay, a blood test. Just a blood test, nothing more. They’ve drawn his blood every few days for the past two weeks, so they certainly don’t need any more, but it’s all part of the charade. A bit invasive maybe, a bit uncomfortable, but bearable. It’s just a blood test. That’s fine. That’s fine.

What did you think it was?

You don’t wanna know. Believe me.

He stays obediently still as Dr. Mauer draws two vials’ worth of his blood – though his innie rejects Mark's advice to look directly at the needle rather than closing his eyes, and he half-expects to find himself waking up back in his quarters after fainting like a Victorian lady.

He doesn’t, though; Mauer withdraws the needle without incident and places the vials on the counter beside the throat swab. The fear coiled tightly in Mark’s stomach – his, or his innie’s, or both – gradually begins to ease as Mauer peels off his gloves and throws them away.

It returns full-force when he dons a fresh pair and turns back to Mark.

“Now, please disrobe completely from the waist down.”

Fuck.

Mark blinks. “Excuse me?”

Mauer smiles, all teeth. “I know, this is everyone’s least favorite part. Don’t worry, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck–

Mark sits frozen in place, eyes locked on Dr. Mauer as he retrieves a small tube of clear liquid from a drawer.

No. Fuck no. We need to get out of here, right fucking now.

He’s on his feet suddenly, heading for the door. “I think we’re done here, actually,” he says without looking back, his voice unsteady.

He’s locked in, of course. The handle rattles uselessly in his hands.

Just break it down!

Won’t that be suspicious? his innie asks, though he sounds just as panicked.

Who gives a fuck, we have to go!

He feels Mauer’s eyes on him. “If you’re nervous, I can give you something to help you relax.”

“No!“ he practically shouts, whirling around to press his back to the door. “Uh, no, no thanks, I’m– I’d just really like to leave now, please.”

“But you can’t.” Mauer smiles again. He’s still standing in the same spot, but that doesn’t make Mark any less cornered. “Not until we’re finished with the exam.”

He shakes his head frantically. “Please, let me out of here.”

“It’s alright,” Mauer says, in a tone of voice that’s probably meant to be soothing. “I guarantee, this will all be over before you know it.”

You have to do something. Even as Mark says it, he’s not sure he’d be able to move either, if he was the one in control. He’s not sure it would make a difference.

“Please,” he repeats, quieter.

Find something sharp. Break his fucking fingers. Something.

A sickening sense of resignation creeps through the panic.

What good will it do?

Chapter Text

I am going to kill that man.

It's a long walk back to his quarters. Too long. Too much time to think, which is the last fucking thing he needs.

The other half of his mind remains silent. Good, because any acknowledgement whatsoever of the past fifteen minutes is going to make Mark fucking lose it.

I am going to kill him.

Not even because of the past fifteen minutes, although he'd be lying if he said that wasn't a factor. It's because of the implications. Presumably, Gemma visited all of these rooms long before he did, probably more than once. Which means she was in that room, multiple times, alone with that fucking monster. Her experience probably differed from Mark’s, for obvious reasons, but it's not difficult to fill in the blanks of what an “exam” for a female patient would entail.

Arguably much worse. No, definitely much worse.

Especially since all these rooms are clearly crafted to be the most unpleasant versions of themselves, a theory that's proven itself time and time again. Add to that the fact that Gemma herself would remember none of it; the woman who walked into the Trinity room probably didn’t even know her own name. Those walls formed the confines of her entire existence. She would never have known anything else. Did she even understand what was happening to her?

Too much time to think. Way too much.

I'm gonna fucking kill him.

The door closes behind him, locking him in. He's alone with the empty living room, the ugly gray carpet, the uglier gray couch.

How? The question is quiet. Neutral.

I don’t know. I don't fucking care. He crosses the room without stopping. He can’t stop right now. But he's fucking dead.

Okay. A long pause. Good.

The nausea catches up with him when he finally stops in the bedroom to change clothes. He only gets as far as unwinding the scarf constricting his throat like a noose before he's retching into the toilet hard enough to send tears streaming down his face.

He stays there for a while, rests his head against the cool porcelain and stares numbly at the hand splayed on the white tiles of the floor beneath him. Is it still his hand? Even though it's a million miles away?

I, um. I think you should get up.

Mark blinks slowly. Why?

If we're still trying to act… Well, normal. Then, this…probably isn’t very convincing.

He closes his eyes and exhales. You're not wrong. He's not supposed to remember, any more than the splintered pieces of Gemma would have. He’s supposed to be blissfully unaware, blind and indifferent to everything that befalls him inside those rooms, because it's not really him, after all.

I'm sorry, he finds himself saying. I really am. I know you probably think I didn't mean it, the first time we talked, but I did.

…Oh.

And I'm sorry that you're here now. He makes a noise between a laugh and a sob. I'm obviously a little more fucking sorry about me being here, but you don't deserve this shit either. No one does. A deep breath, deep enough to hurt. I'm really sorry I dragged us both down here.

It's… He's clearly at a loss. Because it's certainly not okay. None of this is okay. Neither of them are okay. Thank you, he says finally. That…actually means a lot. To me. I'm…sorry we're here, too.

He sniffles and lets his eyes drift closed again, his face twisted into something bitter that resembles a smile. Glad we all agree. We are one sorry son of a bitch.

Two, he corrects. Two sorry son of a– Sons of– Whatever. What you said, but make it plural.

He laughs once, no more than a quick puff of air, and finally picks himself up off the floor, groaning when his knees crack with the movement.

There’s a similar groan from inside his head, and then, still lightly teasing, You sure we don't wanna give yoga a try?

Hard pass, he hums. Too late for us.

He strips off his clothes and idly fantasizes about setting them on fire, watching them burn to ash so he’ll never wake up one day to find them in the closet again. Instead, he throws them in the basket as usual. They won't disappear right away; they never do, not until he leaves to go to the next testing room. There must be other people who work on this floor, people he's never seen who come in while he's gone to wash his clothes and change his sheets and restock the flavorless food capsules in the fridge before disappearing back into the shadows. Do they know? Are they complicit in all this, or are they just ignorant employees earning a paycheck, normal people who have no idea that the slob they're cleaning up after is being held against his will?

It doesn’t make a difference either way, not really, but that doesn't keep him from wondering.

Mark puts on a fresh set of pajama-scrubs and fixes himself a gourmet dinner of boiled “corned beef” and “macerated kale” capsules. He doesn’t bother carrying the tiny plastic plate to the couch, just stands by the sink and shovels tiny bites into his mouth with the tiny plastic fork, staring into space.

So, should we, uh… Should we talk about it?

Fuck no.

Agreed.

He eats in silence. A shower would be nice – scrubbing off the entire top layer of his skin would be nice – but that would be another break in routine, far too suspicious. Besides, the next step in his routine, any minute now, is a visit from Dr. Mauer to ask him the same questions as always, and he’d prefer to be fully clothed for that. If he can help it.

He tosses the plate into the sink – like everything else, it will disappear no matter where he leaves it – and leans over the counter, breathing deeply, fighting back the fresh wave of bile threatening to rise in his throat.

If he didn’t remember, would that actually be any better?

Hey. His innie sounds as nauseous as he feels – of course he does, it’s his body too – but there’s a forced cheerfulness in his tone that Mark would ordinarily find incredibly off-putting. You still wanna hear my thoughts on hats?

He laughs once, grateful for the distraction. Yeah, man. Let ‘er rip.

For a few beautiful minutes, he’s content to sit back and listen to the theatrically irritated voice in his head ranting about beanies and baseball caps, about style versus practicality, about all manner of things for which he wouldn’t have imagined any part of him actually holding opinions.

How do you feel about hoodies?

Hoodies seem great! Although, I still don’t understand why only some of them open in the front. He gestures to an imaginary zipper. I mean, if you have to pull it over your head, that’s just a shirt, not–

Wait. Mark blinks at his right hand, now resting motionless on the counter once more. What the fuck? How did you do that?

What? he asks, and then, realizing what he’s staring at, Wait, did I– Did I just move my hand?

Our hand, he corrects. But it’s mine right now, so how the fuck did you do that?

I don’t know, I didn’t– I don’t even think I meant to, I–

Can you do it again? He turns the hand over, flexing his fingers. Try making a fist or something?

He’s silent for a few seconds. I don’t think I can.

But you did. Which means it’s possible. How the hell should he feel about that?

Does that mean–

Static crackles behind him, and he whirls around to face the door just as it opens with a beep. In perhaps the most impressive display of self-control the world’s ever seen, he doesn't react when Dr. Mauer walks in.

“Greetings, Mr. Scout,” Mauer says with a smile as the door swings shut behind him. He gestures to the couch. “Why don't you have a seat?”

“I'm good here,” Mark says in a monotone.

Mauer shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He begins to pace back and forth in the space between the door and the couch, hands clasped behind his back. “How do you feel?”

Mark grips the edge of the counter with both hands and forces a shrug. “Fine, I guess.”

“How were today’s rooms?”

“Still don’t remember anything,” he replies evenly. “Just like yesterday. And the day before that.”

Mauer stops pacing to study him. “Shortly after you returned to your quarters, you vomited. Why?”

Mark’s knuckles go white around the counter’s edge, hard enough that he feels his innie wince. It takes all his willpower to relax his hands and shrug again. “I don’t know. I felt sick coming back from the second room.”

“Can you describe exactly how you felt?”

He grits his teeth. “Sick,” he repeats in a low voice. Sore, in a way that he’d rather not think about. “Nauseous. Like I ate something rotten.”

“And what about your emotional state?” Mauer asks. “Did you leave the Trinity room feeling changed in some way?”

Mark takes a deep breath. “I wanna ask you something, actually.” He's not sure what he's about to say until it leaves his mouth. “Why Gemma?”

Dr. Mauer cocks his head curiously.

“Why did you pick her for…” He gestures to his surroundings, to the testing floor, to Lumon at large. “All of this? Why did you kidnap her in the first place?”

“Gemma was not kidnapped.” Mauer’s tone is deeply condescending, like he's explaining something painstakingly simple to a child who should already understand it. “As you might recall, she was injured in a car accident.”

Mark's eye twitches. “Yeah,” he says, deathly calm. “I recall.”

“She was brought in for emergency treatment,” Mauer continues. “Lumon saved her life.”

“Right, okay.” He swallows against the rage simmering in his chest, threatening to boil over. “And she was sent to Lumon instead of a hospital because…?”

Mauer smiles. “Our medical facilities are second to none. In any other setting, she would not have survived.”

“So, faking her death and experimenting on her for two goddamn years. That all a part of your life-saving medical treatment?”

“I can show you the informed consent forms that she signed, if you like.”

“Consent.” A bitter laugh rises in Mark’s throat. “Lumon’s all about that, right?”

Careful, his innie warns. If he finds out that you remember–

“So she volunteered for this, is that what you're telling me?” He pushes off the counter to take a single step toward Mauer. “Was that before or after you drilled a hole in her head?”

“She was presented with a choice, just as you were.”

“A choice?” he spits. “Yeah, you can fuck right off with that.” Another step. “And you still haven’t answered my question. Why her?”

Another condescending smile. “Gemma is very special.”

“Yeah, I fucking know that. I wanna know why she’s so special to you.”

Mauer’s eyes betray something utterly sickening as he shrugs and says, casually, “For many of the same reasons that she is to you, I would imagine.”

Mark opens his mouth.

Shuts it.

Closes the distance in three strides and punches Mauer in the face.

Shit!

He hits the floor with a sound like a bleating goat.

Mark is on him immediately, pinning him down, punching him again.

What the fuck are you doing?!

And again. And again. And again.

There’s blood on his knuckles. Maybe his own. Maybe not.

Mauer doesn’t fight back. Doesn’t even try. He might as well be unconscious. He isn’t. His eyes are wide with shock, staring up at Mark between blows.

Mark’s hands close around his throat.

Wait, wait wait, stop!

Now he fights back, fingers scrabbling at his arms, nails scratching his skin. Mark barely feels it.

Stop! You have to stop now!

“Why?” he hears himself hiss.

We can use him to get out!

Beneath him, Mauer’s bloodied face darkens from pink to purple-tinged red.

But not if he’s dead!

His struggling weakens. Unfocused eyes roll back in his head.

It would be so easy.

Look, we both know he deserves it, but this is our only chance. You have to let go, or we’re fucked.

Mark squeezes his eyes shut. “Goddammit.” And lets go.

Mauer springs back to life, choking and wheezing, one hand pushing weakly against the knee that Mark presses even harder into his shoulder.

“Key card,” he snarls, a demand.

“Pocket,” Mauer gurgles out.

Mark finds the black card quickly. He stands and slaps the button beside the door, then returns to loom over Mauer, who winces in anticipation of another punch.

Instead, Mark grabs his collar and points to the intercom. “Tell them to open the door, right now, or I swear to God–”

“Open it!” Mauer calls out before he can even finish the threat, and the door swings open.

Mark drags him to his feet and into the hallway.

Wait, what are you doing? We have the key card, just drop him and let’s fucking go!

He throws Mauer against the locked door next to his and pins him there with one arm. Presses the button on the wall. “Now, open this one.”

No, this is a waste of time! The elevator is right there!

Mauer shakes his head. “I can’t.”

Mark shoves his face against the intercom. “Tell them to open the fucking door!”

“They won’t!” Mauer yelps. “Even if I did–”

He’s drowned out by a blaring klaxon, as the white lights overhead crash to red.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” Mark pulls back to slam Mauer’s head against the wall. “Do it!”

“I can’t!”

“Now!”

Another slam, and Mauer abruptly goes limp, a ragdoll tumbling to the floor when Mark steps back to drop the dead weight.

And then he’s lying there, motionless, white clothes dyed crimson in the flashing warning lights.

Did you just–

“Fuck him,” Mark breathes, because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Gemma.

He rattles the knob. Throws his weight against the door.

Stop it! We have to go!

He moves back for a running start, stumbling over Mauer’s leg and eliciting a pained sound from him – not dead, then, but not a threat – and the thick material bends, just a bit, before shoving him away again.

Come on, that alarm means someone’s gonna be here any minute! You have to go, now!

Mark kicks the door, aiming for the spot right beside the knob. They won’t let me in, which means she’s in there!

Yeah, or they’re trying to stall you!

He kicks it again. There’s that same give from before, barely there, but it’s there.

Another kick. He’s pretty sure his foot hurts, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving her with these fucking people.

I still don't think she's actually–

Another kick, and something cracks. Not his ankle. Probably.

Fuck, okay, fine, but hurry!

One last kick, one more crack, and the door splits away from the knob that’s still locked into the frame. It swings open, slams against the interior wall and bounces back. Mark throws out a hand to shove it aside

as he sprints into the room,

trips over his feet and falls flat on his face.

“Ow.” He flinches at the sound of his own voice, presses his hands into the dull blue carpet and lifts his head. “What–”

The fuck? A severance threshold?

This isn’t a testing room, why would there be a–

Fuck it, that doesn’t matter. He tries to push himself up, fully aware that it’s futile. We don’t have time, you have to find Gemma!

He grabs the key card he’d dropped and gets to his feet. The room is nearly identical to his own, but not quite; a blue couch instead of gray along with an extra armchair beside it, a desk and chair in one corner, a reel-to-reel deck and turntable with a shelf full of vinyls set into the wall instead of a tiny screen.

This is the fucking room. He’s hyperventilating somehow, even though he’s not the one breathing. This is the room she was in, on the videos, she’s fucking here, find her!

Mark scrambles forward, past the couch, around the corner to throw a glance into the empty exam room.

It feels like slow motion. Lightspeed wouldn’t be fast enough. He needs to rip his fucking soul free of the burden of his body, drop the dead weight, anything to throw his arms around her even a millisecond faster.

He turns the corner into the bedroom, her name on his lips.

The room is empty.

What?

His eyes stop on the bed. The mattress is bare, no sheets, no pillows. She’s not here.

No. He can’t shake his head. He tries anyway. No, no, no, she has to be here! We have to– Check the closet, maybe she’s– She’s hiding, she heard the noise at the door, and she…

Six quick steps to the closet. It’s empty as the rest of the room. She’s not here.

No, you’re wrong, she– He’s drowning, trapped beneath a thick sheet of ice. She has to be here– The shower–

He turns to check. No one could hide in there.

The cabinets. Grasping at shadows, desperate like he’s never been before. There are all those drawers out there, the bottom ones might be big enough to–

She’s not here! No one’s here, probably not for a long time! He shakes his head and starts moving again, as fast as his legs will carry him. I’m sorry. We tried. Now, we have to go.

No, she has to be here!

Use your fucking head for once!

The sudden intensity of the shout stuns him into silence.

We’ve never seen her, not a single time. If threatening her is all they have to do to keep you in line, why the hell wouldn’t they let you see that she’s actually here, in danger? It’s because they don’t fucking have her!

A crack in the ice, a sliver of sunlight, the surface still out of reach. But there’s no way to know that for sure–

You already got her out! You did! She’s out there somewhere, and she’s waiting for you!

He’s running toward the doorway, the plastic edges of the key card digging into his hand.

I know you want her back more than you want your next breath, believe me, I know. But that’s never gonna happen if we don’t get the fuck out of here, so I need you ready to run, okay? ‘Cause I gotta pass this baton whether you’re ready for it or not.

Ready to run. How is he supposed to run when he still can’t breathe, when he’s choking on her ghost all over again, when he hasn’t tasted air for the past three weeks?

They’re almost to the threshold, now.

Three weeks of uncertainty, of agonizing over whether or not he’s being lied to, and not once during that time did he ever stop to think about what that would actually mean for her. Gemma, escaped. Gemma, free of Lumon’s clutches. Gemma, breathing fresh air somewhere far away from this horrible place.

Gemma, waking up every day without him. Gemma, missing him as much as he misses her. Gemma, grieving for him.

Or plotting to get him out. Risking her freedom and her life trying to get him back. Fighting her way out of hell, only to turn and face the flames again.

No. Fuck no. He can’t let that happen.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck–” His foot meets cold linoleum as the world snaps out of slow motion

and he throws himself through the doorway,

stumbles once, then regains his balance and keeps right on running.

FUCK YES!

Mark’s not sure he’s ever heard anyone sound so damn triumphant in his life, much less felt it.

He hurdles over Dr. Mauer, who’s stirring a bit now, moaning in pain on the floor, and breaks into an all-out sprint toward the elevator.

Okay, elevator! There’s a slot to the right of the door that you need to scan–

I know, I used to do this every goddamn day, remember?

A laugh, near-hysterical. Hey, me too.

The klaxons are still blaring, the lights still blood-red, but there’s no one standing between him and the way out. He’s hit with a flash of déjà vu: Gemma running at his side, his hand in hers. This time, he’s not running with her, but to her.

Slowing down isn’t an option, so he cushions the impact with his shoulder as he crashes into the elevator doors at nearly full speed and bounces off. Getting the card into the scanner with his fumbling, shaky hands takes a full two seconds, but he manages it, and the red LED turns green.

Light’s green, that means–

“Go,” he finishes with a grin, giddy with the double-shot of adrenaline.

A rumble starts up from the other side of the doors, barely audible over the alarm still trying its damnedest to destroy his hearing. The elevator is on its way.

He swivels around, throwing a glance down each of the three intersecting corridors, but he doesn’t see anyone. Only Mauer in the distance, slowly getting to his feet with one hand on the wall for support, clearly in no condition to chase after him.

Can it really be this easy?

The elevator chimes.

The doors open.

The second-largest man he’s ever seen in his life steps out.

Who the hell–

Without a word, he grabs Mark by the throat.

The key card clatters to the floor somewhere as his hands fly up to pry at the thick fingers crushing his windpipe. The man strides forward, strangling him at arm’s length, and Mark staggers back, fighting to stay on his feet, to wrestle free, to breathe.

His back slams against a wall, knocking the last vestiges of air from his lungs. He tries to claw at the man’s face, at the cold eyes watching him impassively as he struggles for oxygen, but he can’t reach. He kicks out blindly, strikes something that might be a shin.

The fist that isn’t choking the life out of him drives hard into his stomach, and his legs give out. The hand carving bruises into his neck is the only thing that holds him up.

Black static encroaches on his periphery, and the incoherent stream of panicked cursing inside his head begins to slow.

Is this seriously how he’s going to die?

“He’s essential,” a voice wheezes from somewhere far away, just before his vision blacks out completely. “Don’t kill him.”

The man’s iron grip relents, and Mark crumples to the ground in a boneless heap, gasping for air. Every breath rakes down his throat, razor blades rattling around inside a crushed aluminum can.

Elevator. The word is a desperate plea lodged between his coughs. Go.

He lolls to the side, shoves away from the wall, crawls toward the elevator.

Or, he tries to. A large hand catches him by his hair and quite literally throws him in the other direction. The back of his skull crashes into the hard floor with a thud that snaps his teeth together.

“Watch the head!” the voice from before scolds.

More sensations find him – thundering footsteps, a grunt of pain that might be his, a blurry figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights in the ceiling. The same large hand reaches for him, twists in the collar of his shirt and uses it as a handle to drag him effortlessly down the hallway.

Mark clutches the man’s arm with both hands, fingers digging in, feet slipping on the polished floor as he tries to get his legs back under him, but everything’s moving too fast. The blurry elevator at the far end of the hall shrinks with every passing heartbeat. He can’t break free of the man’s grasp. He can’t get away. He can’t do anything.

Something slams nearby, the sound rattling his skull – a door shoved open, crashing against the wall. He feels the smooth floor shift to carpet beneath him before he sees that all-too-familiar shade of gray. The man drags him past the couch before he finally lets go, depositing him unceremoniously on the floor.

Mark pushes himself up and scrambles for the door on all fours, fueled by a purely animalistic drive to get out. A boot comes down in the center of his back like a goddamn sledgehammer, pounding him into the ground.

For a split second, he’s absolutely certain that the blow snapped his spine clean in half; the only evidence to the contrary is the persistent ache radiating up from his ankle. He groans into the floor, waits for his brain to fucking reboot and tell his lungs how to start working again.

The way out is right there in front of him, red lights reflecting off the linoleum. He digs his fingers into the carpet to drag himself toward it. Before he can, the boots that nearly killed him enter his field of vision. They walk away from him, into the hall, and turn back to face him.

An instant later, the door swings shut, locking him inside. The now-muffled alarm goes silent after a few seconds, leaving his ragged breathing as the only sound in the room.

He closes his eyes as his head sinks to the floor.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

“Mark?”

Gemma. She’s alive, and she’s real, and she’s standing in front of him, and she says his name. He throws his arms around her. He’s never letting go.

A warning light flashes overhead, bathes them both in blood-red. His hand in hers as they sprint down the too-bright hallway. A shout from somewhere behind them, and he throws a glance over his shoulder, into the rearview mirror, before he grips the steering wheel and turns to follow the wailing ambulance.

Red lights flash in his eyes, blinding him. He clutches the open car door like a lifeline, his breath pushing fog through the frigid air. The man wearing Mark’s robe stares at him across the parking lot, blood flowing freely from his nose to stain the fabric, stain his hands, stain the pavement that his knees crash to less than a second before his face. He’s dead before he hits the ground.

Mark isn’t sure how he knows that part, but he’s never been so certain of anything in his life.

The paramedics’ gloved hands grab at the corpse, and the latex smell overwhelms him even from across the parking lot, strangles him from the inside out, catches in his throat like broken glass.

This is everyone's least favorite part.

He takes cover in the driver’s seat, shuts out the cold night air, shuts his eyes to block out the lights. It doesn’t work. His knuckles flash red, white on the steering wheel. He’s shivering, and crying, loud and ugly, and he can’t find the tissues he keeps in the center console for this exact reason.

Eyes on the road. He wipes his nose with the sleeve of his bathrobe. At least the fabric’s stripes are mostly red, at least it will hide the stain. The night is too dark for anyone to see him anyway, and he’s driving too fast, and there’s too much blood flowing freely from his nose, smearing all over his face and blurring his vision with red.

