Work Text:
"You will flicker in these words
and in the words of others
for a while and then go out.
Even if I send them,
you will never get these letters.
Even if I see you again,
I will never see you again.”
-Margaret Atwood, Selected Poems 2: 1976 - 1986
"I miss you more than I remember you."
-Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
Some days of the week, Mark S. arrives at work and he feels it in his bones. His eyes are red and pulsing, cheeks glistening with barely dried tear tracks that he struggles to wipe off on the way through the corridors. A dull, throbbing headache plagues him on Mondays, sometimes Fridays, that only seems to get worse as the day progresses.
Some days, he doesn't need much coffee. Some days, he can come in to work and think about nothing else but work.
But some days, he feels so lethargic that half of the coffeepot is gone by lunchtime.
All the others have noticed so far are the puffy, bloodshot eyes he can’t hide, already making up stories to jokingly offer him as an explanation. A hangover, he didn't eat breakfast, allergies to dust, to pollen, to the elevator. It should be funny, but it isn’t; their playful remarks ring hollow in a way he can't explain.
The weeks almost flow like water. Mark gets lost in the job, learns more about everything. He grows to appreciate the familiarity of the routine, the comfort of the mundane. He makes two friends and a best friend, like he's supposed to. He lets the current take him.
He likes to think he has settled in nicely, with his job, his team, his friends. Almost feels proud of himself. A small part of him even hoped this mysterious illness would go away as more time passed at Lumon, explaining it as a way of his body rejecting his rebellious phase. But even as his complaints to management dry out, his eyes remain as puffy as ever.
Mark Scout gets off work at five thirty. Though the time he was aware of passing was less than a millisecond, he can instantly feel the effects of a presumably rough day at work for his Innie. His body sags, his eyes droop and his chest feels heavier than usual.
He makes his way back home feeling surprisingly empty, if a little irritable. Usually, he thinks he can sort of guess how it went at work for his Innie by the way he feels after. But it's the second time in a row that he comes to, feeling like the day had probably been a total bust for the poor guy.
Mark can't say the same about himself; he's got an actual date in a few hours, courtesy of his sister. But try as he might, he can't get excited for it. He almost felt excited when he woke up in the morning, but now it just feels wrong.
It feels like betrayal.
He knows she wouldn't have seen it that way. She would have beckoned him to move on for his sake, though she'd probably be pretty fucking pissed about it if you'd asked her.
Some days, Mark thinks he's still stuck in the denial stage. Some days, in every stage at once. He had hoped to not have to think about her in the hours coming up to the date, but he couldn't help it; the hollow pang in his heart coming out of the elevator was somehow more familiar than anything else he'd ever felt leaving work.
Mark S. is worried about his Outie.
The symptoms continue at a steady rate. Not enough to interfere with his work, yet enough to be a cause for concern. It feels odd to come to in the elevator, new day ahead of him, and almost gasp at the sudden searing pain gripping his neck, threatening to bring on another headache. When his body aches some mornings, he asks Mr. Milchick for some approved stretches he can do at lunchtime, away from his workstation.
Maybe his Outie is battling some sort of illness, he ponders. He knows allergies are supposed to feel like chronic illnesses. Is his Outie consistently surrounded by pollen? Don't allergies like that flare up in spring? Mark is pretty sure it's well into winter right now. Is it dust?
Is it just an allergy?
When he's out of ideas to explain his predicament, he corners Petey at the vending machine.
"I think my Outie might be sick," he tells him.
Petey, staring at the enclosed snacks, hums. "How can you tell? I don't see you sniffling."
"I've just got this feeling," Mark says, scratching his palm. "I think I might make a request or something."
"About?" Petey asks, punching in a code. A little box of buttered pretzels comes out.
"Maybe they can tell my Outie to... take it easy."
Petey laughs and claps him on the shoulder, leading him away from the kitchenette. "Hey, as long as that guy comes in to work with two arms, two legs and his head screwed on straight, you're gonna be fine."
Mark smirks. "You think?"
"Yeah," Petey says, stopping them at Mark's desk. "I wouldn't worry about him. Unless you come in with your nails painted hot pink."
Mark laughs and drops the topic. But a few hours later, Irving approaches him after a bathroom trip, stopping him at the door.
"Mark, I noticed you talking to Petey about the health of your Outie during lunchtime."
Mark nods, looking over Irving's shoulder at the rest of the team, who aren't paying them any attention.
"I thought I should tell you. I think your Outie might not be properly hydrated."
Intrigued, Mark pays attention to Irving's lecture on proper water intake outside of work and the effects it can have on an Innie. He decides to drink more water at work to make up for it, even if it means more bathroom trips.
He wonders if that was the problem all along. Something tells him that it isn't.
Mark Scout has a man living in his basement.
He bets she would be laughing at him right about now. No, he knows it. He knows she would be cackling at his face for the mess he's gotten himself into.
He spends most of Tuesday in a greenhouse a few degrees above freezing, listening to the ramblings of a probably unwell person, not believing a word he says, wondering why he even bothered to follow an address scribbled on a card meant for someone’s niece, until he hears the tape recorder with his own distressed voice on it, reading off some sort of creepy script. That intrigues him enough to bring the stranger back to his place, though, looking back, he’s not too sure why he did it so easily. Is he really that gullible?
A few hours later find them down in Mark's basement, eating the pizza Mark ordered after finding his fridge almost empty. Petey jokes that even he had more stuff to eat in the greenhouse; Mark has to agree.
Petey