The same red shines in the rearview mirror, the glow of brake lights illuminating the black ice-slick road as the car crashes through the guardrail and into the tree.

Mark’s forehead crashes into the low ceiling above him as he catapults awake. “Ow! Fuck!”

He cradles his head with one hand and lurches to the left, collapses into a heap on the floor with his back pressed to the side of the bed. His heart races in his ears, pulses red static behind his eyelids in the pitch-black. He’s drowning in sweat, and his chest is caving in on itself, like he’s having a fucking heart attack.

Is he?

He drags a hand down his face, and the shaky breath he tries to take catches in his throat when his fingers find the crusted residue under his nose.

Blood. His nose is bleeding, just like Petey’s did, just before he died. And now he’s dying too. Reintegration sickness, he’s got it too, and it’s going to kill him.

He plants his bare feet on the carpet, to take off running, to find a mirror, to get away, but how is he supposed to run from something inside his own head? Besides, it’s too dark to see. He has no control over any of the lights in the room, of course; they turn on and off on their own at set times of the day, often leaving him to blindly grope his way to bed in the darkness.

His trembling fingers scrub at the dried blood, but…the texture is all wrong. It’s snot, not blood, and his eyes are sore; he’s been crying in his sleep again. Maybe he’s not dying? But then, why is there a ten-ton weight on his chest?

What the hell was that?

“Fuck,” Mark gasps, pressing his face into his hands. For a few blissful seconds, he’d managed to forget about the stowaway inside his brain.

Was that a dream? I’ve never had one before. Are they always so–

Just– Give me a second, okay? He swallows, half-expecting to taste blood anyway. Please.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and hugs his knees to his chest to hold himself together, to keep his heart from squeezing through the gaps of his aching ribcage. He forces air into his lungs, in and out past the fresh finger-shaped bruises on his neck, until he’s consistently able to exhale instead of sobbing with every breath.

Slowly, his pulse begins to normalize. He’s still shaking, shivering in damp clothes. Has anyone ever gotten hypothermia purely from sweating?

Are we… Are you okay?

He nods in the darkness and clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Yeah. One more deep breath. Did you, uh. You…saw all that, too?

Uh-huh.

I think…some of that reaction was yours, then, he realizes. A feedback loop of panic.

I guess so. Sorry.

He shakes his head. He’s not even angry about it, not really; he’s just glad that it’s over.

I’m just glad it’s over.

He huffs out a laugh. Yeah.

They sit together in silence, just breathing.

Back when he and Devon were little kids, this would be the part where she would hug him way too tightly and tell stupid jokes until he started laughing hard enough to forget whatever nightmare had woken him up. He misses her like a limb. In this moment, he’s not ashamed to admit as a grown-ass man that he misses his fucking nightlight, too; he misses being able to see his own hand in front of his face.

His fingers ache when he finally pries them away from his arms. He reaches behind him to find a corner of the sweat-soaked sheet, wincing when the bruise on his back reminds him of its presence, and wipes his eyes.

Was that real?

He shakes his head. It was a dream.

No, I mean… Petey.

He winces again.

Did you… Were you there? When he died?

Yeah. He’s too exhausted to lie, even when he feels the flare of ire taking aim at him. Sorry.

And you just…stood there?

Yeah.

Why didn’t you do anything?

I don’t know. I guess I was scared. He rubs his eyes. I’m sorry.

You… You fucking coward.

The words bite into him like a scalpel, vicious and precise.

My best friend died in a fucking parking lot, and you couldn't even be bothered to walk fifteen steps to make sure he wasn’t alone?

Look. He had good reason to be afraid; Petey said Lumon was after him. If Mark had intervened somehow, the police would've asked him questions that he couldn’t answer, questions that would find their way back to Lumon along with news of his own involvement. He already knew too much, and it wouldn’t do anyone any good to get himself killed for a stranger he barely knew.

He doesn't say any of that. I'm sorry, he repeats, pressing his forehead into his hands. You’re right. I should’ve done something, and I didn’t, and I… I’m sorry.

The rage striking him in waves from the other half of his mind gradually recedes. I’m not mad, he says, after what feels like hours. I mean, I am, but… He sighs. I’m not sure what you could’ve done, honestly.

A weight in his chest that he didn’t realize he was still carrying begins to lift. In its place blooms a fragile sense of relief, so foreign and unexpected that it makes him dizzy.

I, um. I went to his funeral. He’s not sure why he says it. He’s still not sure why he did it. He seemed like a good guy.

He is. He was.

Fresh tears sting in his eyes, and he lets them fall. For a long moment, he doesn’t do anything else, just sits on the floor and cries silently in the dark.

Finally, he rakes his hair out of his face and exhales heavily. I have no idea what time it is. For all he knows, the light above his pillow will turn on at any second. But I don’t think we’re getting back to sleep.

Yeah. Probably not.

He’s still covered with sweat, still shivering. Shakily, he pushes himself up to his knees and turns to feel around blindly until he finds the extra blanket rolled up at the foot of the bed. He strips off his damp clothes and wraps himself in the dry blanket before sinking back down to sit on the floor.

But hey, sleep’s pretty nice, right? he muses after a short silence. I mean, when it’s not filled with horrible nightmares.

Definitely one of my top three activities, he agrees with a slight chuckle. I, uh, guess you hadn’t really experienced it before all this, huh?

Only once. He doesn’t elaborate.

I…never thought about that. Why would he? That you wouldn’t ever get to sleep, or dream, or… Or see the sky, or…

Shower, his innie provides.

Mark blinks. Wait, is that really something you were wanting to do?

I mean, not at first. Not at all, actually. Not until… He sounds almost sheepish. Well, until I got to experience it. Down here, I mean.

Oh. He barely remembers the first shower he took after his near-fatal brain surgery; it wasn’t exactly noteworthy. It must have been the next day, sometime in the morning, before he was even fully awake. He wouldn’t have known then that he had an audience – aside from the motherfucking cameras, of course. It’s still a little unnerving, knowing that there’s always someone else watching through his eyes along with him, but he’s mostly gotten used to the idea; after three weeks, he hasn’t really had a choice.

I don’t know why you aren’t doing it all the time, honestly.

He chuckles again. That good, huh?

Uh, yeah. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

If you want, he begins without really thinking about it, We’ll have a nice, long shower once the lights come on. He shrugs a bit. Assuming they don’t just like, come in and execute me. He tries to say it like a joke. It doesn’t really land.

Truthfully, he’s not sure what Lumon is waiting for. A failed escape attempt seems like it would be just the excuse they needed to cut their experiments short, or to punish him in some horrible way at the very least. Nothing’s happened yet; after that man locked him back into his quarters, the rest of the evening was uneventful, and the lights turned off at the usual time.

Speaking of which. He pauses, like he’d clear his throat if he could. Should we, uh…talk about yesterday?

Mark tenses. What’s there to talk about?

We almost made it out.

He leans his head back against the mattress with a slight wince. We didn’t.

No, but now we know that we can.

He scoffs. Weren’t you the one who said we only had one chance?

Yeah, because I thought they’d just kill us outright if we tried to escape.

And they almost did. He brings a hand to his neck, fingers ghosting over the bruises.

But they didn’t.

They still might.

He practically sees his innie shaking his head. I don’t think so. Mauer said we’re essential.

Yeah, for now, but in case you forgot, this whole experiment thing ends with us dead.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Do we know that for sure? That extracting the chip will kill us?

Doesn’t fucking matter. Once we aren’t useful anymore, they’ll kill us either way.

So…what? Are you saying we should just give up?

I don’t know. He drags a hand over his face. Maybe.

Fuck that. I’m not dying here.

Okay, then, what the hell do you suggest we do?

Another brief silence. The door on this room is probably made of the same stuff as the other one, right? The one you broke down?

Probably, but even if we get through it, we’re still screwed without a key card.

Well, maybe there’s another way out somewhere.

Maybe, but I don’t think wandering around blindly just to get my ass kicked again is the strategy.

Despite everything, or maybe because of it, his eyelids are heavy again. It’s been quite a while since the last time he had a panic attack, much less one in the middle of the night. It’s more exhausting than he remembers.

Look, can we talk about this in the morning? He stifles a yawn. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but we might as well get some rest while we can.

I guess. There’s a hint of annoyance in the words, but no real argument. He’s just as tired, after all.

Awesome. He pushes himself up with a grunt, pulls the sheets off the bed, and flips the pillow over, sweaty-side down. Getting comfortable proves nearly as impossible as it did the first time, but he eventually finds a position that doesn’t send a jolt of pain up his spine with every breath.

It’s still dark when he opens his eyes again.

He sits up slowly this time. Vague, unpleasant shadows of more half-forgotten dreams press at the edges of his consciousness, but he quickly pushes them away.

Is it still nighttime? His innie sounds even more disoriented than he feels.

I guess so? He rubs his eyes. The light above his face usually turns on at 7:30 on the dot, but he feels far too well-rested for it to still be so early in the morning. It’s too dark to see the clock on the wall.

He pulls himself out of bed to sit on the floor again for a while, still wrapped in the blanket, and waits in silence for the lights to come on.

They don’t.

After what must be at least half an hour, he finally disentangles himself from the blanket and fumbles around in the dark to find his clothes.

Maybe we don’t get any lights today, he posits softly.

Mark frowns. You think they’d do that?

I don’t know. Maybe they think it’ll discourage you from trying to break out again, if you can’t find the door.

I can still find the door, he grumbles, feeling his way along the wall to the right of the bed. It’ll just be a little harder.

Well, that’s what I meant.

He pauses only briefly to use the toilet – not an easy task in the dark – and makes his way out into the living room.

“Fucking shit,” he hisses when his already-sore foot finds the edge of the stationary bike before his outstretched hand does.

Ow, okay, I could be wrong, you know. We could just wait.

I’ve got a funny feeling you’re not. He limps forward, a bit more cautiously, until his fingers brush the edge of the counter. He digs out a cup – plastic, of course, since they’ve never trusted him with glass – and lines it up beneath the sink faucet with mostly guesswork before turning it on.

Nothing happens.

No water, either?

“Fucking really?” He turns to peer at the red dots on the ceiling that must be the cameras, the only sources of light in the pitch-black room, far too faint to actually illuminate anything.

Can they still see us? his innie asks, as if reading Mark’s mind.

Don’t know. Don’t care. He feels his way back to the bedroom to check the other sink. Nothing there either, and nothing from the shower. Great.

You think it’s punishment?

“‘No punishments at Lumon’ my ass,” he mutters, and then, in response to the question he already feels coming, That’s what he told me. The guy who convinced me to come back to work, with the weird fucking name… Milkshake or something.

Milchick. He’s my boss. Well, was my boss. He’s quiet for a moment. What else did he say to you?

He said a lot of stuff. Pretty sure most of it was bullshit.

Yeah, that tracks. Another pause. There are punishments at Lumon.

Yeah, I gathered that. He begins the slow return to the other room to put the empty cup back. He could discard it anywhere, but with his luck he’ll just end up tripping on it sooner or later. The break room, right? he asks, careful to avoid the bike this time. You mentioned it before.

Yeah. A creeping sense of unease crawls into his stomach, vaguely reminiscent of what he’d felt after the Trinity room. Not as intense, but still unsettling.

He replaces the cup and hovers beside the sink. What happened in there?

We’re not supposed to– he begins automatically, and then he stops. I…don’t really wanna talk about it.

Mark doesn’t really want to hear about it. Did they hurt you? he asks anyway.

Sometimes, he replies, feigning nonchalance.

Almost unconsciously, he casts a useless glance down at the raw knuckles of his right hand, still stinging, the skin cracked open from his confrontation with Dr. Mauer. How many times did he leave work with some mysterious new injury, always something minor, and find a neatly-typed explanation and hollow apology waiting at his car? How many of those explanations were lies?

How many times did he bother to give a single shit?

He clenches his hand into a fist, then releases it when his innie winces at the pain.

“Fuck this place,” he whispers to no one.

Agreed.

He returns to bed; if Lumon wants to keep him in the dark, then fuck it, he could probably use the extra sleep. It doesn’t come easily, but he manages to doze off a few times before giving up and wandering back into the other room again.

He ends up sprawled on the couch, staring up at the three red lights above his head and trying to pretend they’re stars.

How long do you think it’s been?

He swallows against the slight sting of dehydration taking root at the back of his throat. I don’t know. Hours, at least. Maybe a day.

How long does it take to die of thirst?

Days. Several days. He shakes his head. We’re not gonna get to that point.

How do you know?

Stop asking me so many damn questions, he snaps. I know exactly as much as you do.

He dozes on the couch as well, the restless kind of sleep where he keeps dreaming about waking up. Over and over, the lights come on all at once as the door bursts open, like a horror movie jump scare. The level of horror varies from there. Sometimes it’s Dr. Mauer who walks in, blue gloves at the ready. Sometimes it’s the large man who nearly killed him, meaty hands itching to wrap around his throat and finish the job.

Sometimes it’s Gemma, descending to pull him from his stupor with a kiss, like they're in a goddamn fairy tale. She takes his hand in hers and leads him out of this horrible place.

But it always ends the same. He jerks awake, blinking at the constellation of cameras on the ceiling, and forces himself to lie completely still until he falls asleep again.

How long does it take to starve? his innie asks after the twentieth time his stomach audibly growls.

Weeks. He’s lying flat on the carpet now, trying to soothe the ache in his back. Dehydration’ll kill you way before that.

Good to know. He’s quiet for a few seconds – or minutes, or hours, there’s no way of knowing. I bet those capsules are still edible without boiling them.

Probably. He doesn’t get up. I bet they taste even worse, though.

Probably.

His stomach continues to growl, and his back continues to hurt. After a while, he sits up with a groan and wanders into the exam room, searches the cabinets for anything that might be ibuprofen – not that he’d be able to read any labels, of course, but he’s past the point of caring about things like that.

He finds nothing.

Eventually, he goes back to bed for more half-awake nightmares. At one point he sees Helena Eagan leering over him like a predator with a fresh kill, her hands roaming all over his body. She laughs at his pathetic protests, at the scream stuck inside his throat when she starts peeling off his clothes, fingernails clawing at his skin. He wakes up panting and scrambles out of bed to dry-heave over the toilet.

After that, his innie is even quieter than before.

Sometimes I think you’re not actually real, Mark admits, hours or days later, sitting on the floor with his back pressed to the locked door keeping him trapped in the dark. His head started pounding, somewhere along the way, and it hasn’t stopped.

What do you mean?

Like, maybe I’m just crazy. I mean, I know severance is real and everything, I know that I turned into a different person every day when I went down the elevator, but… He shakes his head. I don’t know. Something different about actually hearing voices in your head, y’know?

Silence. For a long moment. I’m real.

I know. He draws his knees up to his chest and breathes deeply. He’s not hungry anymore; now, it feels like his stomach is trying to digest itself. Sometimes I think you must hate me.

I… I don’t think I hate you. At least…not anymore.

Mark huffs out a dry laugh. Drier than usual, given the lack of hydration. Glad I managed to change your mind with my winning personality.

He returns the laugh. Don't get me wrong. I seriously thought you'd have to be some kind of monster, condemning me to such a… A half-life like this, but… He shakes his head. I don't know. I only exist at all because of you, so it's…complicated.

He nods. I wanna believe I wouldn't have done any of this if I'd realized that you would be…you, and not just a part of me. You know? I only severed because… He frowns, searching his foggy brain for the right words.

Because you hate yourself.

He blinks. I mean, I wouldn’t say that, exactly...

You hate yourself, he repeats with a knowing nod, and you don't give a shit what happens to you, so why would you give a shit about some other version of you?

He winces, but nods slowly, because he's not really wrong.

I do understand that, you know. He shrugs. I mean, I think you could maybe stand to be a little nicer to both of us, honestly, but–

Hold the fuck up. He sits up straight. You’re doing it again.

W… What?

I just shrugged, but that wasn't me. He presses a hand to his forehead, fighting off a wave of dizziness. And…I think you nodded, a second ago?

Oh… Shit, you're right.

How did you do that?

I don't know. I wasn't trying, it just sort of…happened. There's a pause, like he's trying to replicate the action. What did it feel like for you?

Like…nothing. I don’t know. It’s not like when you're in control and I'm not, it’s more like…muscle memory. Or something.

Another pause, longer this time. Can you feel me trying to move? Right now?

No, he answers automatically, and then he squints. Wait… Maybe? There's an odd sensation traveling down his arm and into his fingers. It’s not a tingle, or an itch, but it’s something close, something that he probably wouldn't register if he wasn't already paying attention. Right hand?

Holy shit, yes! So you can feel it!

But it's not moving.

Maybe… Maybe you actually have to let me take over? He sounds intense, clearly concentrating hard. Try to just…relax, maybe?

Mark frowns. Should he be encouraging this? The idea of his innie learning how to wrest away control of his body at any given moment isn’t exactly appealing, but if it goes both ways? If he could learn how to do it, too?

Fuck it. He takes a deep breath and lets his arm go limp at his side. The strange not-itch is still there, still the same. Anything?

A frustrated sigh sounds in his head. No.

Hmm. He shakes out his hand, thinking.

Could it be, like… He hesitates. A trust fall?

The fuck does that mean?

Like, maybe it only works when you trust me enough to…give up control? Subconsciously or otherwise?

He shakes his head. Then why can't I do it on purpose?

He's quiet for a long moment. Do you trust me?

The bluntness of the question catches him off-guard. Yeah, I mean… I think so. He forces an awkward laugh. Should I not?

Unease twists inside his empty stomach once more. Actually, there’s… Can I…tell you something?

Nah, I'm way too busy for conversation right now, he deadpans, nodding to his pitch-black surroundings.

The humor is lost on his innie. I just, um… I don’t want you to hate me.

Well. Mark heaves a dramatic sigh. We've already established that I hate both of us, so I doubt you'll make it any worse.

It’s just that… This…is all my fault.

It doesn’t sound like a joke. He laughs a little anyway. Delirium, probably. What?

That we’re…down here, he continues, every word like a pulled tooth. I mean, I obviously didn’t intend for–

Wait, shut up, he interrupts suddenly. There’s a muffled noise coming from the other side of the door behind him, too steady to be his imagination. Probably. You hear that?

Hear what?

The noise grows louder. Closer.

All at once, the lights flicker to life.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mark shuts his eyes tight and shields them with both hands.

The now-unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps stops outside the door. A hiss of static from the intercom is the only other warning he's given, and he scrambles blindly away from the door a moment before it swings open, cursing again when his back makes contact with the side of the couch.

He squints up at the figure looming in the doorway – blurry, imposing, and unfortunately, familiar.

Fuck, he hopes he's dreaming again.

Chapter Text

Get up.

The large man from before steps into the room, followed by another blurry figure in white, much smaller, and Mark presses his bruised back harder against the couch without meaning to. The door slams shut with the finality of a coffin, leaving his still-adjusting eyes to dart helplessly back and forth between the two men standing over him.

He has to get up. He has to run, or fight, or something.

Shakily, he stands, gripping the side of the couch for support.

Dr. Mauer breaks the silence first. “You're looking rather unwell today, Mr. Scout.”

Mark laughs once. “Y’know it's funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you,” he rasps out, nodding to the black eye and bandaged scrapes mottling the swollen left side of his face. “How's your neck, by the way?”

“How is yours?” Mauer retorts.

Mark glances up at the other man, who stares back at him with the same cold indifference, before returning his attention to Mauer. “Can I have something to drink, now?” It comes out sounding less nonchalant than he'd prefer, more like the desperate plea it actually is.

“Soon.” Mauer waves a hand toward the couch with a smile. “Please, have a seat first.”

Mark stands his ground, glaring at Mauer. He definitely should've killed the fucker when he had the chance.

“Oh, but where are my manners?” Mauer gestures to his companion. “I believe you’ve already met Mr. Thorne. He's our new head of security on the severed floor.”

So what’s he doing down here?

“Shouldn’t you be on the severed floor, then?” Mark asks Thorne. “Not here?”

He doesn’t respond. Mauer speaks up again instead. “Please sit, Mr. Scout.”

Before Mark can react, Thorne steps forward and shoves him – not hard, but it’s enough to throw him off-balance regardless. He collapses on the couch and stays there, blinking to dispel the fog swirling in his head from the sudden movement.

Mauer stands in front of him, deliberately out of kicking range. “I’ve been very eager to speak with you, Mark.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mark mumbles as he slowly sits up straight. “How many days has it been?”

“I would like you to explain why you tried to leave,” Mauer says instead of answering. “What possessed you to become so violent?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

The smile disappears from Mauer’s face. “Need I remind you of the importance of your cooperation? In the interest of your own well-being, and that of your wife?”

Mark laughs. He can’t help it. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You don’t have her. You’ve been lying to me, this whole fucking time.”

He cocks his head curiously. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t think, I know.”

Hey, this might be a bad idea.

“How could you know something like that with such certainty, Mr. Scout?” Mauer steps closer, studying him intently. “What did you experience, after you kicked your way through that door so savagely?”

“Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

Another step. “Have you been…” Another. “Remembering things?” Mauer’s leaning over him now, way too close. “From inside the rooms?”

Mark glares at him and refuses to flinch. “Which part of fuck yourself are you not getting?”

Dr. Mauer’s eyes search his. Finally, he straightens up. “Which rooms do you remember?”

Shit.

“None of them,” Mark says flatly. “I told you that already.”

“Perhaps it’s been coming to you in bits and pieces.” Mauer begins to pace back and forth, his gaze never leaving Mark. “Vague impressions, rather than clear events,” he hums. “Do you remember anything from Astoria? Rhodes? Dranesville?” He stops pacing. “Trinity?”

How hard could it be to snap someone’s neck, really?

Don’t respond. He’s just trying to make you mad.

Mark casts a glance at Thorne, still watching him from a few paces away. How quickly would he be able to react?

“As I recall, you never described for me your emotional state after leaving Trinity,” Mauer continues, leaning closer again. “Did you exit the room feeling…melancholy? Apprehension?” He pauses to quirk an eyebrow with a slight smile. “Euphoria?”

Don’t–

Mark lunges for his throat.

Mauer takes a quick step back, clearly anticipating his reaction, and a thick arm wraps around Mark’s midsection to stop him. He’s thrown back down onto the couch, so hard that it almost tips over.

“Fuck.” He clutches his head to keep it from bursting as his vision dips to black. Too much movement, too fast.

“Such unbecoming behavior,” Mauer is saying, somewhere distant. “Don’t you wonder what dear Gemma would think?”

“She’s not here,” Mark says without opening his eyes. “So shut the fuck up.”

The room goes silent, aside from the heavy pounding between his temples.

“You’re correct.”

Slowly, he looks up.

“Gemma isn’t here,” Mauer continues. “She’s being cared for at another facility.”

“Bullshit.” Mark shakes his head. “You don’t have her. If you did, you would’ve shown her to me by now.”

“When we offered her the opportunity to visit you, she declined,” Mauer says, and then, when Mark laughs, “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, sure, 'course I do,” Mark snorts. “Yeah, totally.”

Hey. The word is quiet, tentative. There’s, uh, something I need to tell you.

Tell me later.

Mauer’s expression morphs into something between amusement and pity. He smiles again. “I’d like to show you something, Mr. Scout. I believe you may find it illuminating.”

A lead weight settles in his gut. It’s…kind of important.

Later.

After giving a quick nod to the nearest camera, Mauer steps aside, gesturing to the screen set into the wall.

Mark rolls his eyes. “If this is another old video of Gemma, don’t bother. I’m not–”

Rather than grayscale static, a white hallway appears, crystal-clear. There’s color this time, blood-red patterns traveling steadily among the fluorescent lights overhead, over and over. Sound, too; a familiar alarm blares through the tiny speaker he hadn’t even realized was there. The hallway stretches into the distance, with a single door at its terminus.

Mark frowns. “What is this?”

“This is security footage from the severed floor,” Mauer explains casually.

They hid a camera in the fire extinguisher…?

“What you’re currently seeing took place 24 days ago,” he continues.

24 days? That would mean…

I know what this is, his innie whispers. And before you see it, I just need you to try and understand–

Quiet. He leans closer, tilting his head toward the screen. You hear that?

There’s another noise, almost like rain, barely audible over the alarm but steadily growing louder. No, not rain; it’s not steady enough for that.

Footsteps. Running.

The sound reaches a crescendo as two figures rush into frame, sprinting around the corner toward the door at the far end of the hall. Mark recognizes Gemma immediately. The other one takes longer to identify; it’s not until he registers the dark splotches on his clothes as blood that he finally understands what he’s seeing, finally realizes that he’s looking at himself.

At his innie.

The Mark on the screen skids to a stop at the door and turns back. “Okay, come on,” he’s repeating, breathless, reaching out for Gemma. His hand finds her shoulder, guides her toward the door. “You have to go. Right now. Go.”

She hesitates, searching Mark’s face for answers. “Where?” She sounds terrified. Uncharacteristically confused.

But then, she’s not actually Gemma, is she? What did his innie call her? “Miss” something?

His own voice turns frantic. “Come on, you gotta go, right now!” The hand gripping her arm shakes her while his other hand opens the door. “Go, go!”

For all his urging, he doesn’t physically push her. She steps through on her own, and Mark releases the door and turns toward the camera, placing himself between her and whatever threat might be following after them.

As the door swings shut behind her, the audio abruptly cuts out. Or, no, not completely; it's still there, but quieter, the alarm now muffled like the sound is coming from a different microphone, somewhere on the other side of the closed door.

Her uneven breaths bleed through the speaker as static. She whirls around immediately, her face filling the window, and… “Mark.”

Yeah. She’s Gemma again.

“Mark, come on.”

On the screen, Mark turns back to her.

“Come on, we have to go!” A sound that must be her rattling the door handle explodes from the tiny speaker, way too loud.

His hands hover over the push bar, but he doesn’t move.

“Mark!” She’s starting to panic. “Mark, open the door, come on!”

Slowly, his arms return to his sides.

“What are you doing?” The thudding of her hand against the window, her palm pressed to the glass like she’ll be able to reach through and grab him herself. “Open this door!”

He doesn’t move.

“Mark, we gotta go home!”

You’ve gotta breathe.

Mark exhales. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. He doesn’t remember getting to his feet, but he’s there now, moving closer to the screen on unsteady legs, the thudding of his heart almost drowning out the desperate sound of Gemma calling his name.

Almost.

On the screen, he’s unnervingly still. Gemma’s frantic movements through the window and the insistent red lights cycling overhead are the only indications that the picture hasn’t frozen entirely.

Until another figure slides partway into frame. A flash of light green fabric, a flicker of red hair. A barely-audible voice. “Mark.”

Something that isn't his lurches in his chest at the sound.

His on-screen counterpart lurches too. He whips his head around in surprise, shows his face to the camera for the first time, and a slow smile begins to break across the surface.

Gemma screams for him. The picture is so small and she's so far away, but the sound is so close. Like she's standing right beside him, begging him to come with her.

Because she is. She was.

And that Mark – the one in the past, the one who isn't him – barely seems to hear her. He turns back to her slowly, and Mark – the one in the present, the one who’s watching it all unfold in rapt horror – can’t see his face.

He sees Gemma’s, though. He sees her react to what she finds there. He sees her breaking in two.

And he sees himself toss another glance over his shoulder at the woman still standing by the camera, her arm now obscuring the right half of the frame.

“No!” Gemma screams when he faces her again. “No, no, no, Mark! Mark!”

His head shakes, just slightly, as he begins to back away.

And then he leaves her behind. He strides toward the camera, his shoulders squared and his jaw set and his eyes locked on the red-haired woman. Helena Eagan.

Helly.

Closer and closer, until his bloody shirt and tie fill the other half of the screen completely. He reaches out a hand, and she takes it. He leads her away, and she follows.

“No! Mark! Come back! Please, you have to–”

The image goes dark.

Mark's reflection stares at him from the blank screen. Pale, dizzy, breathless. Shell-shocked.

Breathe.

He blinks. Twice. Closes his eyes for a few extra seconds before opening them again.

Look. I know that was…a lot.

He turns his head. His neck creaks. He turns the rest of his body. Walks mechanically toward the bedroom. Past Mauer, who holds up a hand in his periphery to stop Thorne when he moves to intercept.

“Let him go.”

Mark’s shoulder bumps against the doorway as he rounds the corner. He watches himself stumble to the mirror set into the far wall, swaying and slack-jawed like a zombie.

He searches his own eyes, desperate for answers.

“What did you do,” he breathes. “What did you do?”

I was going to tell you. I tried to tell you–

He braces himself with a hand on the glass. What’s on the other side of that door?

It’s the exit stairwell.

And where do the stairs lead?

Uh… Out. He fumbles for words. I don’t know exactly. I’ve never seen the other side, obviously, so I don’t–

You don’t know. He shuts his eyes and presses his palm into his forehead. You don’t fucking know, and you left her there.

I got her out–

You abandoned her!

I got her out! I did what you wanted, okay?

What I wanted? He glares at his reflection. You think this is what I wanted?

I didn’t know any of this was gonna happen!

But you had to know you’d get caught, he insists. You can’t run from Lumon forever inside their own goddamn building. He rakes a trembling hand through his hair. God, what the fuck were you thinking?

Look, you asked me to get Gemma out. That’s the only thing that you asked me to do, and that’s what I did.

Are you that fucking stupid? Did you seriously need me to spell it out for you? He shakes his head. Getting yourself out was implicit!

Oh, getting myself out? A humorless laugh sounds inside his head. You mean getting you out.

Is this the hill you wanna die on? Semantics?

It’s not about semantics. You know as well as I do that getting myself out isn’t possible. He goes quiet, like he’s trying to take a deep breath. And that’s why I couldn’t go through that door.

Couldn’t? he repeats incredulously.

I didn’t want to die. He says it slowly, plucking each word from a minefield. Can you understand that?

You selfish fucking prick.

A wave of indignation floods his aching skull, crashes against his own.

Oh, I’m selfish? Fucking really?

You’re the reason we’re here! He squeezes his free hand into a fist, digs his fingernails into his palm hard enough to hurt them both. I could’ve left this place with Gemma and we’d be long gone, but no! You had to drag me back down into hell with you and your stupid fucking girlfriend!

Are you– He splutters for a moment. You wanna know what the fuck I was thinking? I was thinking that my life would be over, one way or another, as soon as I stepped through that door. I was thinking that I’d never see Helly again, or Dylan, or Irving, or Petey, or any of the other people I care about, and you couldn’t give less of a shit about it. I was thinking that just because you’re the one who locked me in here, in “hell” or whatever you wanna call it, that doesn’t mean you get to decide when I leave.

Oh, my God, are you a fucking child? He presses his face into his hands and turns away to start pacing in the small space. This is all just revenge, is that it? Your life sucks, so you gotta ruin mine, too?

Jesus Christ, are you even capable of listening? He tries to shake his head. It’s not about you!

But I’m still here! Another wave of dizziness crashes over him, and he catches himself on the mirror again. It doesn’t matter why you did it, what matters is you did, and now I’m gonna fucking die here, and it’s all because of you!

He feels his innie trying to breathe, to calm himself down, to calm both of them down.

Look, I’m sorry–

Oh, you’re sorry! He lets out a bitter laugh. Oh, well, that makes it all better, then.

I’m sorry we ended up here, he clarifies forcefully, But I’m not sorry for staying.

You fucking asshole. His reflection shoots him a withering look. Every. Single. Thing. That’s happened to me down here. Has been your fault.

Except nothing has happened to you, has it? Because it’s not you in those rooms. It’s me.

His eyes narrow. That’s bullshit, and you know it.

Is it? He scoffs. You’re not the one who has to play along with all their weird little games. You get to just kick back and relax while I sit in traffic for two hours, or shovel snow until my hands go numb, or keep my mouth shut while a sadist shoves his fingers–

But I’m still there, you piece of shit. He clenches his fist again. It’s my body, and I’m the one who has to feel everything that happens to it.

It’s my body too! his innie fires back. I’ve been here the whole fucking time, feeling everything, just the same as you!

Yeah? Feel this.

The moment his fist makes contact with the mirror, he knows, unequivocally, that he's made a mistake.

Shit!

“Fffff–” He bites down hard on his lip and staggers back. Tries to hold back the shout. Fails. “Fuck!”

Did you just break our fucking hand?!

“My fucking hand,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Shit! he repeats, the curse short and sharp with pain.

Good.

He looks down and slowly attempts to uncurl his fingers.

Bad idea. He nearly blacks out.

What are you doing? Just– Stop moving it, for Christ’s sake, just–

Out of pure spite, he cradles his now-injured right hand in his left and squeezes hard–

FUCK!

–and doubles over, choking on a scream of his own.

Oh, my God, what the hell is wrong with you?!

He hears Thorne tromping into the room before he sees him. Dr. Mauer follows on his heels, stopping just inside the doorway to survey the situation. His gaze drifts from the spiderweb of cracks on the mirror, radiating from a roughly circular spot at eye level; to Mark’s newly-bloodied fist, clutched tightly to his chest; to his face, twisted in pain as he leans against the wall to keep from sinking to the floor.

Mauer sighs. “Well. Not quite the reaction I anticipated.”

“Time for Plan B,” Thorne says flatly, and Mark stares at him; he can speak after all?

Mauer shakes his head. “Not just yet.” He steps forward.

Mark flinches back. “Stay away from me.”

“I’d like to help you, Mr. Scout.” Mauer takes another slow step, arms out, trying to soothe a wounded animal. “Let me take a look at your hand.”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, pressing himself into the nearest corner.

“This is a waste of time,” Thorne says, his voice bellowing, deeper even than Mark would’ve imagined from such an imposing physical presence.

Try to calm down. The words come out strained. You’ll only make things worse, if you’re not careful–

“Shut the fuck up!”

Dr. Mauer freezes, clearly surprised by Mark’s outburst. He exchanges a quick glance with Thorne, then drops his hands with a sigh. “Very well. Plan B it is.”

Mark’s eyes dart back and forth between them. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Thorne advances on him then, with none of Mauer’s delicacy.

Mark tries to back away. There’s nowhere to go. “Don’t–”

He grips the front of Mark’s shirt and pulls him away from the wall, then turns to leave the bedroom with him in tow.

“Let go!” It’s all he can do to stay upright. He tries to wrestle free of Thorne’s grasp, prying at his fingers with his uninjured hand and digging his heels into the carpet as he’s dragged around the corner toward the living room. “Let go of me!”

Thorne doesn’t even look at him. He turns to head for the door. Mark stumbles forward for some slack and bites down hard on the fingers twisted in his shirt.

That gets his attention; Thorne yanks his hand free with a wordless shout and shoves him away. Mark’s back hits the wall, and he sinks to the floor in slow motion.

“Careful,” Mauer scolds from somewhere nearby.

Mark lifts his head and waits for the black static crowding the edges of his vision to clear. Heavy footsteps approach, each one a mallet to his head, and then Thorne is leaning over him, reaching down to grab at his shirt again.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” This time, he catches Thorne’s wrist and shoves it away.

“That’s enough!”

Thorne steps back, and Mark’s gaze snaps to Mauer, who’s now holding the thickest cell phone Mark’s ever seen.

He brings it to his ear. “Are we still prepped to engage the OTC?”

Mark’s heart leaps into his dry throat. “Wait, what?”

Mauer nods slightly without taking his eyes off Mark. “Do it.”

“No, wait a minute–”

He tries to push himself up with his left hand, but his arm

gives out beneath him, and

he crumples to the floor, face-first.

Fuck.

“Help him up,” Dr. Mauer says quietly.

A thick arm wraps around Mark from behind, far less roughly than before, though that might be due to his sudden pliability. He doesn’t try to squirm free or fight back; he lets himself be hauled to his feet and stands still, a bit unsteady, cradling his injured hand to his chest and watching Dr. Mauer and Mr. Thorne with wide eyes.

“Mark S.” Mauer greets him with a warm smile. “I imagine you have a few questions.”

Chapter Text

“This way, please.” Dr. Mauer leads Mark toward the door, casually, as if nothing's wrong. As if this is a perfectly normal situation for his innie to wake up to.

Said innie glances nervously over his shoulder at Thorne as he steps into the hallway. “What’s…?”

He’s led to the door beside his – no longer broken. They must have replaced it, at some point within the last few days or hours or however long Mark was left in the dark. Mauer presses the button beside the new door, and it swings open. He walks inside without a word, and Mark hesitantly follows.

He half-expects something to happen upon crossing the threshold, like last time. Nothing does. He feels exactly the same, still trapped inside his own skull, his head still pounding and his hand still throbbing.

He flinches when the door closes behind him, leaving him alone with Mauer, who heads for the exam room around the corner. Mark follows cautiously, still cradling his right hand gingerly in his left.

Mauer sits on a stool and gestures toward the chair in the center of the room. “Please, have a seat,” he says, and Mark steps forward.

You’re just gonna do everything you’re told, like a fucking machine?

His innie freezes, for just an instant, before sitting down. He doesn’t respond to Mark’s goading. “What, uh… What is this place?” he asks, looking around.

Mauer pulls out his phone again. “End it,” he tells the person on the other side of the call. Then he smiles at Mark. “I understand that this must be very confusing. Let me assure you, first and foremost, that you are safe here.”

Mark can almost hear the wheels spinning inside the other half of his head, can taste the lies forming behind his lips.

“Where is here, exactly?” He pauses, then adds, like an afterthought, “And who are you?”

“May I take a look at your hand?” Mauer asks instead of answering.

Mark frowns, but nods, allowing Mauer to gently pull his arm away from his chest and pry his fist open.

He’s almost surprised that his innie isn’t losing his shit; shouldn’t someone who’s only been alive for a little over two years – in eight hour chunks inside a fucking office building, no less – be more sensitive to pain?

“Hold still, like this, please.” Mauer positions the hand vertically out in front of him in a chop, and Mark holds it there, supporting his arm with his uninjured hand, as Mauer stands and positions the arms of the X-ray machine on either side. Then he holds the phone up to his ear.

“Um…” Mark clears his throat awkwardly. “Can you please tell me–”

Mauer shushes him with one finger, then nods in response to something on the phone. “As I suspected. Thank you.” He hangs up and addresses Mark again, “You have a small fracture in your fifth metacarpal.”

He blinks. “Okay…?”

Mauer steps away to rummage through the cabinets nearby, and Mark shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

You shouldn’t have talked me out of killing him.

“Here we are.” Mauer returns with a cylinder of black fabric and plastic that vaguely resembles a glove with most of the fingers missing – a splint. Mark remains still and quiet, despite the sparks of pain dancing up his arm with every movement, as Mauer straps it to his wrist and bundles his last two fingers together.

It’s not too late, you know. Some distant, tucked-away part of his mind whispers that between the pain and hunger and dehydration, he might not be thinking clearly at the moment. He ignores it. You could kill him now.

Once he’s finished with the splint, Mauer walks away without another word, rounding the corner into the other room. Mark stays where he is, staring blankly at his now-immobilized hand.

If you weren’t a fucking coward.

A faucet turns on in the other room, and the sound of water filling a glass is so unmistakable and overwhelming that he tries to scramble to his feet, way too fast, and nearly passes out.

“Stay where you are,” Mauer calls from around the corner. “I’ll bring this to you.”

Obediently, he relaxes into the chair again, and Mauer returns a moment later to offer him a tall glass of water. It’s ice-cold in Mark’s left hand, slippery with condensation, and it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever tasted in his life.

“Slowly,” Mauer says as he returns to his own seat. “Don’t make yourself ill.”

Fuck that, he mutters. Puke on his shoes.

Mark chugs only half the glass before stopping himself and clearing his throat again. “Can you…tell me what’s happening here, please?”

“Of course.” Mauer smiles. “I can only imagine how disorienting this must be, waking up in an unfamiliar place, with new pains that you can’t explain.” He nods to Mark’s hand. “I’m here to answer all your questions.”

“O…kay,” he begins, when Mauer doesn’t say anything else, just stares at him expectantly. “Uh, who are you, exactly?”

Another wide smile. “You can call me Dr. Mauer. I’m here to help you.”

“Right, okay.” He nods, nervously, and takes another drink. “Why am I…here? And where is here?”

“You’re in a severed suite on Lumon’s testing floor.”

“Severed…suite?”

Mauer nods. “There’s a severance threshold on the door.”

“So, I can’t leave?”

“Of course you can!” He grins, like he's told a hilarious joke. “But you’ll find yourself walking right back in, most likely. You see, your outie has been assisting us with some valuable research.”

“What kind of research?”

He tilts his head curiously. “How much do you know about him? About why he sent you down here?”

Mark blinks a few times. “Um…”

He practically feels the mental calculus running through the other half of his mind at lightning speed. His innie was the one who brought him to the testing floor, after all, so he can’t claim complete ignorance of the plan to rescue Gemma.

“He didn’t…send me here, exactly,” he explains haltingly. “I came here, to find Ms. Casey.”

“Because she’s your outie’s wife,” Mauer says with another nod, surprisingly candid.

“…Right.” Another sip of water. Stalling for time. “So, my outie…?”

Mauer leans forward, and Mark tenses but doesn’t flinch. “Your outie has agreed to remain here at Lumon for a time, to finish what his wife started.”

Technically, it’s not untrue. He wants to scream anyway, to claw his way out of his skull and beat his fists bloody against the walls.

“What does that have to do with me?” his innie asks, choosing each word carefully.

Dr. Mauer sighs. “As you may have already surmised, there was…an altercation.” He gestures back and forth between Mark’s hand and his own battered face. “When he was informed that the next step of the testing process involved you, well…” He chuckles a bit. “Suffice it to say, he didn’t take the news very well.”

Mark scoffs. Is this guy for real?

“It seems he’s harboring a bit of a grudge,” Mauer continues. “I believe he was displeased with your actions on the severed floor, concerning Ms. Casey.”

Another kernel of truth among all the blatant lies. Can his innie still feel the rage seething beneath his skin with every involuntary breath he takes?

“Yeah, uh...” His voice comes out a bit too high, a bit too artificially casual. Fishing for information. “What happened to her, anyway?”

Another smile. “You needn’t concern yourself with that.”

He frowns. Finishes off the rest of the water instead of pressing further. “You still haven’t told me why I’m here.”

Mauer leans back. “You’re here because we need your help, Mark. As I’ve already alluded to, your outie is rather unpredictable by nature. Prone to violent outbursts. Which puts our work here at risk.”

Mark’s innie connects the dots before he does. “So, you want me instead, because I’m…what? Better behaved than my outie?”

Go fuck yourself.

“Well…yes,” Mauer replies. “You won't require constant supervision in the way that he did.”

If he could, Mark would glare at one of the two cameras positioned conspicuously overhead.

His frown deepens. “And what makes you think I wanna go along with…whatever you’re doing here?”

“You won’t have to do anything, Mark. Your involvement begins and ends inside this room. Enjoy three meals a day, stay hydrated, maintain your hygiene. Get some sleep.” Mauer leans forward. “The only thing that we require is your cooperation. Each day, you’ll be provided with a change of clothes and escorted elsewhere for a few hours.”

“Elsewhere, as in, outside of this room,” Mark clarifies, to a nod from Mauer. “So it won’t actually be me.”

“Correct. You won’t have to do anything,” he repeats. “For the next week, it will be as if your outie is the one going to work, while you reap the benefits of a stress-free existence.”

The next week? God, is that all the time he has left?

“Stress-free,” his innie echoes, ignoring the dread curling in his stomach. “Right. And what happens once you’re done with…” He gestures vaguely, nearly dropping the empty glass. “All of that?”

“Once we’re finished here, you’ll return to the severed floor. To your regular department.”

Mark blinks. “You’re gonna send me back to MDR?”

“That’s right.” Mauer smiles. “Where you’ll do the same work as before, with the same coworkers as before.”

Jesus Christ, could he be more full of shit?

His innie doesn’t seem to hear him. “You mean…Helly? She’s okay?”

If he could, he’d roll his eyes.

Mauer nods. “There’s only one caveat. At the end of each day, rather than ascending in the severed elevator, you’ll return here, to the testing floor.”

Mark frowns. “Why?”

“We have reason to believe that your outie doesn’t have your best interests at heart,” Mauer explains with a slight shrug. “If he leaves Lumon, chances are that he’ll refuse to return altogether, effectively ending your life. And we would be devastated to lose you, after all you’ve done for this company, Mark S.”

This is such bullshit. A statement that applies to so many things at the moment – his current situation, his life as a whole, the rich tapestry of total fiction Mauer is feeding his innie. Like anyone could be stupid enough to believe any of that.

“More water?” Mauer stands and takes the glass without waiting for a response, leaving Mark alone with himself.

Though, I don’t know, maybe you are that stupid, he adds. Stupid enough to turn around and walk back into hell rather than escaping when you had the chance, so.

His innie doesn’t say anything.

Hey, are you even listening to me?

Absently, he picks at the velcro wrapped around his wrist.

Unease gnaws at his insides. Come to think of it, has his innie actually responded to him at all since Mauer activated the OTC in the other room? Or are you just giving me the fucking silent treatment?

He coughs once to clear his throat.

Just…say something, so I know you can still hear me.

Takes a deep breath, in and out, oblivious or indifferent to the panic and anger battling for supremacy inside his chest.

You’re a sad, pathetic loser.

Stares straight ahead.

You’ve deluded yourself into believing that you’re an actual person, but you’re not.

Blinks once.

I hope you die.

Twice.

Your girlfriend’s a bitch.

Clenches his jaw tight enough to hurt.

I can hear you. Now shut up.

Fuck you, he snarls back, a sharp contrast to the relief flooding through him.

Dr. Mauer reappears and hands the refilled glass to Mark before returning to the nearby cabinet. He pulls out a rattling pill bottle and offers Mark two white capsules. “For the pain.”

He takes them without argument. “So…” he begins again after a long silence. “What…do you want from me? Like, right now?”

“Right now? Nothing.” Mauer gestures to their surroundings. “You’ll be given the rest of the day to acclimate to your new environment, as well as recover from the harm your outie inflicted upon you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mark gives a hesitant nod. “Uh, thanks.”

“Of course.” Mauer smiles. “Get some rest. And do let us know if there is anything you require.” He steps forward to place a hand on Mark’s shoulder, squeezing a bit too tight. “We want you to be comfortable here.”

Then he walks away. Mark waits until the door in the other room shuts, then downs the rest of the water and shakily gets to his feet. He’s not quite as dizzy, but he still presses his forearm against the wall for support as he rounds the corner into the living area. It looks the same as before, the same as it had in the footage of Gemma. This must have been her room – her cell – while she was here.

The threshold on the door must be a recent addition, then. Just for him.

Mark sulks, powerless inside his skull. Don’t tell me you believed any of that bullshit.

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and refills the glass. He wanders a bit, just enough to convince anyone watching that he hasn’t spent the past few weeks inside a near-exact replica of this suite, that the space is new to him.

Except…it isn’t, is it? The severance threshold was present during his ill-fated escape attempt. Surely Dr. Mauer is aware that his innie has already seen the inside of this room once, however briefly.

Strange that he didn’t bring it up.

His innie finds the refrigerated drawer set into the cabinet beside the sink and picks out three colorful capsules at random. He makes a show of reading the instructions on the back before preparing them. He eats too fast, makes himself nauseous, but keeps everything down.

One more glass of cold water to soothe his aching throat, and then he meanders into the bedroom. There’s bedding waiting for him this time, a blanket and a set of sheets and a pillow all individually wrapped in plastic. He makes the bed, a bit haphazardly, in silence.

Muscle memory, he assumes.

Finally, he sits down, idly fidgeting with the splint.

Okay. Now. Let’s talk.

He scoffs. There’s nothing to talk about.

He takes a deep breath. You have to understand, what you were asking me to do was suicide. You can’t seriously expect me to trust you with my life when–

Fuck off. He tries to shake his head. He can’t, of course, and it’s just more fuel for the fire. It’s not even your life in the first place, asshole.

His innie is quiet for a few seconds. “This life belongs to both of us.” You remember telling me that?

I never said that, he growls, not really caring whether it's true.

Yes, you did. The first time I ever talked to you, in that cabin.

Yeah, well, I didn't fucking mean it.

I sort of figured that out already, he scoffs. How much of that whole conversation was complete horseshit, by the way?

He tries to roll his eyes. For the last fucking time, I was not lying to you about reintegration. I had every intention of going through with it, you ungrateful little shit.

So, what, like, ninety percent horseshit by volume, would you say?

Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

He digs his fingers into the side of the mattress. No, you shut the fuck up and listen to me now. You don’t get to run away from this conversation again.

I’m not running from anything. The image of his innie – of himself – walking away from Gemma hasn’t stopped looping inside his head since he saw it. That's all you.

Another scoff. Right, yeah. Because I’m the one who elected to break my own hand rather than talk through my issues like an adult.

You’re two years old, he snaps. You’re a fucking toddler.

Yeah? What does that make you, then?

How about you just go fuck yourself, okay?

Oh, that’s real nice. He drags his uninjured hand over his face. Really mature. Glad we could work this out.

Fuck off.

Look, can you just hear me out for two seconds?

Fuck. Off.

He sighs. Fine. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.

The rest of the day passes in largely unbroken silence, as his innie searches for ways to fill the time.

It’s too much time to think. Too much time for mental math.

One week. Seven days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes. 604,800 seconds.

604,799.

604,798.

604,797.

604,796 seconds left to live.

604,795. Probably fewer.

604,794. And he’s going to spend it all trapped inside his own head. Unable to move, unable to scream or cry or curse or do anything but think about his own impending doom.

604,793. Of course, that’s all assuming that Mauer was telling the truth about Lumon’s timeframe, that he wasn’t rounding up. The actual amount of time he has left could be significantly less.

I still think your wife made it out, his innie says apropos of nothing, somewhere in the 570,000s – Mark thinks, anyway; he’s lost count a few times. It’s after the lights switch off for the night, as he’s crawling into bed. You called their bluff. That’s why they had a Plan B. So if you’re still worrying about her–

Fuck off, he repeats flatly, for the eighth time in so many hours.

And for the eighth time, he drops the subject without a fight, leaving Mark to wallow in his misery.

He’s never getting out of here. He’s never going to see the sun again, to breathe fresh air, to feel the wind or the rain on his face. What he wouldn’t give to see Gemma again, one last time. Or Devon, or hell, he’d even settle for Ricken.

None of them will ever know what happened to him. That’s not the worst part, but it’s up there. He’s never considered it a blessing that he had to see Gemma’s body – or what he thought was her body – after the accident, but now, with the alternative in mind?

How much worse would the past two years have been without any closure?

He can’t even begin to imagine what it will be like. For Devon, for Gemma. To know, logically, that he’s probably dead, but to never be certain. The thought of either of them losing sleep worrying about him, haunted by the possibility that he’s still out there somewhere, hollows out his chest until he’s suffocating in his own skin.

And of course Eleanor won’t remember him; he’ll be the disappeared uncle who exists only in old photos, the ghost that no one wants to talk about for fear of reopening old wounds.

God, he wishes he could cry.

Are you okay?

The question startles him. What?

My stomach feels like it’s trying to crawl up my throat. He rolls onto his back with a slight wince. He sounds completely exhausted. You’re upset about something.

He crushes the grief down with anger, like shoving one more bag into a trash bin that’s already full. Get out of my head.

Believe me, you have no idea how much I wish I could. He rubs his eyes. But I think you’re keeping us awake, so… Do you wanna talk about it, or–

Fuck off.

He sighs. Nods. Rolls over again.

I don’t wanna die here, he says after a few minutes. Any more than you do.

He scoffs.

Look. He takes a deep breath. I’m not asking you to forgive me, because I know you’re not going to. I’m not even asking you to give a shit about me, because I know you don’t. All I’m asking you to do is set all of that aside, just for now, so we can figure out what to do, and then you can go right back to hating me once we make it out of this. Because you and I need each other right now, okay?

He mulls that over for a few seconds. How long’ve you been rehearsing that speech in your head?

He shrugs. Half an hour, give or take.

And what’d you think my response would be?

I think you wanna live more than you want me to die, and I think you know as well as I do that we’ll have a better chance if we work together.

Fair assumption, he muses.

He nods. So…? What do you think?

He tries to inhale, tries to sigh, tries to pour every bit of malice he has into straightening his middle fingers so that his innie will be able to feel it.

I think you should fuck off.

Chapter Text

“Mark.”

Helly. She’s here, standing shoeless and beautiful at the far end of the hallway. Of course she’s here; she knew where he was going, what he was trying to do. She knew he’d be here, at the edge of the world, and she came to see him off.

“Mark!”

He turns back to the closed door, the last threshold standing between him and the unknown. Between him and his outie’s wife, who’s watching him through the window with realization and horror dawning in her eyes.

She must know by now that it’s futile. She pounds her fist against the door again anyway, rattles the handle desperately. “Mark, come on! We have to get out of here!”

He should want to get out of here. Even if his outie is completely full of shit, even if the whole reintegration thing is a lie, even if walking through this door is the last thing he ever does, Mark should want to leave this place behind, along with all the horrible things that he’s lived through over the past two years.

But how can he, when that would mean leaving all the good behind, too?

He turns away from the door. He takes Helly’s hand. He runs.

They run, weaving through the hallways, with no eyes on them but the bloodshot fluorescent lights glowering down from above.

They run until Mark’s lungs are about to burst. He’s about five seconds from dragging Helly to a stop so he can gasp for air when she stumbles herself and nearly falls, her hand breaking free of his.

“Whoa,” Mark skids to a stop, barely maintaining his own balance. “You alright?”

She stares at the floor. Blinks a few times. Doesn’t answer him.

Tentatively, he reaches for her. “Helly?”

When she looks up, her eyes are wide, terrified, a deer in headlights – whatever that phrase means. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” she says anyway. “Just…need to catch my breath,” she adds with a slight smile. She's trying not to worry him. “Are you okay?”

He nods, but the movement makes him dizzy. Now that they're not running, now that the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, his head is killing him.

“Mark?” She cups his face in her hands. He tries not to wince when her thumb brushes the sore spot on his cheek, where he got slammed into the wall. “Are you okay?” she repeats. “You don’t look so good.”

“Fine.” Even he can’t miss the way his voice wavers. “A little woozy,” he admits.

Her eyes flick down to his shirt. “Whose blood is that?”

“I'm not really sure. There was this…really big guy guarding the black hallway.” He shudders a bit at the fresh memory, swallowing hard past the bruises already forming on his neck. “I think it might be his. I think my outie might have…” He shakes his head and immediately regrets the motion when it sets the hallway spinning wildly around him.

A gentle hand on his arm steadies him, pulls him back to reality. “Now what, boss?” she asks softly, barely audible over the alarm still blaring insistently from above.

“I don’t know. We can’t run forever.” He doesn’t realize he’s swaying again until he nearly falls, catching himself on the wall with one hand. He squeezes his eyes shut. Why does it hurt so much to think? “We should try to find Mammalians Nurturable,” he says finally.

“The goat people?” She frowns. “You think we can trust them?”

“Yeah. Their department head was the one who saved me. Plus,” he adds, glancing at the red lights cycling over their heads, “Whatever happens next, we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

She nods thoughtfully and goes quiet for a few seconds. “Before that, I think we should go to Milchick's office. He had all the first aid stuff, right?”

It’s Mark’s turn to frown. “Well, what if he’s there?”

“Then, we’ll figure it out. But we gotta do something, ‘cause you look like shit.”

“Oh, thanks,” he says with a grin, though she's probably not wrong.

She takes his hand, and he lets her lead. The reds and whites of the identical hallways blur together, and every screech of the alarm slices into his skull like a physical force, threatening to knock him off his feet. He fixes his gaze on Helly, on the way her hair swishes back and forth across her shoulder blades with every step. She moves differently without shoes; her strides are shorter than usual, with a bit less sway in her hips.

Not that he’s ever watched her hips as she walks. Not that he’s doing that right now.

Of course, she might be moving slower for his sake. His own shoes feel like they’re slowly filling with cold water, like they each weigh a ton. By the time they finally reach Administration, he’s tripping over his feet every few steps.

The office is empty, the lights dimmed and the alarm more muffled than in the hallway, and he hears himself let out a small noise of relief.

“Here, sit down.” She guides him to the corner of Ms. Huang’s desk, then turns away to search through all the drawers and cabinets. She shoves something cold into his hands. “Stay here, I’m gonna keep looking.”

Mark’s bleary eyes follow her into Milchick’s office, until she shuts the door behind herself. He looks down at the ice pack, unsure of where to even put it when everything hurts. He finally settles for resting it gingerly against the side of his face, where the throbbing is the worst, and lets his eyes drift closed.

Now what?

He doesn’t exactly have a plan beyond staying alive, for as long as he can. He thinks he’d be content to stay here forever, honestly, to live the rest of his life on the severed floor with Helly by his side, but there’s no way Lumon will let that happen.

The alarm from outside abruptly stops, and he opens his eyes to cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, at the hallway lights still strobing red.

This can’t last forever. Even if Mr. Milchick isn’t here now, it’s inevitable that someone will come looking for them, sooner or later, and what happens then? There’s no reality in which Mark isn’t immediately fired, if not killed outright, his outie be damned. Judging from the finger-shaped bruises around his throat, it’s abundantly clear that Lumon considers him disposable; it seems Ms. Cobel wasn’t lying about that part. If Cold Harbor really was the last of the MDR files, then he’s already lost the last shred of bargaining power he ever had in the first place.

Helly, on the other hand…

He stares at the closed door in front of him. Through the frosted glass wall, he can just make out the shape of her, rummaging through the drawers behind Milchick’s abandoned desk. Mark might be an easy problem for Lumon to solve, but Helly’s outie is an Eagan.

“Helly?” he calls out. Carefully, he stands, one hand still holding the ice pack to his cheek. “I might have an idea.”

He reaches for the door, then flinches back when it swings open. She blinks up at him. “Hey. What’s up?”

He nods toward the room behind her. “While we’re here, I think we should find the speaker.”

She scoffs, incredulous. “What, you wanna try and negotiate?” She shakes her head. “What makes you think the Board will even talk to us?”

“I mean, what other choice do they have?” he says with a shrug.

He moves to scoot past her, but she stops him with a hand on his chest. “Okay, I’ll find it. You sit back down,” she orders. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

He lets her push him back to the desk with a smile. “Whatever you say, Doctor Helly.”

She flashes him a grin, then disappears into the other office, leaving the door open this time.

He closes his eyes again and focuses on the feeling in his fingertips, slowly going numb around the ice pack, rather than the insistent throbbing in his temple.

His outie’s going to be pissed.

Of course, he won’t know what happened until Mark leaves the severed floor, which he’s not doing anytime soon, if he can help it. Maybe never. It would serve that asshole right for locking him inside a prison in the first place.

“Hey.” Helly's back suddenly, standing in front of him with a worried look on her face. She places her own hand over his. “You still with me?”

Smiling hurts, but he can't help it. “Always.”

She rolls her eyes, but grins. “Don't go all mushy on me now, Mark.”

“Why not?” His fingers tremble as he traces the line of her jaw. “You love it.”

She shivers at the touch and pulls the ice pack away from his cheek to replace it with her own hand. Her other arm wraps around his shoulders as she leans in close. “How do you feel?” she asks softly, breath warm against his lips.

“Fine,” he replies automatically, and then, when she raises a doubting eyebrow, “Better, now.”

She smiles. Her hand goes to the back of his head, where her fingers, still cool from the ice pack, wind their way into his hair and tug him down the last few millimeters so their mouths can meet.

God, she tastes incredible. Despite everything, despite the bruises and the blood and the warning lights still flashing dutifully in the hall a few feet away, he wants nothing more than to live in this moment forever. He wants to devour her.

She pulls back, coming up for air, and wraps him in a hug, resting her chin in the crook of his neck. She’s stroking his scalp, slow and gentle, and he melts against her. He buries his face in her hair and inhales deeply, determined to commit the smell to memory.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes against the shell of his ear, so quietly that he might’ve imagined it.

“For what?” he mumbles into her shoulder.

Something pinches the side of his neck, in the same instant that her fingers twist tighter to hold his head still. Did she just…bite him? No, it’s too sharp, too pinpoint precise for teeth.

Then the sting is gone as abruptly as it came. She loosens her hold, and he pulls back to search her face, confused. He follows with his eyes as she leans over to place something on the desk beside him.

A syringe. An emptied syringe.

“What…” His sludgy thoughts can’t make sense of it. “What?” is the only word he manages.

“Take it easy.” She grips his arms, like she’s expecting him to…

To do what, exactly? He blinks a few times. “What did you–”

Then he’s swaying again, struggling to keep his eyes focused on her as the room begins to spin. “Easy,” she’s repeating, guiding him downward so he slumps to the floor, leaning against the front of the desk rather than falling face-first. She lets go of him and stands up straight once he’s settled. “That’s it.”

There’s something strange about her voice. Of course, there’s also something strange about the fact that she just stuck a needle in his neck, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she’s standing, the way she’s looking at him, her face, her eyes, all of it.

All at once, the vague, subconscious unease that’s been twisting beneath Mark’s skin since they stopped running solidifies to concrete in his veins, turns him to stone. “Helena?” he hears himself whisper, his tongue slurring around the name.

She doesn’t respond, which is enough of a response in itself.

He moves without thinking to push himself up. To run. She’s warning him not to do that, from somewhere far away, but he couldn’t care less what she wants him to do.

The ground sinks like quicksand beneath his hands, or maybe that's his arms folding under his weight. In the next instant, he’s groaning softly into the carpet as everything around him twists out of control.

When he pries his eyes open, the world’s gone sideways. Helly – Helena – walks away, back into Milchick’s office. “Send someone up for him. They’ll need a stretcher.” She isn’t speaking to Mark; there’s a blue and white shape on the desk, blurry and barely visible from his vantage point on the floor. “And I’ll need an escort out of here.”

A crackle of static reaches him, a rumble that sounds like a response. It’s nothing but white noise in his ears. The speaker? She found it?

Of course. She’d already found it, already plugged it in before he ever suggested the idea, while the door was still closed.

She returns to him, her steps slow and silent on the carpet, and towers over him with a regretful sigh that almost sounds genuine. “Oh, Mark.”

His limbs are too dense to move, his eyelids too heavy to keep open.

“Why didn’t you just go?”

Mark’s eyes snap open, but he doesn’t move.

He can’t move, and it takes him a full three seconds to remember why, to recognize the all-too-familiar sensation of someone else piloting his body.

Or not piloting it, as it were; he’s frozen in place, tense all over, his heart thudding so hard that he feels it in his tongue.

What the fuck? he asks groggily.

His innie slowly sits up, pushes the blanket aside, and leans over the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.

The bed. He was asleep?

Right, of course. They were both asleep, because that’s how it works. Up until this point, it’s always been his innie sleeping inside his head, eavesdropping on his subconscious, not the other way around.

What the fuck, he repeats.

“Dream,” he mumbles aloud by way of explanation.

He tries to shake his head. That was too vivid, too detailed, completely unlike any dream he’s ever had. That was a whole-ass memory. Do your dreams always play out like fucking movies?

I don’t know, that’s the first time I’ve ever… He takes a shaky breath, curls his fingers in his hair, presses his forehead harder into his palms. The velcro of the splint scratches against his skin, oddly grounding. Jeez.

The lights are still off, the room still pitch-black. He stands anyway, shakily, and feels his way to the bathroom sink.

What was all that about?

When she tripped, in the hallway… He splashes water on his face and shudders. That must’ve been when they activated the Glasgow block.

The fuck is that?

It’s a way for an outie to be on the severed floor. It’s what Helena used to spy on us.

Another wrinkle that no one told him about. Just like the overtime contingency. You mean, he begins, turning every word into a dagger, What she used to fuck you during the ORTBO.

He winces, then clenches his jaw tight. Yes.

So, she tricked you again. Nice going.

He rubs his temples with one hand. Well, I was a little bit concussed this time, from trying to save your wife, so excuse me for not being able to think super clearly.

Must be pretty shitty for your girlfriend, knowing you can’t tell the two of them apart.

Wait. His eyebrows furrow. How do you know about the ORTBO?

The what?

You just mentioned the ORTBO.

He tries to frown. No, I didn’t.

Yes, you did.

No, I didn’t, because I don’t know what the hell that is.

Outdoor retreat and team-building occurrence. He pauses. It’s an acronym.

If he could, he’d roll his eyes. Yeah, thanks, I know how acronyms work. He thinks for a moment. So, what, was that the weekend thing?

I guess so, yeah. Did they tell you that’s what it was called?

No.

Then, how did you know–

The lights turn on all at once.

“Christ.” He shields his eyes with his splinted hand and squints at the clock on the wall. 7:30.

It’s already morning, already a new day. One of the few he has left.

His stomach lurches so violently that his innie has to grip the sink and close his eyes. Are you… he begins, in between deep breaths. You good in there?

Fuck off.

His innie trudges his way through the steps of Mark’s morning routine, lingering in the shower for way too long. Mark half-expects him to butcher his face trying to shave, especially with the dexterity of his dominant hand compromised, but he manages without incident; chalk it up to muscle memory, along with watching and feeling Mark do it himself every day for the past couple of weeks.

The nurse shows up just as he’s finishing his flavorless breakfast. He goes along with her to the exam room, acting suitably confused and wary while she conducts the usual checkup.

She brings out the green version of the “vaguely disturbing questions” machine today. Holding the two irregularly-shaped sensors isn’t easy with one hand broken, but she patiently assists him in balancing the bean-thing between his thumb and two free fingers, so it’s still making contact with his skin despite the splint. She handles him with kid gloves the whole time, treats him far more kindly than she ever did Mark.

He’s more annoyed by that than he’d like to admit.

“If you jumped off a high bridge, would you prefer to hit water, or pavement?”

“Jesus.” Mark frowns. “Why would I jump off a bridge?”

I can think of a few reasons why you should, he mutters.

She stares at him with the same neutral expression, awaiting an answer.

“Uh…” He shakes his head. “I guess… Water?”

She watches the machine for a few seconds, then nods and takes the bean-things back from him to put it all away. For a long moment, the scratching of her pen on the clipboard is the only sound in the room.

Finally, she turns back to him. “There are clothes inside the closet for you.” She points toward the bedroom. “Change into those, and I'll meet you back here.”

He nods stiffly and heads for the closet. He holds his breath for a few seconds before sliding open the door.

Fuck.

That’s…new. He picks at the hem of the light blue hospital gown, neatly pressed and dangling from the hanger as if it’s just another casual outfit, a completely normal thing to throw on for the day. Does this even count as…clothes?

No, he says forcefully. Not an answer to the question, but a firm refusal of everything the garment could possibly represent. Absolutely not. Whatever the fuck this is, it’s not happening.

Okay, well, what the hell do you suggest?

Just don’t fucking put it on. Refuse to go along with this. They can’t make us do shit.

Uh… He raises an eyebrow. I think they can. And I don’t really wanna see how much worse things can get. Do you?

He scoffs. I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but things are already pretty bad, my guy.

For you, he counters. Things are bad for you, because you didn’t follow their rules. That’s how Lumon works. He takes a deep breath, then sheds his shirt and pulls the gown off the hanger, fiddling with the snaps on the sleeves. Just stay calm, okay? The sooner we get through…whatever this is, the sooner it’ll be over, and then we can focus on finding a way to get out of here.

We? He tries to shake his head. There is no we. I’m not helping you with shit.

Can you stop being a dick for five seconds?

Fuck you.

He sighs, Guess not, and dons the gown despite the waves of wordless fury that must be crashing against his half of their mind.

Mark speaks up again when his innie goes to remove his pants from beneath the knee-length fabric. If you take the underwear off, I’ll fucking kill you.

Jesus, I wasn’t planning to. He nudges the pajama-scrubs into a pile with his foot. How about you just calm down and–

Tell me to calm down one more time, and I swear to God–

Look, we don't even know what this is yet. It’s probably no worse than–

Hospital gown means it’s something medical. He shouldn't have to spell this out. If you wanna let that sick fuck play doctor on you again, then that’s your own goddamn business, but leave me the hell out of it.

A new flare of anger ignites in his chest. Oh, okay, so all of this would be totally cool with you if you didn't have to remember it, is that it?

Y’know what, maybe it would, he snaps back. Maybe I should tell them what's really going on here, so they can fix whatever’s wrong with the chip. Turn you off for good.

We both know you’re not gonna do that, he says, but he doesn't sound sure.

Oh, really? He laughs once, sharp and bitter. Mark my fucking words: the very first chance I get, you’re done.

His innie stares at the wall, unmoving and silent, for several long seconds.

“Mark?” the nurse calls from around the corner. “Are you almost ready?”

It shakes him from his trance. “Yeah,” he says weakly, and then he clears his throat and tries again, “Yeah, just give me a minute.”

There are no shoes waiting in the closet, only a pair of thin Lumon-blue ankle socks. He sits on the bed to put them on.

You would’ve done the same thing, you know.

What?

If you’d been in my place. If it was Helly on the other side of that door, and Gemma behind you.

He stands.

You’d have turned around, too.

Then he squares his shoulders and leaves the bedroom, apparently not expecting a response.

Good. Mark isn’t sure he has one.

The nurse leads him to the door, and he stops just short of crossing the threshold after her. “Can you tell me…where I’m going?” he asks, with all the apprehension of someone who’s about to disappear.

She smiles. “You don’t need to worry about that, honey.”

If he could, he’d gag.

He wavers on the spot. “It’s just, with…” He looks down, holding his arms out to indicate what he’s wearing. “All of this, I was wondering–”

“Everything’s gonna be fine, Mark,” she assures him, with a hint of impatience in her voice. “You already know how this works. Step through, and you'll be right back here before you can blink.”

“Right, but…”

Just fucking go already, he grumbles. Honey.

He frowns, but nods. “Okay,” he breathes, as he

steps over the threshold

and into the hallway.

He blinks a few times and fills his lungs with air. The sensation of actually being able to move again feels strange, foreign almost, after spending an entire day and night in the backseat of his body.

“Welcome back, Mr. Scout.” The nurse is still standing in the same spot, still watching him with that same patronizing look on her face. As usual, the hallways are otherwise empty in every direction.

Please don’t do anything stupid.

Mark turns and runs.

Chapter Text

“Mark!”

The shout from behind him grows distant as he sprints away.

What did I just say?! His innie’s voice echoes inside his head, high and panicked. This is the epitome of doing something stupid!

Mark ignores it, ignores the sound of the nurse chasing after him as he runs deeper into the tunnel of white.

What are you even doing? The elevator is the other way!

I know. He abruptly veers right, down a different hallway. No key card.

Then what the fuck are you doing? I thought wandering around blindly wasn’t the strategy!

Yeah, that was before you stole my fucking body!

Another right, and he slips and nearly falls. The footsteps gain on him, shoes slapping the linoleum, but he doesn’t look back.

Oh, my God, I can’t believe you, his innie moans. Mark can practically see him, slumped in the backseat of their brain with his head in his hands. What happens when you get caught?

I don’t care.

You will care. Both of us will.

Another turn, another hallway, the doors’ names all passing by in a blur.

You’re only gonna make everything worse.

He turns left then immediately right, feet sliding again on the smooth floor, and presses himself into a corner. The running footsteps reach a crescendo and begin to fade, continuing down the hallway past his hiding spot.

We can’t just hide. There are cameras everywhere, he says, and then, when Mark glances up to find one of the black half-domes on the wall above his head, See?

I know. He wastes a few precious seconds discarding the slippery socks before he takes off running again, doubling back the way he came. Do you remember where Pacoima is?

Do I– Pac– From here? he stammers. I–I don’t even know where we are!

Waynesboro, he reads out, as if his innie can’t also see the labels he's running past. Lahore. Cork.

Wait, wait, uh… Left turn here.

He turns. Cold Harbor, Molde, Zurich–

Right turn, I–I think? He pauses. Why Pacoima?

Remember the weird corner? Culpepper, Montauk, Yakima, Haleiwa. Past the door to Pacoima, there’s that hallway that ends at a right angle, that doesn’t have a fork in it like all the rest. Vilnius, Pokhara–

Left, he says quickly. So? What does that mean?

I don’t know. St. Pierre, Tan An, Lima. But I bet there’s something around that corner.

Fine, okay, sure. Right turn.

Eminence, Todos Santos, Caspiana.

Straight ahead.

“Mark! Stop!”

“Shit.” He hazards a glance over his shoulder. It’s Mauer chasing after him now, still too far behind to matter, but gradually gaining on him.

And what if there’s nothing– Left turn– Nothing but another hallway with more rooms?

Trinity. Warrnambool. Then I’ll keep running. Longview. Bodo. There has to be some other way out of here, it can’t just be the elevator. There must be a fire exit, or something–

Left again, then it should be right–

There. Pacoima. He passes it and rounds the corner.

And there it is, a single unlabeled door set into the left side of the hallway, flush with the wall rather than jutting out at an angle. Instead of a control panel, there’s–

“Shit!” A key card reader beside it, with a glowing red LED. He skids to a stop and tries the knob anyway. It’s locked.

What now?

“Come on!” He throws his weight against the door and tries to force it open, but it doesn’t budge.

We don’t have time, he’s gonna catch up any—

I know, shut up. He jogs a short distance down the hall directly across from the door, then turns back and takes a deep breath.

Oh, I don’t think this is a good–

But he’s already moving, running full speed with a sort of primal cry as he turns his body to shoulder-check the door–

Which swings open the moment before he reaches it–

And he crashes directly into the large man now standing there instead, throwing both of them to the ground.

“Oh, my God!” a woman’s voice shrieks from somewhere as Mark lands on top of Thorne in a heap.

Light spills through the open door behind him, nearly the only source of illumination in the dark room he’s fallen headfirst into. He places his left hand on the green carpet to push himself up. The walls are green too, dimly glowing at the top with perimeter lighting hidden somewhere in the ceiling and textured with a pattern of raised foam squares everywhere he looks. Soundproofing?

What the hell is this place?

The room isn’t exceptionally large, but it’s filled with mostly empty space, boxing in the four white desks arranged around a support pillar in the center of the room. A blocky computer straight out of the 80s sits on each desk. Three of the desks are empty, their built-in screens powered off.

One isn’t. In the bluish glow of the CRT monitor stands a slender woman in slacks and a white blouse, her red hair tied back in a neat braid, a blue lanyard hanging around her neck. She clutches the back of the office chair she clearly just leapt out of and stares down at Mark with wide eyes.

“I'm being held here,” he blurts out. “I'm being held against my will–”

Thorne shoves him off with a grunt. Mark hits the floor and rolls away before scrambling to his feet.

Door, his innie calls out as Mark’s frantic eyes scan the room. Right there, two o’clock!

He doesn’t make it more than two steps before a thick hand wraps around his ankle. He hits the floor again, catches himself on his forearms with a curse.

Get up! Go! You have to go now or we’re fucked!

He wrestles his leg away and crawls toward the door, no time to push himself up. Thorne grabs at him from behind, fingers twisting in the fabric of the hospital gown, and Mark kicks blindly. His foot slams into something that might be a nose, something that yields to his heel with a crunch and an incensed cry.

He’s free for the moment, and he drags himself forward, tunnel vision focused only on the door that’s nearly within reach now.

A hand slams down on his leg and grips hard. “Fuck–”

His teeth crash together as he’s yanked backwards and flipped over in one disorienting movement. He doesn’t have time to start kicking again before Thorne lands on top of him, crushing him into the floor with a knee on his chest.

Mark flails wildly, swinging his fist and his splinted hand like clubs at his attacker’s arms, his face, anywhere he can reach. When Thorne leans back to catch his wrist, Mark drives an elbow into his groin, feeling a brief surge of triumph at the howl of pain he earns in response.

It’s not enough to free him, though; he’s still pinned beneath the immovable weight compressing his ribcage like a block of solid concrete.

You gotta get out–

“No shit!” he snaps, or he tries to; all he really manages is a pathetic wheeze that hardly resembles words at all.

Mark doesn’t see the punch coming; he only sees Thorne start to rear back before a fist crashes into his cheekbone with the force of a goddamn freight train, snapping his head to the side and igniting a fireworks show behind his eyelids. A groan rises in his throat, muffled by the ringing in his ear and the rumble of another voice from nearby.

A hand grips his jaw, fingers digging into his skin to turn his head. He blinks sluggishly and struggles to make sense of the murky shapes moving around him, ever-shifting wax inside a lava lamp. A blurry face drifts into his field of vision, eyes wild, nose bloody, teeth bared. The hand pulls him closer, forces him to meet the glare of the man that’s still on top of him, screaming in his face, “I said, are you done?!”

Mark tries to nod, but Thorne’s grip is too tight. “Yes,” he chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of another blow anyway.

Instead, his head falls limply to the floor. The pressure on his chest eases a bit as Thorne shifts his weight, just enough to let Mark gasp for air.

“My apologies for the disruption,” a polite voice says, a bit breathlessly, somewhere distant. It’s Dr. Mauer speaking to the woman, who’s still frozen in place beside her workstation a few feet away. He smiles and gestures toward the exit Mark was trying to reach. “Would you care to step out for a moment, while we resolve this…anomaly?”

She bobs her head once in a nod. Her gaze doesn’t stray from Mark as she walks past, her eyes enormous with something that could optimistically be horror at the violence she’s just witnessed.

“Help me,” he mumbles in her direction. “Please–”

Thorne silences him with a backhanded slap, and he doesn’t try again. The door opens and shuts before he can get a glimpse of the other side.

The carpet muffles Mauer’s soft footsteps as he approaches. “Mr. Scout,” he sighs, weary with disappointment. “I had hoped you might be less inclined to such rash actions, after the last time we spoke.”

Mark looks up at him with bleary eyes.

Apologize.

“Wha…?”

Tell him you’re sorry, he says, heavy with the same exhaustion, the same fog that’s settled behind his eyes.

He blinks slowly. No.

You don’t have to mean it. Just gotta try to make this better, not worse. He pauses. I don’t wanna get punished again. Do you?

He sniffles and swallows his pride, grimacing at the faint coppery taste that slides down his throat alongside it. “Sorry,” he murmurs. He exhales, and inhales, and continues when Mauer doesn’t respond, “I…panicked. I’m…sorry.”

Mauer studies him silently, a bug under a magnifying glass.

“Will you–” Mark turns his attention to Thorne, who’s pinching his bloody nose and glaring daggers at him. “Can you…get off me, now?” he wheezes. “It’s…getting hard to–”

Thorne gets up and steps back, so quickly that the abrupt loss of pressure hurts almost as much as the knee had.

Ow.

Mark slowly sits up, massaging his sternum with his uninjured hand, but doesn’t bother trying to stand. It won’t do him any good. He glances back and forth between the two of them.

Finally, Mauer lets out another sigh. “Let’s proceed as planned.” He nods to Thorne.

“What does that mean?” Mark asks uneasily as Thorne moves to stand over him once more, his eyes still furious.

“Nothing’s changed,” Mauer explains. “We’ll escort you to the testing room now, Mr. Scout.”

Mark blinks at the hand that Thorne bends down to offer him. “Uh…”

“You walk, or I drag you,” Thorne growls. “Your choice.”

Mark swallows hard. “I’ll walk,” he mutters, avoiding eye contact.

Good choice.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes as Thorne hauls him to his feet and motions for him to follow Mauer. He casts a lingering glance over his shoulder at the other door, gives the room one last once-over before reluctantly stepping forward.

Out of nowhere, he’s hit with a fresh wave of adrenaline that isn’t his. Oh my God, that woman’s workstation–

His eyes dart toward the abandoned desk as he walks past. What?

The screen, look at her screen!

There’s a face on the monitor, eyes focused on something just below the camera. A different red-haired woman. One that he recognizes. That's–

Helly. He speaks her name with something like reverence.

She blinks, and her eyes flick down to the keyboard in front of her before returning to the space below the camera.

Or it could be Helena. Remember?

No. That’s Helly, he insists. I recognize that place, where she’s sitting, that's MDR. It's her.

Okay. He turns to follow Mauer out of the room, with Thorne walking a bit too close behind him. I fail to see why it matters.

She’s okay. He laughs once, relieved. She’s still here.

This time he does roll his eyes. Is that a good thing? I thought we all agreed things at Lumon are kinda shitty all around.

It means Helena hasn’t just…turned her off. It means she’s still alive. Yeah, I’d say that’s a good thing.

Assuming that video was actually live.

It was. I know it was.

Well, who could argue with that? he grumbles. The pure elation radiating from the other half of his mind makes him want to punch another wall.

Instead, he jogs a few extra steps to catch up with Mauer. “So, are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“What’s the last thing you remember, Mr. Scout?” Mauer asks instead of answering. “Prior to leading us all on this merry chase?”

Mark swallows. “Breaking my hand,” he lies.

“Hm.” Mauer glances over at him with an amused smile.

“Why? How long ago was that?” Mark prods. “What happened since then?” Besides my innie being a complete tool.

He sighs. Can we not do this right now?

Guess that’s nothing new, though.

“Nothing you need trouble yourself with.”

He rolls his eyes. “Great.” He brings a hand to his face to gently poke at the sore spot on his cheek; it feels puffy, already swollen. It hurts like hell. He steals a glance back at Thorne, who’s still holding his nose and glowering at Mark. “So,” he begins, returning his attention to Mauer, “Where are we going?”

Another smile. “Sunset Park.”

Mark frowns. “And what’s with…” He gestures meaningfully to himself. “This? What the fuck am I wearing?”

Naturally, he doesn’t get an answer. The rest of the walk passes in silence, until he rounds one last corner to see the nurse waiting for them beside one of the doors. Sunset Park.

One of Dylan’s files.

He ignores the death glare that she aims his way as she opens the door. To his surprise, Dr. Mauer walks right in before turning back and beckoning Mark to follow.

I don’t like this.

Yeah, me neither.

He hesitates too long; a large hand shoves him from behind,

and he stumbles

over the threshold.

“There we are,” Dr. Mauer says with a wide smile.

Mark whirls around just in time to see the door slide shut, trapping him inside. He swallows hard and turns back to Mauer. “Uh…”

“Come with me.” He walks away.

If this is… Mark’s not sure how to say it. Well, he is, but he doesn’t fucking want to. If things…take a turn in here, you break that fucking door down.

I don’t know if I can.

You can, and you will. Fuck the consequences.

Instead of responding, he follows Mauer into the room proper, then stops. A flat, roughly human-sized slab protrudes from a giant white donut-tube-thing occupying most of the space in the room. What…is that?

It takes him a few seconds to recognize what he’s looking at. Is that…an MRI machine?

What’s MRI?

Magnetic…something. It’s like a brain scan. He pauses, thinking. Or…maybe it’s not just a brain thing? But I’d bet that’s probably what they’re interested in.

Another door to the right of the machine leads to a mini-room that’s visible through the large glass window occupying most of that wall. There’s a computer inside, with multiple monitors facing away from him.

“Let’s get you situated,” Mauer says to regain his attention, motioning for him to lie down on the table.

Mark stays where he is. Does it hurt?

No.

You’ve done this before?

Yeah. Had a few seizures when I was a kid, never figured out why.

Wait, really?

He tries to roll his eyes. It was a long time ago. I grew out of it. Can we just get this over with, please?

He steps forward cautiously, settles on the table with no complaints, hesitantly accepts the pair of earplugs that Mauer offers him, and remains obediently motionless even as a plastic cage is fastened around his head. He doesn’t start actually freaking out until Mauer begins to slide the table into the tube.

“Wait–” He throws an arm out to stop the movement.

Mauer smiles down at him through the slots of the head coil. “Problem?” he asks loudly, barely audible through the earplugs. “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”

He blinks. “I don’t know, am I?”

You aren’t. Is he? Surely not. How could his innie harbor a phobia that he doesn’t? If the severed floor is anything like the rest of Lumon, he can’t imagine that there are a lot of uncomfortably tight spaces around to induce something like that.

Mauer chuckles and pries Mark’s hand away from the edge of the tube, places it back at his side and gives it a reassuring pat. “Just relax. Everything will be fine.”

Mark swallows against the lump in his throat. He tries to nod, but can’t really move his head inside the apparatus.

“It’s very important that you hold still,” Mauer reminds him. “Otherwise, we’ll have to start all over again. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

The table starts moving again, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

If it was anyone else, Mark might feel bad for them. As it is, he’s finding it very difficult to respond to his innie’s panic with anything but annoyance. Dude, chill out. It’s fine. Just think about your fucking…macrodata spreadsheets or something. Whatever it is you do for fun.

You’re a dick, he mutters, in between forcing deep breaths into his lungs.

He wishes he could roll his eyes.

They’re still closed tight, and they stay that way for what must be at least half an hour, through several cycles of loud hammering noises that make his innie flinch and tense up every goddamn time.

It certainly doesn’t help his fucking headache. The entire left side of his skull throbs in time with his racing pulse, centered on the spot just beneath his eye that he can feel swelling up in real time.

My face hurts, his innie declares after a while. He’s mostly calmed down now, at least.

No shit.

He sniffs. I wonder whose fault that was.

Fuck off.

They’re in between cacophonies, for the moment, enjoying the blissful silence – or at least, that’s what Mark is trying to do.

A few minutes pass.

Can I ask you something?

If I say no, are you gonna ask anyway?

Probably. He pauses, like he’d shrug if he wasn’t trying to keep still. Not like we have much else to do right now besides talk.

If he could, he’d sigh. What’s the question?

Are you suicidal?

He tries to roll his eyes. Look, I fucking know running was a bad idea, but I don’t exactly see you coming up with any–

No, I’m not trying to insult you, he interrupts, oddly gentle. I’m genuinely asking.

What? No. Annoyance creeps into the word. Why?

Another pause. Are you sure?

Jesus Christ, what are you, my fucking shrink now?

I’m just asking, okay? I think I have a right to know.

No, dumbass, I’m not suicidal, he says flatly. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been trying to get the fuck out of this place, preferably before they wheel me into the “brain surgery that kills you” room.

Sure, but you do realize you have like, zero survival instincts, right? He’s quiet for half a second, waiting for Mark to interrupt. I mean… I’m still not trying to insult you, okay, but running like you did today was really fucking stupid.

So, what, you think I should just keep my head down and do everything I’m told? He scoffs. How’d that work out for you, up there on the severed floor?

His face twitches into a grimace. That’s not what I’m–

Then what the fuck are you saying, huh?

I’m saying that, like it or not, you and I are in this together. And I know how badly you want outta here, because I do too. He takes a deep breath. But we’ve gotta be smarter about this, alright? We have to work together, and that means we need to be on the same page here, and not constantly at each other’s goddamn throats.

He’s quiet for a long moment, considering.

Every time he closes his eyes – or his innie does – all he can see is Gemma’s anguished face through that window, begging him to come with her as his body walks away. He wouldn’t have thought any part of him could be capable of leaving her behind so callously. The anger’s still raw, an exposed wire itching to ignite anything that ventures too close, but there’s something else there too, something that wormed its way in and made a home deep in his guts while he wasn’t looking.

Guilt. All of this is still his own fault, in one way or another. He can’t stop dwelling on all the terrible choices he’s made that led him to this point, all the way back to taking the damn job at Lumon in the first place. More specifically, he can’t stop thinking about all the things he should’ve said – or left unsaid – during that camcorder conversation a few weeks ago, all the things he’d do differently if he had the chance, all the ways he might’ve prevented his innie from making that one catastrophic decision that landed him here.

But it’s too late. There’s nothing he can do to change it now, no matter how much he kicks and screams and rages. He learned that lesson the hard way long ago, when he lost Gemma. Of course, that was before he found out that she was actually still alive, but…

Maybe that’s a bad example.

Look. I know you’re still mad at me. I mean, I can literally feel it. And I’m not expecting that to change anytime soon, and that’s… That’s okay.

Oh, that’s okay? A fresh spark of resentment erupts from the live wire beneath his skin. Wow, thank you. You know, that’s what I’ve really been waiting on, this whole time, was permission from you to feel a certain way.

He sighs. I’m sorry, I phrased that wrong, but you don’t have to be a– He cuts himself off. See, this is exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about.

A metallic bang from the machine makes him flinch.

All I’m asking, he tries again after a moment, is that you at least try to work with me here. That shouldn’t be so hard, right? I mean, even if we’re not the same person, we’re… We’re made of the same stuff.

Right, he says flatly, Except you’re two years old.

Right, except I’m not.

He tries to frown. The fuck is that supposed to mean?

You said you had seizures when you were a kid? Well, so did I, because we were both that kid once, he says. Everything that’s ever happened to you has happened to me, too. I just don’t have the luxury of remembering any of it.

Luxury? he scoffs. Right.

Annoyance flares in his chest, then dissipates. His innie remains silent, waiting for him to speak.

He imagines himself letting out a heavy exhale. So what do you suggest? he asks finally, with a concerted effort to tone down the hostility. How do we “be smarter”?

He winces as another cycle of deafening noise starts up, then forces himself to relax, to take a few deep breaths before continuing. Being cooperative, up to a point, will help us in the long run. Or at least, it’ll fuck us over less than constantly trying to fight back will. Probably reduce the number of times we get punched in the face too.

He tries to roll his eyes again. Well, my fucking bad, he grumbles. And I don’t know how much we should be thinking about the “long run”, ‘cause I’m pretty sure we’ve only got about six days left to live.

…Okay. Fair. But you understand what I’m saying, right?

I guess, he acquiesces.

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Like he wasn’t expecting to actually get this far. So… Truce?

He sighs, but tries to nod. Fine.

Chapter Text

Do you know what “kayfabe” means? Mark asks mid-shower the next day.

Kay-what?

So, no. Okay, you know what wrestling is?

Like…fighting?

No, I mean professional wrestling.

…Professional fighting?

No. Well…yes? He tries to shake his head. It’s, like, a sport. People dress up in stupid costumes and fight each other in front of an audience, for entertainment. It’s a whole thing.

He frowns. Doesn’t sound very entertaining.

Well, it’s not actually real. It’s more about the spectacle.

His innie turns toward the shower head, and Mark waits until the water isn’t spraying directly into his face to continue; he doesn’t have to wait, since “speaking” within the confines of their head doesn’t require breath, but it’s a force of habit.

So, the fights are choreographed to be fun to watch, and the wrestlers are all characters with scripted storylines and rivalries and stuff to keep things interesting. But the whole conceit is that, within the fiction of wrestling, it’s all real.

So, it’s all fiction, but it’s also…real?

No, it’s not actually real, it’s just…pretend-real. Get it?

Uh-huh, he replies, clearly not getting it.

It’s like when you watch a movie, right? He pauses. How far back does he have to walk this? Do you know what movies are?

Yeah. He shrugs a bit. I mean, I’ve never seen one, but yeah.

Okay, so do you know about suspension of disbelief?

…No?

He sighs. Actually, forget it. We’re getting off-track. The point is, the wrestlers are all playing characters during the fights. But, because the whole point is getting the audience to buy into the fiction they’ve created, they have to stay in character outside of the ring too. That way, they maintain the illusion that it’s all real, not just a play or something where the story ends and the characters stop existing once they leave the stage.

And that’s…kayfabe?

Right.

Oh…kay. He nods slightly. I think I understand, I’m just…not seeing why this is relevant?

He searches for the right words. You and I have created a fiction down here. We’ve been pretending this whole time that the chip is functioning like it’s supposed to, that their tests are working as intended, that the two of us aren’t… He tries to gesture to himself. That we aren’t the two of us.

Yeah, I know, he says, miffed. I’ve been here the whole time too, remember?

But they don’t know that. At least, he hopes they don’t. They don’t realize that they’re dealing with both of us, whether we’re here, or in the hallways, or in the testing rooms. That means we’ve got a shitload of knowledge that they don’t expect us to have, and right now, that’s the biggest advantage we’ve got. Maybe the only one, actually. So it’s really, really important that we keep that lie going.

I already know all this. He turns around to comb his fingers through his wet hair for the thousandth time. He finished the actual washing up several minutes ago; now he’s just luxuriating in the hot water for the sake of it. I don’t get why you’re giving me this lecture now, when I’d already been doing the acting thing inside the rooms for like, two full weeks, before… He glances at his broken hand, still wrapped in the plastic sleeve Mauer provided to keep the splint dry in the shower. You know.

Yeah, but now it’s basically a full-time performance, he says, ignoring the jab. That’s different. You don’t get to psych yourself up beforehand, you just gotta stay in character the whole time.

He nods once. So…kayfabe.

Exactly. Except, the stakes are obviously a little higher for us than they are for the Undertaker.

He raises an eyebrow. Is that a wrestler?

Yeah, one of the big ones. He pauses. Or, he was. I think he might be retired now, actually.

I see.

Speaking of retiring, are you gonna wrap this up anytime soon? I’m fucking starving.

We're not that hungry. You’re just bored.

He tries to roll his eyes. Okay, it's great that you know that, but I really would like to eat something before diving into whatever fresh hell they've got lined up for us today.

He sighs, but nods. Reluctantly, he turns off the water and breezes through the rest of his morning routine in silence, lingering at the mirror to investigate the purple bruise forming beneath his left eye. How long will this last?

Couple weeks, maybe? he guesses. I don’t know, I haven’t had a black eye in like…decades. He’s surprised he didn’t wake up with one that first week here, after the scuffle his innie apparently had with that huge guy. The one he maybe killed in the elevator. It’s gonna look a lot worse than this before it starts to get better, though.

Great. Another sigh. Thanks for that, by the way.

Fuck off.

Breakfast consists of two Lumon capsules, “scrambled egg” and “luncheon loaf”.

He fucking hates the way his innie eats. It’s way too slow, for one thing, as if he’s pausing to ponder the flavor – or lack thereof – in every bite. It makes him way too aware of his own mouth; he finds himself wondering whether his innie spent the prior few weeks as disgusted as he is by his tongue's unsanctioned movements and the awful sound of chewing from inside his own head. Over the 48ish hours he's spent in the severed suite, eating has quickly cemented itself as one of his least favorite activities to experience passively, second only to using the bathroom.

So do the stupid costumes help them fight better, or…?

He huffs an inaudible laugh. No. Well… I don’t know, actually. Wouldn’t be surprised if “clothes that give you magic wrestling powers” was somebody’s shtick. He shrugs. You’d have to ask Devon, she’s the one who keeps up with all that. She’d be super disappointed in me for not being able to pull any names besides Undertaker.

He’s quiet for a moment, oddly contemplative. Do you think I’ll actually get a chance to talk to her?

It’s not what he’s really asking, of course. Yeah, he says as confidently as he can. We’re gonna make it out of here.

Hm. He stands to throw away the plastic dishes. You know, I’m not sure you’re as good at lying to yourself as you think you are.

Annoyance prickles at the back of his neck. What do you want me to fucking say then, huh? That we’re probably as good as dead already?

It’s not even about that, he says, exasperated. I’m talking about what happens after. If we do escape, if we do survive, then am I just gonna live out the rest of my life stuck inside your fucking head?

I thought we already settled this. He’s getting a headache, one he's not sure his innie can feel. We get in touch with Reghabi, and finish the–

I don’t want to reintegrate, he interrupts. I already told you that.

Well then, what the fuck– He’s shouting. He imagines himself taking a deep breath, in and out. What do you want?

He’s silent for a few seconds, like he wasn’t expecting Mark to actually ask. I want to be me. I don’t want to stop existing, or…turn into someone else, or–

You won’t, he insists, channeling every ounce of patience he has. We’ll be one person, and he’ll be just as much you as he is me.

You don’t know that.

He tries to roll his eyes. No, I don’t, but Reghabi will. She’s the expert on all this stuff. Finding her will be our best chance at sorting out this fucking mess. He pauses. Of course, none of that’s even going to matter if we don’t get out of here first, so let’s just focus on that for the time being. Alright?

He exhales and doesn’t say anything.

Mark decides to take that as a yes.

The nurse arrives a few minutes later to give him the usual checkup, along with a fresh Lumon-blue bandage for the laceration on his cheek. “Only one room today.”

And then it’s back to the bedroom to find out which one it’ll be.

Don’t react, he reminds his innie just before they reach the closet. Remember, whatever it is, you’ve never seen it before.

Kayfabe. He tilts his head in a barely-perceptible nod. I got it. And slides the door open.

A heavy blue coat along with a few layers of insulation to go underneath, fleece-lined snow pants, a chunky knit cap, wool socks, and black winter boots.

Minsk, he observes.

Seriously? he says at the same moment. They’re gonna send us there with a broken hand?

Guess so. He changes quickly.

Not quickly enough. Hurry up, he groans halfway through, already sweating in the too-warm clothes. I’m fucking dying.

Oh, thanks for letting me know, he says flatly. Never woulda realized. He shoves his feet into the boots and heads for the door.

The nurse stops him. “One more thing.” She produces a pair of handcuffs from her pocket.

He takes an automatic step back. “What the fuck?”

“For your protection.”

“Protection from what?” he asks. “From my outie?”

She raises an eyebrow and stares meaningfully at the bandage on his cheek.

“Yeah, but he didn’t punch himself in the face,” he says, with a bit too much confidence for someone who was only told what happened after the fact. “…Right?”

Though he might as well have.

Fuck you.

“This won’t even affect you, Mark,” she says. “In just a few seconds, you’ll walk back through this door, and I’ll take them off again.”

He frowns, but holds still as she steps behind him to cuff his wrists, carefully so as to not jostle the splint on his hand too much.

Not even gonna try and argue? Mark grumbles, to distract himself from the pulse suddenly pounding too loud in his ears.

Kayfabe, he mutters back. I don’t have a good reason to put up a fight. Do I?

He’s already beginning to regret teaching him that word. Whatever.

Don’t get mad at me, he adds. This is your fault, remember? If you hadn’t lost your shit yesterday–

Do you ever shut up?

He takes a deep breath as the nurse finally opens the door and motions for him to follow her out. Ready?

Just go.

He squares his shoulders

and steps

through the doorway.

His eyes refocus just in time to see Thorne lumber into view from around the corner. The fuck–

Handcuffs should be surprising, his innie quickly reminds him.

Right. He pulls against them with a frown. “The fuck?” he repeats aloud.

He looks up as Thorne approaches, invading his personal space and backing him against the closed door to loom over him. There’s a bandage on his face too, a large white one across the bridge of his nose that doesn’t quite hide the crescent-shaped bruises forming beneath both of his eyes.

Mark managed to break his nose after all, then. He flashes a shit-eating grin. “That’s a good look for you.”

Thorne glares down at him. “You, too.” And taps his knuckles against Mark’s own bandage, making him flinch away with a hiss of pain.

The nurse sighs, clearly unamused. “Let’s go.” She turns to lead him down the hall, and Thorne grabs his arm in a bruising grip to drag him away from the door and shove him after her, trailing closely behind as he walks.

Maybe don’t antagonize the guy who’s kicked your ass multiple times now?

Whatever, he grumbles, and then, Our ass.

Nope. That was all you. Both times.

He rolls his eyes. What, you’re saying you would’ve held your own?

I’m saying I wouldn’t put myself in a situation where ass-kicking’s a possibility in the first place, he says with something resembling condescension. I find it’s better to avoid making a habit of pissing off people twice my size.

Uh-huh. Hey, didn’t you almost get strangled to death?

There’s a pause, like he’s regretting sharing the finer details of his experience prior to descending to the testing floor. Well… So did you.

Whatever. The bruises on his neck from his first escape attempt last week have only just begun to fade. You’re still 0-for-1.

Better than 0-for-2.

Not really.

Okay. Sure.

He’s led to the Minsk room with no further fanfare. The nurse places a hand on the control panel, while Thorne grabs Mark’s arm again and steers him to stand in front of the door as it slides open. He’s hit with a blast of cold air, like walking past the entrance to an air-conditioned building in the middle of summer. There’s a rustle of movement behind him, and he glances over his shoulder to see the nurse pass the handcuff key to Thorne.

Don’t do anything stupid this time.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes as Thorne fiddles with the cuffs. Wasn’t planning to.

The moment his hands are free, he’s shoved forward

across the threshold

and into the cold.

The door slides shut behind him, and he lets out a heavy breath, fogging the frigid air in front of his face.

He moves hesitantly to peek around the corner. The room itself is the same as last time; bright fluorescent lights span the whole ceiling, mimicking a skylight. As he steps into the room proper, his boots crunch on the icy asphalt that covers most of the floor.

Of course, only the small section he’s currently standing on is visible, while the rest is covered by a thick layer of fresh snow. A strip of artificial grass lines each of the walls to his left and right, also disappearing beneath the blanket of white. The snow is real; he hadn’t expected it to be, at first, but the loosely-packed handful his innie curiously scooped up on his first visit had started melting immediately in his hand, into real water that dripped from his fingers to the ground below.

He turns to his right. A small workbench sits tucked away in the corner, with a Lumon-blue snow shovel leaning against one side and a pair of black mittens resting on top, exactly as he left them.

He stares for a few seconds, unmoving, the thin sheen of sweat beneath his clothes rapidly becoming uncomfortably cool in the freezing air.

Wonder how much of a dent this room makes in their energy bill every month.

A hiss of static from somewhere overhead makes him flinch. “Clear the snow from the paved area,” Mauer’s voice instructs in a monotone. Just like last time.

Mark exhales and obediently trudges to the workbench. His fingers are already going numb, which makes maneuvering a mitten over his splinted hand even more awkward than it would be already, but he manages it after a bit of struggling. Finally, he picks up the shovel with his left hand and faces down the task ahead of him.

I’m already tired of this shit, he mutters, half-expecting his innie to argue about which one of them actually has the right to be tired.

Instead, he just ducks his head in a slight nod. Yep.

And he gets to work, filling the too-quiet room with the too-loud sound of aluminum scraping across asphalt, of snow being compacted and pressed in on itself and pushed off the pavement into two quickly growing piles on either side.

Lift with your knees, he reminds his innie after the first few scoops. You’ll fuck up our back if you're not careful.

Be a lot easier if I wasn’t trying to do this left-handed, he grumbles back, already out of breath. The cold certainly isn’t helping the ache in his right hand, gradually spreading up his arm and all the way to his shoulder by the time Mauer’s voice crackles through the speakers again, ordering him to take a five-minute break.

He slots the shovel into the knee-high snowbank on the grass and leaves it standing upright as he trudges back to the workbench and sits down on top of it. He exhales heavily once he’s settled, clouding the air in front of his face. At least he isn’t shivering anymore.

Could probably kill a man with that thing, he notes casually as his innie surveys the half-cleared driveway, eyes lingering on the shovel.

He sniffles and wipes his nose on the back of his gloved hand. No way they’d ever let me get through the door with it.

Yeah, probably not. It’s likely not a coincidence that the room with the giant metal shovel is one of the few in which he’s the only person present, completely alone aside from the voice in the ceiling. No one to threaten with his would-be weapon.

You really think they don't suspect anything?

What?

About the chip, he clarifies. About me, and you, and…all of this.

He’s been wondering that himself. He tries to shrug. I mean, if they do, we're already fucked. So we might as well continue operating under the assumption that they don't. Right?

I guess. He fidgets with the end of his sleeve. I just…can’t stop thinking about how weird it is.

Which part?

They have to know that something’s up, by this point. So why haven’t they done anything about it?

He frowns. What are you trying to say?

I’m not sure exactly, I’m just...worried that… He tilts his head and rolls his shoulders in a barely-perceptible shrug. What if there’s something else going on here?

“Your five minutes are up,” Mauer announces before Mark can respond. “Please continue.”

He gets to his feet with a sigh and reluctantly resumes his work. The rest of the hour passes in silence, broken only by the scrape of the shovel and the crunch of snow, along with Mark’s increasingly labored panting.

At Mauer’s instruction, he replaces the shovel and the mittens in the same corner as before once he's finished. Before leaving, he casts one last lingering glance over his shoulder at the cleared driveway.

What are you doing? I’m freezing my ass off in here, let's go.

If we come back here, this will all be reset. He sighs. Which means all this effort was for nothing.

He tries to roll his eyes. A, I hate to break it to you, but that's how shoveling snow works in real life too. And B, we aren't fucking coming back here.

He frowns as he heads for the door. What makes you so sure?

Because sometime in the next five days, we're getting the hell out of this place. He pauses, imagines himself taking a deep, calming breath. Because if we don't, we're dead.

We don't know that it's five days exactly. A week might've just been an estimate. It could be more.

Or it could be less.

The door slides open. He shakes out his numbed hands with a slight wince

and steps forward

into the hallway.

Thorne’s behind him, grabbing at his arms, before his eyes have even finished rolling back in his head. He’s much less gentle with Mark’s broken hand than the nurse was as he clicks the handcuffs closed around his wrists.

“Jesus,” Mark mumbles, with a shiver that’s only a little exaggerated. “Fucking freezing.”

“Come on.” The nurse leads him away, and he follows without a fight. He doesn’t have to look back to know that Thorne is still behind him, waiting for him to make a wrong move.

She stops in front of the door leading into the severed suite, presses the button on the wall, and enters the room when the door swings open.

Thorne shoves Mark after her, throwing him off-balance

as he staggers

across the threshold.

Getting really sick of all the shoving.

Yeah, you and me both.

He’s warmed up considerably on the short walk back, but his fingers and his nose still ache with recently-renewed feeling. He shudders. “Why am I so cold?”

The nurse doesn’t answer, just gives him a placid smile before circling behind him to remove the handcuffs, then leaves without a word.

Maybe they do suspect that something’s up.

But if so, then what purpose could they possibly have in keeping up this charade, in forcing him to visit all of these rooms and roleplay all these disparate identities?

So, he begins, later that night after he’s settled into bed. All the files your team worked on were different innies for Gemma, corresponding to all the different testing rooms. Right?

Right.

So, your department, M-whatever–

MDR.

That’s been MDR’s entire job, the whole time you’ve worked at Lumon?

Yeah. Well, we obviously never knew what it was that we were actually doing, until Ms. Cobel told me in the cabin a few weeks ago, but yeah.

And when I broke into that weird dark room yesterday, and you saw your girlfriend on that screen–

Helly, he interrupts. She has a name. It’s Helly.

He swallows – figuratively – the reflexive spike of annoyance that burns in the back of his throat. You saw Helly, and you said it looked like she was in the MDR office, right?

She was.

And assuming that was actually live–

It was.

He tries to roll his eyes. If it was, then it looks like she's still doing the refining thing, right?

Probably, yeah. He frowns, his face twisting up in thought. So, if we’re your wife’s replacement, does that mean Helly is refining…us?

That’s what I’m trying to figure out, he says. Because in actuality, she clearly isn’t, since we don’t have any new innies floating around in here with us.

That we know of, he adds quietly.

Fucking hell. He’s trying very hard not to think about that possibility. Let’s assume we don’t, he continues after a moment. But maybe… Maybe Lumon still thinks that she is?

He rolls onto his back, massaging his temples with one hand. But then, why are all the room names the same as they were for Gemma? Shouldn't there be new rooms?

We don’t know if they're all the same, he counters.

But all the ones you saw when you first came down to this floor are still here, right?

Yeah, but–

And Lumon had your wife for two years, right? But MDR already existed before that. Irving was there for a full year before me, and Petey and Carol were–

And they did the same kind of work?

Yeah. He blinks at the low ceiling somewhere above him in the darkness. So if Gemma wasn't here yet, then… What were they refining?

Fuck if I know. He frowns. Maybe they had other test subjects before her.

Maybe. He rolls onto his side, wincing when his cheek brushes the pillow. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Which means whatever Helly’s working on could have nothing to do with us.

He wishes he could rub his eyes. He’s too tired for this. I mean, yeah. It could be fucking anything. I don’t see how it matters either way when we’re still locked in here.

I guess it doesn’t.

He yawns and goes quiet for a few minutes, long enough that Mark isn’t sure whether his innie even means to speak up again, or if it’s just a result of their thoughts melting together as they fall asleep. I’m just worried that there’s something else going on here.

A narrow gray hallway stretches out before him. He's seen it before, only once.

He's been here more times than he'd care to count.

He walks toward the door at the far end. He could stay where he is, refuse to move forward, but then he'd be stuck in this hallway forever, stuck with the consequences of delaying the inevitable on top of what he's already here for.

There's no going back. There is only the march forward, slow and inexorable.

The door swings open as he approaches, and his breath catches in his throat. Ms. Cobel stares back at him from the dark room on the other side, her expression unreadable.

He doesn’t have to read it. He already knows what's lurking behind her cold eyes. No anger, this time, only disappointment.

Somehow, that's worse.

She stays where she is, forcing him to awkwardly scoot around her to get through the door. It shuts behind him with a sort of quiet finality.

The same quiet finality dripping from her voice when she speaks. “Sit.”

He sits. Places his hands on the table without being asked.

“Not today, Mark.”

He looks up, confused. Ms. Cobel takes her seat across from him, on the other side of the glass divider.

He flinches when the other door opens. Mr. Graner enters, carrying a small black bag, and walks behind Mark.

It takes all of his self-control to keep his eyes on Ms. Cobel. “What's happening?” His voice shakes.

“During this quarter alone, how many times have you brought yourself to this room?”

He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. “I… I haven’t really been keeping track, uh…”

It’s the wrong answer. He’s not sure the right one would be any better.

“I really am sorry,” he adds before she can say anything else. There’s rustling behind him, the sound of Graner dropping his bag on the ground and digging through it, but he doesn’t dare to look. “Like, indescribably sorry, for…” He blinks. What exactly is he here for? Why can’t he remember? “For everything. It– It won’t ever happen again, I promise–”

“Take off your jacket,” Graner orders gruffly.

He flinches and obeys automatically. His eyes feel watery already, even though Ms. Cobel hasn’t turned on the projector yet.

Graner takes the suit jacket from him. “Shirt, too.”

This time, it takes him nearly a full second to comply, and he curses himself for the hesitation. His fingers tremble as he loosens and removes his tie, fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, leans forward awkwardly to pull his arms free of the sleeves without getting up.

Then he’s shivering in the white t-shirt he’d had on beneath everything else, his arms uncomfortably exposed to the open air. He doesn’t know what being naked feels like, but he imagines it must be something like this. He can’t bring himself to make eye contact with Ms. Cobel through the glass wall between them.

He inhales sharply when Graner grabs his arms, wrenches them behind his back, behind the chair. Something cold and metal clicks closed around his left wrist, then his right, anchoring them together. Handcuffs.

The chain rattles noisily against the chair along with his shaking hands. Has the break room always been so cold?

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, over the sound of Mr. Graner digging through his bag again. “I’m sorry, I really, truly am.” It’s not going to fix anything. He’s probably only making whatever’s about to happen even worse. But he can’t help it. “Ms. Cobel, please–”

He bites back a startled yelp when Graner’s rough hands return, this time pulling at his t-shirt to untuck it from his slacks before reaching beneath to buckle a thin black strap around his chest, directly against his skin.

Across from him, Ms. Cobel taps a few buttons on the table to her left, and the device under Mark’s shirt begins to beep in time with his thudding heart. The sound fills the room, nearly drowning out the soft scratching of the readout now printing from the polygraph machine beside her.

“I’d like to try a new approach, Mark,” she says evenly, switching on the projector and momentarily blinding him.

As his vision gradually adjusts, he stares at his reflection in the glass. He looks scared shitless, like it’s his first time in the break room all over again.

Is it? Has he ever been here before?

Why can’t he remember?

Mr. Graner stands behind him, towering over him, his face as expressionless as always. There’s something in his hand, but the edges of the reflection are too blurry to make out what it is, and he doesn’t dare try to turn around.

“Read the statement,” Ms. Cobel orders.

Mark swallows again and forces his eyes to focus on the words burning into his retinas. He shouldn’t have to read them; he should know them by heart, by now, but he doesn’t want to make any more mistakes. “Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world,” he begins, voice unsteady. “None may atone for my actions but me, and only in me shall their stain live on.” He watches his mouth move around the words, as if it’s someone else saying them instead of him. Maybe that would be better. Maybe it wouldn’t. “I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands. All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am.”

It doesn’t work, of course. The first one never does. Neither does the second, or the third, or the fortieth. He’s not sure he’s ever made it out of here without apologizing at least three hundred times.

As expected, Ms. Cobel heaves a disappointed sigh. “Oh, Mark.”

An arm appears in his periphery, a moment before a thick piece of damp cloth covers his nose and mouth and stays there.

Instinctively, he tries to jerk away from the hand trying to smother him, but Mr. Graner’s other hand twists in his hair, holds his head firmly in place as he struggles.

He can’t breathe. His eyes dart toward Ms. Cobel, wordlessly begging her for help that he won’t receive.

He pulls against the handcuffs, his feet shuffling uselessly on the carpet. His reflection watches him, eyes wide and terrified, as his face quickly reddens from the lack of oxygen.

Then Graner lets him go, and he doubles over, gasping and choking on the fresh air that rushes into his lungs.

“Again,” Ms. Cobel is saying, somewhere distant, and he squirms forward against the edge of the table with a sound like a sob before gradually realizing that she’s speaking to him, not to Mr. Graner.

He sits up slowly. He’s shivering harder than before. The insistent beeping from the monitor on his chest doesn’t stop racing. His vision is too blurred with tears to make out the letters staining the glass, but he doesn’t need to see them when they're already branded on his soul. He takes a deep breath.

“Forgive me for the harm I have caused this world.”

He wakes up choking.

He tries to sit up. He can’t, of course. What the fuck–

His innie throws the blankets off and climbs out of bed on shaky legs, starts pacing back and forth in the pitch-black room before Mark’s even fully processed the fact that he’s awake now. That he wasn’t awake a few moments ago.

Dream, he realizes. One hell of a dream.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches out with his broken hand to find the nearest wall, presses his back to it, doubles over with his arms hugged tightly over his chest, like he’s the only thing holding him together. Maybe he is; his ribs ache with every breath, as if he’s just run a marathon, and his throat burns with the dry coughs still clawing their way out of his lungs.

Another fucking panic attack. Shit. Too bad knowing what it is won’t be enough to make it stop. Hey, it’s okay, he says, too quickly, too urgently. He struggles to inject his “voice” with something that sounds closer to calm and tries again, We’re okay. You’re okay. It was just a dream–

“It wasn’t–” he snaps aloud, then he catches himself and clamps a hand over his mouth. It wasn’t just a fucking dream.

He was afraid of that. Okay, but all that’s over now. You’re safe– Uh, safer here. Presently. In the immediate, at least.

Not helping. He starts choking again, sinking to the floor.

Shit, he repeats. Look, I know it’s hard, but you gotta try to take deep breaths, alright?

Fuckin’ easy for you to say.

Anger flares beneath his skin; his, or his innie’s, or both. Stop being a dick, I’m trying to help you.

Help yourself, you mean. Even inside his head, the words are barely coherent as he hyperventilates, but the sentiment behind them comes across just fine.

Okay, fine, yeah, but I’m trying to help both of us, you– He cuts himself off. Insults won’t make this any better. We’re both in here, in case you haven’t noticed, which means if you lose your shit, then so do I. We’re gonna start spiraling unless you calm the fuck down.

Oh, calm down, he repeats with a bitter laugh. Yeah, thanks, I hadn’t thought of that.

Just. Fucking. Breathe. He imagines going through the motion himself, imagines wafting the air toward himself with one hand, imagines sucking in a deep breath and slowly letting it go. Come on, breathe in.

He inhales, still too fast and too sharp, but a bit more deliberate.

And out.

“Fuck,” he forces out, with all the air in his lungs.

Whatever works, he supposes. Yeah, like that, keep going. In…and out.

Jesus, he sounds like one of those guided meditation tapes Ricken gifted him for Christmas.

In… Out…

It is working, however gradually; the pain in his chest ebbs a bit more with every exhale as his heart finally begins to slow.

He stops verbally contributing to the rhythm after a while, opting instead to sync up his imagined breaths with the steady movement of his chest. If he concentrates hard enough, he can almost pretend that he’s the one doing the breathing rather than his innie.

“Fuck,” he repeats softly after a while, dragging his uninjured hand across his face.

Are you, uh… There's no need to ask; he already knows the answer. Still, he's not sure what else to say. You…better now?

I guess. He isn't angry anymore. Just exhausted.

So, was that… He doesn't really want to know, but he's too tired to fight off his morbid curiosity. That was the break room?

Yeah.

Was it…always like that, or…?

He shakes his head. No, not always. That…sort of thing was just for, uh… He grimaces. Special occasions.

Jesus. He shouldn’t really be shocked anymore by the whole Mrs. Selving/Ms. Cobel thing, but… It really was so much worse than he ever could’ve imagined. How many times did she all but invite herself into his home, bring him terrible cookies and listen to him talk about Gemma, all mere hours after literally torturing him at Lumon? Just thinking about it makes him nauseous.

Are you, uh… He rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair. Would you be cool with going back to sleep?

He snaps back to the present and tries to frown at the question, confused. What?

It affects both of us, so… He forces a shrug. Seems like the kind of thing that I should probably start asking you about, rather than just making the decision for both of us.

There’s a strange undertone to the explanation that he can’t identify at first, a discordant note hidden within the words. The unspoken expectation of reciprocity; his innie wants to seek his input while he’s in the backseat, in hopes that he’ll do the same when their roles are reversed. Is it an attempt at manipulation, or a genuine reach for connection?

He’s too tired to sort it out, and too tired to care. Yeah. Let’s sleep.

He nods once, gropes his way along the wall until he finds the bed, and settles back into it in silence.

Thanks, he says softly, just as they're beginning to fall asleep again. For, uh. Your help. Thank you.

Yeah, he replies groggily. Don’t mention it.

A pause, a strangely peaceful silence hanging in the air, filling the space inside his skull.

Um… Good night.

Night.

Chapter Text

I miss the bike.

Mark snaps out of the trance he’d lulled himself into, playing connect-the-dots with the tiny irregularities of the paint on the wall in his periphery. It’s an imperfect game – there aren’t many imperfections – but he’ll take any distraction he can get from the awful mouth sensations of his innie eating lunch.

At least conversation gives him something else to focus on. Really? You technically never rode it. That was all me.

No, but I could still feel it. He takes another bite, and Mark winces. It felt… I don’t know, nice?

Yeah, I think that’s like, a thing. Exercise makes you feel good. He tries to shrug. Or, it’s supposed to. I was never really much of a fan.

I mean, it’s also pretty exhausting, so. I get it.

I miss it too, he adds after a moment. At least it was better than running.

I dunno, running’s actually kinda fun, he muses. Not so much running in place without going anywhere, like this morning, but…

He scoffs. He’s still sweaty from the day’s second room, Zurich, in which “Coach” Mauer forced him to jog on a treadmill until he nearly threw up. Aside from the MRI in Sunset Park, it’s the first new testing room he’s seen in the five days since breaking his hand and getting himself moved into the severed suite. All the others have been repeats of the same two dozen or so rooms he’d already visited before that. He’s still yet to determine any pattern; he’s sent into anywhere from one to six on any given day, seemingly chosen at random, with plenty of repeats. He’s visited most of them twice now; some even more often, like Waynesboro and Figueira, and others only once, like Wellington, Tumwater, and Pacoima.

He resolutely does not let himself think about the possibility of Trinity moving from the latter category to the former.

And yet every day, he also walks past countless doors that he’s never stepped through at all – Allentown, Eminence, Marfa. If Lumon’s goal was to send him into all of the rooms at least once, they’ve really dropped the ball.

You are pretty good at running, he says just to be saying something, to drown out the sound of his innie chewing on the last bite of the “heirloom tomatoes” capsule – one of the least bland flavors, thankfully. That one was Mark’s own request for their meal, while his innie picked out “macaroni and cheese” for himself.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. What the hell does “good at running” even mean?

I don’t know. Fast, and like… Efficient, I guess. I think you’re faster than I am, somehow, he admits. But I doubt we’ll see another treadmill anytime soon.

Right. Too dangerous, or whatever. He frowns. So, why would there be a room–

Maybe it’s fine as long as we’re supervised. He rolls his eyes. But whatever. Bike’s way better anyway, so if you think you can figure out some way to ask for one without spilling the beans, be my guest.

Not that it will matter, since he’s probably dead anyway after two more days, based on the timeframe Mauer told his innie.

He nods thoughtfully. Does riding a real bike feel the same way as the stationary one did?

I mean, kind of. Not really. The leg movement– He makes a small spinning motion with one finger– is the same, obviously, but there’s more balancing involved.

Right. He’s quiet for a few seconds, frowning slightly, concentrating on something. More fun, I bet?

Oh, yeah, it’s like a million times better. Well, except for when there’s a hill. Always hated those. He shrugs. Not so bad once you get to the top though, and you get to cruise all the way down with the wind in your face and everything. Feels awesome.

That’s why hills were always Gemma’s favorite part. No matter how much he huffed and puffed and complained on the way up.

Do you ride a lot?

He laughs once. Not in years. And Kier isn’t exactly the most bikeable town, anyway.

Would you still be able to do it, then? I mean, if it’s been so long…

Uh, yeah, he replies, vaguely offended. Come on, have you never heard the phrase “it’s like riding a bike”?

…No?

Oh. Right. Well… It’s a thing. You never forget how to ride a bike. Supposedly.

I see.

It has been a long time, though. Did his bike even make the move from Ganz with him? Assuming he didn’t get rid of it, it must be sitting next to Gemma’s – which he definitely brought with him – collecting dust in his garage somewhere. Probably rusted to hell and back.

He shakes his head at the overdramatic mental image. No, it hasn’t been that long. Has it? How long does metal take to rust?

Hey, his innie begins, in that nervous tone that Mark’s come to recognize as guarded optimism. So, I’ve…noticed something.

What?

He looks down at the plastic fork beside the empty plate. Pick that up.

He frowns. What?

You’re moving. Or… I’m moving, but it’s your movements? He shakes his head slightly. It’s…weird.

Wait, I am? He blinks. Actually blinks, of his own accord. Wait, what the fuck, I am!

Can you pick that up? He’s still staring at the fork.

His left hand twitches, but doesn’t move from where it’s resting on the table. Shit. Hold on, I…

Don’t think about doing it, just do it.

Another twitch. Fuck! Why can’t I–

Shit, okay, I think I’ve figured it out. Well, sort of. He squeezes the hand into a fist. It really is like muscle memory. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. I think it’s still me moving, but you’re the one directing it.

He can’t frown. Okay, so shut up and let me direct it.

I can’t.

You just fucking did! He tries to uncurl his hand. Just…let go, or whatever, and let me…

It’s not just about letting go. It’s a step beyond that. I think it has to be automatic, like a reflex, like– He snaps his fingers. And now that I’m thinking about it too much, it doesn’t work.

And why the hell are you suddenly such an expert on this? he asks, annoyed.

His face twists into something like a grimace. Don’t get mad, alright?

No promises.

This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. Moved, without noticing that you're doing it. In fact, it’s…actually happened a lot over the past few days.

If he could, he’d shake his head in disbelief. What the fuck, why didn’t you say anything?

It’s just been small things, like…shrugging, or frowning, or breathing, but–

So, what, you didn’t think I’d be fucking interested?

I was trying to figure out how it works before calling any attention to it, he says defensively. Because every time I was able to move while you were in control, I couldn’t do it anymore once we realized it was happening, remember?

Goddammit. He wishes he could rub his eyes. Well, what the fuck did you figure out, then?

Like I said, I think it’s kinda like muscle memory. Since I’m the one in control, I’m technically still the one doing the actual moving, but I’m not trying to. I’m not even thinking about it. I think that’s the important part.

That doesn’t make any sense.

No, I promise it does, it’s just… He trips over his words, fumbling for a way to articulate his theory. Okay, so, under ordinary circumstances, if I wasn’t here and it was just you, and you decided to move your hand… He flexes his hand in demonstration. That command goes directly to the part of your brain that handles motor control, and you move. It’s that simple. Right?

I guess, but–

But when we’re both in here, you don’t have access to that movement part of the brain while I’m in control, and vice versa. The only thing you can do is communicate with me, which… He shakes his head slightly. Who the fuck even knows how that works.

Then how the hell am I moving?

That’s what I’m saying, I don’t think you actually are. I think you’re still just communicating with me, but…subconsciously? Like, anything physical you try to do can’t get through directly, so it’s getting relayed through me, and then I’m just sort of… He gestures vaguely. Doing it automatically.

So why does it only work sometimes?

That’s…the part I’m not sure about. Maybe…we’ve gotta be more in sync, somehow?

Better than being more Backstreet Boys, I guess, he mutters.

He frowns, confused. What?

He tries to shake his head. Nothing, forget it. So, how are we supposed to sync up, or whatever?

I’m not sure. He glances at the clock by the door, stands to dispose of the empty plate, and heads for the bedroom. But we don't have time to sit down and work through it all right now.

He bristles. Okay, but we also don't have time to put it off until later. We’ve only got a couple days left, remember?

I know. We'll just have to figure this out as we go.

He takes a deep breath and slides the closet door open. T-shirt, jeans, tennis shoes, hideous sweater.

Traffic jam, right?

Astoria, he confirms with a barely-perceptible nod, lifting the hanger away from the peg. That's fine. That's doable.

Mark hums his silent agreement as his innie changes clothes. As far as the testing rooms go, Astoria’s one of the least terrible. They’ve been exceptionally lucky in that regard over the past few days; even Minsk, which he’s still sore from, wouldn’t have been so bad without a broken hand. That luck will probably run out, sooner or later, but for now he'll take it.

Once he’s dressed, he returns to the living area and taps the button beside the door, then stands back and waits patiently a few feet away. The door swings open, and the nurse steps inside to cuff his hands without a word.

It still makes his skin crawl every time. How calm and casual she is about it, even as Thorne shoots him a death glare through the open door. That part’s a more recent development; for the first two days, he would always wait just out of sight until Mark stepped into the hallway. Maybe Lumon didn’t want to scare his innie. Maybe they’ve stopped caring about things like that.

Mark inhales, exhales,

and steps

through the doorway.

He blinks a few extra times, playing the part of someone blinking back into existence, and then he returns Thorne’s glare as the nurse steps past him and heads down the hallway to his left, motioning for him to follow.

The handcuffs are going to be a problem.

He rolls his eyes as he walks. Oh, really? Tell me more.

You know what I mean, he says flatly. The way I see it, we still only have two options as far as escape plans go.

I’m listening, he prompts, keeping his eyes glued to the elevator door straight ahead as it gets closer.

Option one: we find some way out of the severed suite. That would be the ideal way to do this, I think, since we could sneak out at night when the surveillance is probably less tight.

Except it’s a goddamn prison cell. There isn’t a way out. The nurse takes another left turn, and Mark casts one last lingering glance at the elevator before following her.

Which brings us to option two: we make another run for it while we’re in the hall between rooms. Fewer steps involved, obviously, but not without its own challenges.

By “challenges”, you mean getting our ass kicked again. He scrunches up his face. His nose itches like a motherfucker. And that’s not even touching the fact that even if we could do the sneaking thing, or the not-getting-caught-and-chokeslammed thing, we still can’t leave this goddamn floor without a key card.

I know. I’m…working on that.

Oh, you’re working on it, great. He sniffs. Good to know we’ve got our best minds on the case.

Annoyance flares in his chest, mirroring his own. Well, the planning process would probably be a lot easier all around if we could use our fucking hands, but that ship seems to have sailed.

He grits his teeth and swallows the fuck you that rises in his throat like a reflex. I'm working on it, he echoes.

A humorless laugh sounds inside his head. Oh, good.

I'm serious. Another left turn down another nearly identical hallway. The…movement thing, from earlier. I think we could use it.

Confusion flickers behind his eyes. How?

Continuity of action. His nose still itches. He turns his head and rolls his shoulder forward to try and reach it, and apparently slows his pace too much in the process, because Thorne gives him a quick shove to urge him onward. Remember when we left the severed room running? I think if we could do that kind of thing more seamlessly, we might be able to make a run from one of the testing rooms before Mr. Meathead here can slap the cuffs back on.

What makes you think that would work?

Right now, we're still feeling the transition on every door when we swap places, which takes too long to recover from. But maybe if we can figure out that syncing up thing you were talking about, we can pass the baton a bit more deliberately. Start an action on one side and finish it on the other, like–

Start running the second that the door opens, before they have time to react, he finishes.

Exactly. He pauses. We’ll still need a solution to the key card thing, sooner or later, but right now I think we should just try to like…practice. Determine whether or not this is even possible.

Practice how?

He looks up from staring blankly at the floor. We’re almost to the door, right? So, I start doing something before we cross over, that you finish as we do.

Like what?

I don’t know. He frowns. It’s gotta be something inconspicuous, something they won’t pick up on. He fidgets with the handcuff chain behind his back, then tilts his head thoughtfully. That might work.

What might work?

This. With his left hand, he taps each of his fingers to his thumb one-by-one in a steady pattern. Index, middle, ring, pinky. One, two, three, four. Feel that?

I mean, I do, but what–

Can you try to like…replicate it? One, two, three, four. Like, imagine you’re doing it at the same time I am. Try to sync up. One, two, three, four.

…Okay, yeah. I get it.

They round another corner, and the nurse stops in front of a door that he’s walked through three times in the past twenty-something days. Astoria. One, two, three, four, he verbalizes in time with the movement of his fingers as the door slides open. One, two–

Three, four, his innie counts along with him.

Thorne grabs his wrist to remove the handcuffs. Mark keeps the pattern going discreetly, keeps counting in sync with the other half of his mind.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three–

He’s shoved forward

through the doorway

and into the room.

Four.

But his last finger doesn’t make contact with his thumb until nearly a full second later. Four, his innie finishes, then, Shit.

Shit, he agrees.

I thought we had that. He shakes his head slightly. I mean, it really did feel like I was the one moving, but–

We’ll try again, he interrupts. We've got time.

Right. He rounds the blind corner into the fake parking garage. Four rooms today. This is number three, which means…

Three more transitions. Out, in, out. That’s three more chances.

Don't forget about the severed suite, he reminds him. We’ll go back in to change after this, then out, then in again after the last room. That makes–

Six chances total, today.

Right. He’s already getting in the car by the time Dr. Mauer enters the room.

Hey, that door he comes through has to lead somewhere, right?

Maybe. He starts the car and straps himself in with barely a glance at Mauer settling into the passenger seat. I doubt he’d let us get anywhere close to it, though.

“All business today, I see,” Mauer says with a saccharine smile, fastening his own seat belt.

Mark tries to roll his eyes. He can’t physically stop us. He knows we can beat the shit out of him.

He knows you can. But the innie who only exists in this room wouldn’t have any reason to try the door in the first place. All of the car’s windows and mirrors flicker a bit as the simulation’s screens turn on, and the fake garage door begins to rattle open. Besides, there’s no guarantee that we’d even be able to get through it. It probably locks automatically behind him.

Whatever.

He shifts into drive and pulls out into the street. The destination this time is “home”, as it was on his second visit to this room. His innie’s driving skills have improved surprisingly quickly, though Mark chalks most of that up to muscle memory.

Fuck, he hisses when the car squeals to a too-abrupt halt at a stop sign.

“Sorry,” he mumbles automatically, to which Mauer just shrugs.

You gotta stop more gradually than that, he lectures. Start slowing down sooner. Don’t just slam on the brake.

I know.

Clearly, you don’t.

He frowns. I’m trying, okay? Please don’t distract me. Anxiety prickles at the back of his neck as he navigates the on-ramp toward the gridlocked freeway.

Mark idly fantasizes about wrestling the steering wheel away from him. They’d probably both be much happier if he could somehow take over for the next few hours. He tries to look back as his innie prepares to merge. Check your–

He casts a quick glance over his shoulder before creeping into the empty space in the next lane.

Cool. He imagines heaving a sigh and slumping down in the seat. Even if this is one of the least awful rooms, that doesn’t change the fact that it’s boring as hell.

You should really leave more space between you and the car in front of you, he says after a while, nitpicking just for something to do.

Like it matters.

Guess it doesn’t. He shrugs a bit – actually shrugs – then adds thoughtfully, How much of me trying to move like that can you actually feel?

He’s quiet for a few seconds. Kind of a lot, honestly. More than you could with me, I think.

Wait, really? He focuses on his fingers. So, right now–

And his fingers drum against the steering wheel, in the same pattern he’d been picturing.

Whoa, what the fuck?

That was still me, he says. But, like…me copying what I could feel you trying to do.

What the fuck, he repeats. Then, is that not the same thing as–

No, that wasn’t automatic. It’s something I had to consciously do. Not the same as you moving.

Goddammit. He tries in vain to rub his eyes. So why the hell are you able to do that, when I couldn’t?

He shrugs slightly. Maybe ‘cause I’ve spent more time in the backseat? I’ve had more time to get used to the feeling of someone else calling the shots?

He scoffs. Or maybe ‘cause it’s my body.

He grits his teeth. Are we really gonna do this again?

An argument would be something to fill the time, at least, but he’s already more tired of having this conversation than he’d like to admit. I’ve lived in it longer. That’s all I’m saying.

His innie bristles, but decides to drop it as well. Whatever.

The rest of the “drive” passes largely in silence. He pulls into the fake garage without incident. Ready to try this again? he asks as he’s getting out of the car.

Yeah, he replies after a moment. He’d almost forgotten completely, in his futile effort to fall asleep inside his own brain.

He enters the blind hallway and rounds the corner toward the exit door, subtly tapping his fingers at his side in the same pattern as before. One, two, three, four.

He imagines going through the motions himself, and counts along with his innie.

One, two, three, four. One–

One deliberate step

across the threshold

and into the hallway.

Two, three…

Two– Fuck!

Thorne’s already there, wrenching his arms behind his back to handcuff him.

I think that was worse than the first time.

Yeah, no shit. He seethes silently as he’s led back to the severed suite. He almost doesn’t even want to try again, but he sighs and starts the pattern anyway as they approach the door. One, two, three, four.

One, two–

The nurse enters the room, and Thorne

shoves him through

the doorway.

Three– Goddammit!

…Three. He exhales heavily and stands still while the nurse removes the handcuffs. It might not be possible, he says quietly as he heads for the bedroom.

You have a better fucking idea?

Not really. He steels himself and opens the closet. White shirt, jeans, brown jacket, brown boots.

What the fuck is this?

Siena, he replies, shedding the dorkish Astoria sweater. The taxes one.

Despite his frustration, he lets himself feel relieved at that. At least it’s more sitting down. Last one for the day, right?

Yep.

He changes into the new outfit, hesitating for only a few extra seconds before slipping on the included wedding ring, and returns to the nurse, who’s still waiting patiently beside the door. You ready?

He tries to roll his eyes, but mumbles his agreement anyway.

This time for sure. The handcuffs click closed around his wrists, and she opens the door and walks out. One, two–

Three, four. One, two, three, four. One–

And he

steps through

after her.

Two–

Two– Shit.

I think that felt closer, his innie declares, annoyingly optimistic. Didn’t that feel closer?

I fucking guess. He trudges obediently down the hall. If this plan isn’t going to work, he’s not sure what will. Because unfortunately, the little bastard isn’t wrong about the handcuffs being a fucking problem. If he can’t get away in the hallways, then his innie will have to get them out of the severed room somehow, and he doesn’t really see that happening anytime soon.

The Siena room is closer than he’d thought. He squares his shoulders as the door slides open, and starts up the pattern again as Thorne removes the handcuffs. One, two–

Three, four–

With even less warning than usual,

he’s shoved

into the room.

One.

One.

Hm. Cautious hope starts creeping into his chest. That…actually did feel closer.

Told you. He steps forward, a bit triumphantly. One more try, and I think we’ll have it down.

He’d roll his eyes if he could. I wouldn’t go that far.

“Oh, good morning!” A mustached Mauer greets him from behind the desk, far too loud and exuberant for the small office. He extends an arm to offer a handshake as Mark approaches, then lets out a dramatic gasp. “My goodness, what happened to your poor hand?”

Mark glances down at the splint like he’s noticing it for the first time. “Oh. I’m…not sure.”

God, you’re a shitty liar.

Well, you’re a shitty wall puncher. He takes a seat across from Mauer.

Shut up and file your fucking taxes.

“I guess this might make things a little more difficult,” Mark muses, awkwardly picking up a pen with his broken hand.

He doesn’t miss the slight edge in his innie’s voice. He ignores it.

“Well, that’s no problem,” Mauer says with a wide smile as he settles into his own seat. “We’re in no hurry, after all.”

“Right,” Mark sighs, his eyes roving over the numerous stacks of loosely organized pages and binders. They’ve only visited this room once before, but it was more than enough for a lifetime.

He catches a glimpse of a familiar shape, one that takes a few seconds to register. Oh shit, wait– The fucking letter opener!

His gaze drops back down to the desk, to the flat metal shape half-hidden by a sheet of paper.

It’s still here, he says, stating the obvious. You’ve gotta grab it.

He looks up at Mauer, who’s perusing the binder in front of him rather than watching Mark. For the moment. You don’t think he’ll miss it?

Did you see him use it at all last time?

He frowns. Well, no, but… Why is it here, then?

Who fucking cares! Just find a way to sneak it into your pocket, and we’ll use it to take apart the doorknob.

He doesn’t move. You really think it’ll work?

Jesus Christ, aren’t you the one who said that breaking out of the room was the preferable option? He tries to shake his head. I don’t know if it’ll fucking work, but unless you can shit out an actual screwdriver in the next couple of days, I don’t think we’re getting a better opportunity than this.

He swallows hard. Okay.

“Well, let’s…get started, I guess?” he says aloud as he grabs a few loose sheets of paper from nearby, seemingly at random.

Uncovering the letter opener.

As he leans forward to collate the pages, he fumbles the pen in his splinted hand. Drops it on the floor. “Shit, sorry–” And scoots his chair back to bend down and pick it up, placing his left hand on the edge of the desk for support. Concealing the letter opener with his palm.

Wait, are you seriously–

He steals another quick glance at Mauer – whose eyes are still glued to the pages in front of him – as he sits up straight again, and drags his hand lightly over the surface of the desk as he pulls it away, dragging the letter opener along toward him until it slips soundlessly into the sleeve of his jacket.

Okay, he admits after a few seconds of stunned silence, That was actually pretty smooth.

There’s a surge of pride in his chest, and he’s not sure which of them it belongs to. Thank you.

Now, how the fuck are you gonna get it into your pocket?

Good question. He leans forward to grab another document from the top of the nearest stack, letting gravity do the work of sliding the small piece of metal further up his sleeve to his elbow. I’m, uh… I’m open to suggestions, if you’ve–

“Oh–” Mauer finally lifts his head and places a hand over the paper before Mark can take it. “But shouldn’t we wait until your wife arrives?”

Mark blinks. “My…wife?”

Right on cue, the door slides open behind him. He turns in his seat and freezes solid.

What. The fuck.

“Sorry I’m late,” Helena Eagan says with a smile.

Chapter Text

What the fuck, Mark repeats.

Helena crosses the room, never taking her eyes off him.

Shit. He recovers before his innie does. Shit shit shit, act normal.

A tall task. Though to his credit, he doesn’t flinch away from the casual kiss that she pecks on his cheek. He’s still too frozen to move, a stone statue of a deer caught in headlights.

What… What is she–

Just act normal! Be cool! The words echo inside his skull, a panicked shout that does little to convey the calm he’s trying to instill. Kayfabe, remember? You’re less than four hours old. You don’t know this woman. You’ve never seen her before in your life.

He manages to turn in his seat, to face the desk again, as she sits in the chair beside him, but he can’t look away from her. She’s dressed differently than she was at the restaurant – all sensible blue instead of luxe black, a simple long-sleeved top tucked into a pencil skirt, along with a pair of chunky tan heels.

But– But why is she here?

He tries to shake his head before remembering what the two of them have been attempting to do all day; he shifts his focus to remaining completely still instead, in case any of his attempts at movement should make it through. It’s all an act. She's playing a role, just like Mauer.

Mauer, who’s studying Mark a bit too intensely when he finally manages to tear his gaze away from Helena.

Shit.

“I’m simply overjoyed that you’re both able to join me here today!” Mauer says with an overenthusiastic clap of his hands. “Now, shall we get started?”

He begins rattling off form numbers and gathering pages, and Helena nods along attentively. Mark casts her a furtive glance. Is this a dream?

It’s a fair question; their dreams have been far muddier of late than the crystal-clear memories his innie's subconscious replayed for his first few nights in the driver's seat. I don't think so.

But…she’s severed too, he says. The threshold on the door–

Only affects us because they fucked with the chip, remember? I was in Cold Harbor twice before that, and I was still me.

Maybe…they could have done the same thing to her chip?

Hell no. They wouldn’t use the CEO’s daughter as a lab rat. Would they?

Then what the hell is she doing here?

I don’t fucking know, he hisses, more unnerved than he’d like to admit. It’s probably another mindgame. Another part of the test. Maybe they’re trying to see if the severance barrier will hold up, if you’ll recognize her. He pauses. In which case, I think we’ve already failed pretty spectacularly.

Mauer passes him a stack of invoices, and he sets them on the desk with shaking hands. But why? I don’t understand–

It’s Lumon, he says, like it should be self-evident, because it should, really. Especially to his innie, who’s been familiar with Lumon’s specific brand of bullshit much longer than he has. Who knows why they do anything?

“Earth to Mark.”

Mark flinches and turns to Helena, who’s leaning forward to find his eyes, trying to get his attention.

“I asked you a question,” she adds.

He blinks. “What?” What did she say?

If you didn’t hear it, how the fuck would I?

She flashes a playful half-smile. “I said, is that alright with you?”

“Uh… Yeah,” he stammers out with a mechanical nod, avoiding eye contact. “Sure, yeah, that’s…”

His blood turns to ice, a moment before he reaches the same realization that his innie must have just come to. Wait, did she just–

She used my name, he interrupts. Our name. She used our name. We haven’t had a name in any of the other testing rooms, have we?

No. We haven’t. Even on this room's otherwise realistic documents, all the identifying information has been redacted or omitted entirely.

So, what does that mean? Was it… Did she make a mistake? Why would they change things up now?

Fuck. His hands are still trembling, harder than before, and he’s not sure which of them is causing it. Probably both. They know.

He stares down at the numbers on the first invoice without really seeing them. Are you sure?

Why else would she be here? Why would it need to be her specifically? He tries to shake his head. They know you're not a new innie.

Shit. He swallows hard. Well, what do I do?

I don't know. He can hardly hear himself think over the sound of his heart racing in his ears. Act normal. Don't let on that you know they know.

Why? What happens then?

Probably nothing good. Let's not find out.

With one more nervous glance at Helena, he gets to work sifting through the mountains of unorganized sales records and deposit slips and payroll reports, sorting everything loosely into new piles as he goes. He settles into a sort of groove rather quickly, interrupted only by Mauer’s interjections and Helena’s occasional questions. She works alongside Mark, reading off numbers for him to tally up while he tries not to stare too conspicuously at her.

How much do you think she’s getting paid to do this?

He shakes himself out of the trance he’s worked very hard to sink into over the past ten or so minutes. What?

This kind of thing is just rote busywork, right? Something that a, uh… A certain sort of person might want to sever for, to delegate to somebody else. He pauses to double-check his math before jotting down the first of many totals on the nearby Form 1120, his handwriting even scratchier than usual due to the splint. So, isn’t it weird that she’s here, doing all of this boring shit along with us? Even if she is just playing a role?

Yeah, it’s weird, but I seriously doubt the incentive is money, he says with an inaudible scoff. She’s a fucking millionaire.

Oh. He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then, why–

I don’t fucking know. We could theorize about it all day, but it doesn’t actually matter.

It might, he says, with that same infuriating curiosity as always. If we could figure out what she wants, maybe we could–

Will you just stop? She’s not your girlfriend. She’s not Helly, he adds with disdain before his innie snaps at him for not using her name. She’s Helena Eagan, one of the most powerful people in the goddamn country, and she's the leader of the company that's holding us prisoner.

Look, maybe this is something she doesn’t have a say in, he argues, hopelessly naïve. She’s not the CEO, her father is, so–

Yeah, ‘cause that really looks like the face of a person who’s in firm opposition to whatever’s happening here, he says as his innie makes accidental eye contact with Helena again, and she responds with another smile.

Okay, so, she’s complicit. That doesn’t necessarily mean we can’t get her on our side somehow.

He wishes he could roll his eyes. And how do you propose we do that?

I don’t know. I’m working on it.

Well, maybe work faster, ‘cause I’m pretty sure she’s outta here once we’re through with all this.

I know.

He reaches for the next page in the stack he’s working on. As he moves to place it in his lap, the letter opener tucked loosely inside his sleeve slides downward faster than he can react.

It hits the carpet beside his chair with a barely audible thump.

He freezes. His eyes dart to Dr. Mauer, who’s in the middle of flipping through his binder in search of a specific set of receipts, apparently oblivious to the incriminating sliver of metal now resting inches from the front of his desk.

Mark’s attention snaps to Helena next. She’s busy too, jotting down figures on the clipboard Mauer was considerate enough to provide for her, but her pen’s frozen mid-number.

She’s staring at the letter opener.

Shit.

Her gaze flicks up to meet his eyes, which must be wide with panic. There’s no pretending that didn’t just happen.

And yet, she resumes her work without another word, finishes writing and unclips the page to flip it over. As she does, she casts him another quick glance and another half-smile. “Your shoe is untied, dear,” she says, gently teasing, gesturing with her pen toward his neatly-tied boots.

He blinks. “Wh…” Looks down. Looks back up at her. Looks down again and finally understands.

What the fuck, why would she…?

He tucks his own pen into his pocket to bend over in his chair, out of Mauer’s sight, and pulls the knot on his left shoe loose. He watches her watching him, her expression unchanging even when he picks up the letter opener and slips it into his boot. It’s an awkward fit, but he manages to wedge it into the space alongside his foot and reties the laces with shaking fingers, a bit looser than before to keep the metal from digging into his skin through his sock.

Finally, he sits up straight in the chair once more. Mauer is still distracted, still absorbed in his search, and Helena quirks an eyebrow at Mark, as if to say you’re welcome.

This is a trick. It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s some kind of a trap.

A trap?

Must be. Right? I mean, why else would she want to help us? He tries to shake his head. Another mindgame. It has to be.

To what end? He glues his eyes to the papers in his lap to make himself stop staring at her. And even if it is, why would she let us take something that could potentially be used as a weapon?

He almost laughs. A weapon? Seriously?

He frowns, oddly defensive. What? It’s…pointy. And sharp.

Nowhere near sharp enough to be a fucking weapon.

Well, I dunno. With enough force behind it–

The sound of a ringing phone slices through the air, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Mauer turns in his seat to snatch the receiver of a mint-green rotary phone sitting on a shelf behind him, an old-fashioned thing that Mark had honestly dismissed as a prop rather than an actual functioning device. “Yes?”

Mark exchanges a quick look of confusion with Helena, although he can’t be sure how much of an act it is on her part.

This is…new.

“Oh, I see.” Mauer’s fake-polite smile morphs into a frown.

Mark’s heart rate spikes for the thousandth time in the past fifteen minutes, which can’t be healthy. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, tries to focus on anything besides the sliver of metal in his boot. As inconspicuously as he can, he scans the room for the cameras that must be hidden somewhere in his periphery.

“Of course,” Mauer is saying with a nod. “Thank you.” He hangs up the phone and turns back to the two of them. “My apologies, but we’ll have to continue this some other time.”

Mark frowns again, even more confused. “What… Why?”

Mauer cocks his head curiously, like he wasn’t expecting questions. “Something’s come up, I’m afraid. But we’ll reschedule.” He gets to his feet, and so does Helena.

They’re cutting this short because of her, Mark surmises, with an inaudible scoff. She’s not gonna sit here crunching fake numbers for three hours. That’d be too much to ask.

“I’ll give you a call,” Mauer is telling her. He turns to Mark, the only one still seated.

“Oh–” He stands abruptly and nearly drops all the papers from his lap before dumping them into a loose pile on the desk. “Yeah, okay,” he stammers out, hesitantly accepting the handshake that Mauer offers.

“Let’s go,” Helena says. She turns to leave, and Mark follows. The letter opener shifts against his foot as he walks, the world’s most unpleasant rock rattling around in his shoe.

“Just a moment,” Mauer speaks up from behind the desk. Accusatory.

Fuck.

He turns back to see Mauer holding out an expectant hand. “My pen, if you don’t mind.”

He blinks and looks down. “Oh.” It’s still in his jacket pocket. “Sorry, didn’t realize I still had it,” he mumbles as he hands it over.

The door slides open somewhere behind him. Unsurprisingly, Helena’s nowhere in sight when he turns around. Get ready.

Shit. Right. He’d forgotten again.

He enters the blind hallway, tapping his fingers at his side, just like before. One, two–

Three, four.

Rounds the corner toward the open door and the blank white hallway beyond.

One, two, three–

And steps

across

the threshold.

Four.

Mark blinks. Holy shit.

He stands still for a full two seconds, in stunned silence, before Thorne steps behind him to cuff his hands. The nurse is gone, he notices distantly, but he’s a bit too distracted by the Eagan staring back at him from the middle of the hallway to care.

Why is she still here?

It’s the same question racing through his own half of their mind. Why the hell would Lumon want him to see her? Not an innie version of him, newborn or otherwise, but him?

“Mark Scout,” Helena greets him amiably, her voice wrapping his name in velvet. It makes his skin crawl. “Well, I’d offer to shake your hand, but…” She casts a meaningful glance downward, indicating the handcuffs.

At least he doesn’t have to feign indifference to seeing her again. “The fuck are you doing here?”

Her lips twitch into a half-smile. “That’s your first question? You wanna know what I'm doing at my own company’s headquarters?”

His eyes narrow. “I mean down here,” he says flatly. “Shouldn’t you be up in a conference room somewhere, lying to politicians or…whatever it is you do?”

“I came to see you, Mark.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I guess I should be flattered, then.”

“Yeah, actually, you should be,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. Playful and predatory, like she's still sitting across the table from him at Zufu.

Wait, do you know her? On the outside?

“What do you want from me?” he asks instead of answering his innie.

Her smile slowly disappears. “I just wanted to see you,” she repeats. “I know that things have been…a little rough, lately, for you.”

“Uh, yeah. You could say that.” His voice wavers on the last word, defanging most of his venom. “So, what, you thought a visit from you would be just the thing to cheer me up?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know, it seemed to work on your innie.” She nods toward the closed Siena door behind him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “He couldn’t stop drooling all over me in there.”

“What the fuck.” Maybe he’s overreacting a bit, but he doesn’t care. “Why? Why are you doing all this?”

“I told you already, I–”

“Stop lying.” The quick step he takes toward her is cut short by Thorne, yanking him back by his arm.

Hey, calm down–

“What the fuck do you want from me? Why are you really here?”

She watches him breathe for a few seconds in silence, long enough that he begins to doubt she’ll answer him at all. Then she exhales. “I came to say goodbye.”

His anger deflates in an instant, reshapes itself into ice-cold fear clenched tight at the back of his throat. “What?”

Her head ticks to the side. “They haven’t told you?”

He casts an anxious glance over his shoulder at Thorne. “Told me what?”

She steps closer, and the grip on Mark’s elbow tightens, warning him not to move. “You’re going to die, Mark,” she says, quiet but matter-of-fact.

“Oh.” He swallows hard. “That. Yeah.”

“You’re pretty calm about it,” she muses. As if he has any choice.

“How, uh…” He takes a deep breath to steady himself. “How much time do I have?”

Her eyebrows furrow in something like concern. “Do you really want to know?”

Kayfabe, his innie says suddenly. You’re barely awake anymore, remember?

“I…guess it doesn’t actually matter,” he says with a wry smile. “‘Cause to me, it’s only gonna be like…maybe ten more minutes of this.” He tilts his head to indicate the hallway they’re standing in. “Right?”

Helena nods.

“Still,” he adds, struggling to keep his voice even. “I… I think I’d like to know.”

Another nod. “The procedure is scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

Two days, he notes softly. At least we had the timeline right.

“The procedure.” His mouth is too dry. “You mean, removing the chip.”

“Yes.” There's something close to genuine regret etched into her face. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” he says, the words tinged with desperation. “This is your company, you said it yourself, right? So, can’t you stop this?”

She's shaking her head before he finishes the sentence. “Mark–”

“Just tell them not to do it.” He's built up too much frantic momentum to stop talking now, even when Thorne tugs on his arm to keep him from moving any closer to Helena. “Tell them to let me go. Please.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she says, nearly a whisper.

“It has to.” There’s no other option. Well, there’s one, still wedged uncomfortably inside his boot, but he’d rather not bet his life on it if he doesn’t have to. “Look, if you don't want me dead–”

“What I want doesn’t matter.” She steps forward, encroaching on his personal space, and for a wild second, looks like she might try to kiss him.

And how the fuck is he supposed to react to that?

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to figure it out; all she does is stare intensely into his eyes, for a full five seconds, before backing away and turning her attention to Mr. Thorne. “We’re finished here, thank you.”

The hand on Mark’s arm yanks him abruptly to the side, shoving him down the hall in the direction he came from. “Wait–”

“Goodbye, Mark,” she calls after him. “See you soon.”

“What?” He trips and nearly falls, stumbling sideways to keep his eyes on her as he’s escorted away. “What does that mean? Wait a minute!”

Thorne drags him around a corner, breaking his line of sight.

“Stop, don’t go anywhere!” he shouts back toward Helena, and then, to Thorne, “Can you wait, just for a second?” He tries to pull away. “I need to talk to her– Ow–”

Thorne squeezes his arm hard enough to bruise and ignores him completely.

She’s not gonna tell you anything else. You know that, right?

They round another corner. It’s only a short walk from Siena back to the severed suite; they’re more than halfway there already. He’s running out of time.

“Hold on, just wait one goddamn minute! Just…” Mark plants his feet and attempts to wrestle free again, refusing to turn the next corner.

Without a word, Thorne spins around and slams him against the nearest wall, pinning him there with one hand at his shirt collar to glower down at him. The two of them have a brief, intense staring contest.

Mark breaks first. “What? Is there something on my face, what?”

Thorne's gaze shifts meaningfully to the bruise staining the skin beneath Mark's left eye. He’s well aware of how gnarly it looks; it’s the only thing his innie can focus on every time he looks in the mirror. It's darkened to a deep purple over the past few days, a sharp contrast to the surrounding patch of sickly yellow stretched over his cheek, and yet it’s still downright subtle in comparison to the twin black eyes partially hidden beneath the bandage over Thorne's broken nose. “Yes,” Thorne replies after a long moment, his voice a low rumble.

Maybe that wasn't the right thing to say.

Mark shifts uncomfortably in place with a slight wince, suddenly very aware of the position he’s in, his arms crushed behind him and useless. “Look,” he tries again, “I’m not trying to run, okay? Let me go back and talk to her, for just a second. Half a second. I just need to–”

Thorne drives a fist into his stomach.

He doubles over, eyes squeezed shut, and barely manages to stay on his feet. The hand still twisted in his collar jerks him upright, presses him back into the wall.

“Jesus.” He cracks one eye open to find Thorne staring down at him with the same irritated expression. “That was…unnecessary,” he chokes out, struggling to catch his breath.

“Apologize,” Thorne orders.

“For what?” he says automatically.

You fucking idiot.

Mark has a split second to brace himself this time, but it doesn’t help. The next punch sends his stomach lurching into his throat, and for a brief, horrible moment, he thinks he might vomit on Thorne’s shoes.

Thorne rattles him against the wall like a ragdoll. “Apologize.”

“Sorry,” he wheezes without opening his eyes. He swallows hard. “I’m…sorry. Really sorry, for…everything. Sorry.”

Silence fills the air for a long moment, broken only by Mark’s breathing, too loud in his ears. Finally, Thorne responds with a single grunt of something like approval before grabbing his arm again to drag him forward. He doesn’t resist, not anymore.

Fuck. The word is a groan of pain from inside his head. I swear to God, if you don’t stop getting us punched–

You’ll what? He clenches his good hand into a fist behind his back and then, when his innie doesn’t respond, No, go ahead and finish that sentence, I’m curious, what are you gonna do? Are you gonna punch me?

There’s an odd sensation behind his eyelids, a faint tingling that must be his innie trying to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk to the severed suite. Thorne presses the button beside the door, and there’s a brief burst of static from the intercom before it swings open.

Without hesitation, Thorne shoves him

across the threshold

and into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Mark regains his balance – not an easy task, without the use of his hands – and glances around the room before turning back to the closed door. “Hey, wait, where’s– What about– The handcuffs, I’m still wearing the…”

No response. The faint crackling from the speaker goes silent.

“Great.” He slumps his shoulders in defeat and, with nothing else to do, plops down on the couch to stare at the ceiling, wincing at the pain in his stomach. “What’d he do this time?” he mutters to the camera overhead.

Oh, fuck off.

He sighs and lets his eyes drift closed. Even with his arms locked awkwardly behind his back, there’s enough exhaustion swimming in his bones that he could probably fall asleep like this, if he holds still long enough.

So, he begins after a long silence, clearing his throat and wincing again at the movement. That went well.

Don’t blame me for this. I didn’t do anything.

Another sigh. I know.

And you’re one to talk, anyway.

What?

You weren’t exactly subtle in there, staring at her like that. If it really was a test, if they weren't already sure before today that it’s been you in all the rooms and not a new innie, they're definitely 100% positive now.

He scoffs. Right, because you would've reacted so much better.

At least I wouldn’t be trading bedroom eyes with the woman planning to have us killed, he grumbles.

I really don't think she's the one giving that order.

He rolls his eyes. No, she's just the one who decided to come all the way down here to deliver the news personally, in between playing house with you.

I…didn’t get the impression that she had much of a choice in all this, he says haltingly. You must've had that feeling too, right? Or else you wouldn’t have bothered trying to ask her for help.

I didn't ask for help, he snaps. I was just hoping she might have some shred of, like, human decency to appeal to. Which she clearly doesn’t.

He wiggles his toes inside his boot, shifting the letter opener against his foot. Except we only have this because of her, remember?

He grits his teeth. Why are you defending her? You should hate her just as much as I do.

I’m not–

Maybe more than I do, he adds. Did you already forget that she’s the one who jammed a fucking needle in your neck and sent you down here?

No, I didn’t forget.

Or what about when she tricked you into sleeping with her? I mean, she basically ra–

I know, he cuts him off abruptly. I know, okay? She’s a fucking…terrible human being. You don’t have to tell me that. He takes a deep breath to calm both of them down. All I’m saying is that, out of everyone we’ve met on this floor, she’s probably the closest thing to an ally we’re going to get.

He scoffs. We don’t need allies. We have a way out of this room now.

Okay, A, we don’t even know if this thing's going to work. Discreetly, he shuffles his left shoe against the carpet to shift the letter opener again, to stop the metal from digging into his foot. B, it doesn’t matter right now anyway because we’re still in fucking handcuffs. And C, even if someone comes to take them off, we’re still screwed without a key card, remember? The elevator won’t work without one.

So we don’t use the elevator. We head for that weird surveillance room, past Pacoima.

He frowns. You mean, the weird surveillance room that also requires a key card?

Yeah, but it’s just a door, not an elevator. It has a doorknob like this one, which means we can get in there the same way we get out of here.

He casts a quick glance at the doorknob in question. And what if we can’t? What if it’s a different kind of lock or something?

Then we break down the door.

And you don’t think that breaking into what is ostensibly a security office is going to set off any alarms?

It’s not a security office. At least, not for this floor. Think about it, the only thing they were monitoring in there was your MDR department, right? But after hours–

There’s no one in MDR to monitor, he finishes.

Exactly. So that room will be empty.

Maybe. He’s quiet for a few seconds, deep in thought. But even if it is, we don’t actually know where the other door leads from there. It could be a dead end.

There has to be a fire exit somewhere.

Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s there.

What the fuck is your problem? he snarls. I’m trying to get us the fuck out of here, why do you insist on being such a pessimistic asshole about everything I say?

Oh, so I’m the pessimistic asshole now? He shrugs a bit. Nice change of pace, at least.

Jesus fucking Christ, you’re insufferable.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Calming them down again. I’m not trying to be. Alright? But we need to be smart about this. Another breath. That’s why I think, even if they do take off the handcuffs tonight, we should wait until tomorrow to try and get out.

What? He tries to shake his head furiously. Fuck that, we need to get out of here as soon as possible.

We still have no way off this floor. No real way. But we have two nights left to figure something out, right? Tonight and tomorrow. We know that for sure now.

That’s assuming Helena wasn’t lying through her teeth, he mutters.

Why would she? What would be the point? He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. They might have figured out that I’m faking it inside the rooms, but I still don’t think they know that we’re both awake in here.

You assume.

And that means we’ll only have one chance at trying to get through the door, he continues, undeterred. Because once they see how we did it, once they realize that we took something from one of the rooms, there’s no way they’re gonna let that happen again. Plus, the amount of coordination involved will be a huge red flag. Probably enough for them to figure out what’s really going on, and then the cat’s out of the bag.

He sighs. His innie isn't really wrong, and that's the worst part. Fine.

And what is with that phrase, by the way?

What?

“The cat’s out of the bag,” he repeats, in a lighter tone. I mean, I understand what it means, but why is it a thing? Do people usually keep cats in bags?

It’s just an expression, he says. Clearly, it’s not a satisfying enough explanation, so he adds, It’s…really hard to put a cat back into a bag once you let it out. From what I gather.

You don’t have a cat?

No.

Huh.

He tries to frown. Why are you saying that like you’re disappointed?

His innie does frown. You're gonna think it's stupid.

Probably, yeah. Tell me anyway. It’s not like they have anything else to do.

Well, uh… He shifts his weight, searching for a comfortable position for his arms. Back in MDR, Petey and I used to theorize about what our outies’ lives might be like. What kind of houses we live in, what our hobbies are, whether we have spouses, or kids, or neighbors, or…

Or pets?

He nods. Like, we decided that Petey's outie has two parakeets, a blue one and a green one. Irving has a big dog, and Dylan has a bunch of tiny dogs that all think they're big.

And…your outie has cats? he infers.

Just one cat. A big fat one, that likes to sleep on my face, even though I’m probably allergic to it.

That’s…a lot. He’s quiet for a moment. What’s its name? My imaginary cat?

Cat, he replies sheepishly.

Well. That does sound like a name he’d pick. Very creative.

So… You don't have any pets?

I’ve got fish, he offers, and then he corrects himself with a slight grimace, I had fish. Guessing they're dead by now.

Oh. There’s something almost judgmental in his tone.

Something that pisses Mark off more than it should. “Oh” what? You have something to say?

He blinks, caught off-guard by the surge of indignance crashing against his half of their mind. Uh, no? I wasn’t trying to–

It’s not even my fucking fault, it’s yours. All the rage he’s buried over the last few days rushes to the surface, so suddenly that it makes him dizzy. If you hadn’t kept us here–

Oh, my God. He drops his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. I thought we were past this.

Fuck no. Not by a long shot. I might be stuck with you now, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten that you’re the whole reason I’m down here in the first place.

Oh, wow, that must really suck, being trapped inside Lumon with no say in what happens to you. There’s more exhaustion than anger in his sarcasm. You’re the one who put me in here in the first place, so if you wanna blame anyone–

Fuck you.

Fuck yourself, he retorts, and then he shakes his head. I never asked for any of this, you know.

Well, nobody fucking asks to be born, dipshit, he snaps. It just happens, and then you’re alive, and you gotta try to make the most of it.

Oh, is that what you’ve been doing for the past two years? Is that what you call getting blackout drunk in front of the TV every night? Making the most of it?

He bristles. What do you fucking want from me, man? My wife was dead. You have no idea what it's like to lose someone you love.

Yeah, I do.

Oh, my God. He tries to scoff. You do not love Helly.

His eyes narrow. Yeah. I do.

You have a fucking crush. That’s not the same thing as love.

Wow. Fuck you. He shakes his head. You don’t know the first thing about it.

How long have you known her, exactly? he asks, with more genuine curiosity than he intends. What, like, six months?

He frowns. Not counting the time you and I have been down here?

Sure.

Half a quarter.

He blinks. You mean... A month and a half?

I guess so, yeah.

Oh, my God. If he could, he’d laugh, and scream, and break his other hand against the wall. So, you threw my entire fucking life away – both of our lives – for someone you’ve known all of six weeks. Great. Cool.

And I’d do it again, he declares, if it meant five more minutes with her.

See, that? That kind of overdramatic bullshit, that’s something a teenager says about their fucking high school girlfriend.

Really? What would you have done, then? If it was you standing at that door, with Helly on the other side and your wife behind you?

I’d stay with Gemma. No question. No hesitation.

Yeah. Exactly. So why can’t you understand–

But we’ve been married for four goddamn years, he interrupts. Or, shit. Six, technically, if you count the… He tries to shake his head. Whatever. We met almost a decade ago, and she’s been a part of my life ever since. Even while she was gone.

Okay, but–

Years. Not weeks, years.

Right, yeah, because I’ve definitely had that kind of time, he says bitterly.

That’s not… Mark goes quiet for a long moment, thinking. I guess…you may have a point, he cedes.

His innie blinks, surprised. Thank you.

But it's still not the same.

He sighs. Look, I’m tired, and I don’t wanna fight with you. His hands are going numb behind his back, and he shifts his weight again to restore the circulation. I’m sure that nurse will probably come by, sooner or later, to take these off. But in the meantime, can we please just try to relax, for once?

It has been a long day. I guess, he mutters after a few seconds. 

He slumps down on the couch and shuts his eyes. We still have time.

Two days. Technically, it’s probably less than that, probably closer to a day and a half. He tries not to think about that, focuses instead on doing the math in his head.

Two days. 48 hours. 2,880 minutes. 172,800 seconds.

172,799.

172,798.

Two days, he says, to stop that train of thought in its tracks.

Two days, his innie agrees quietly.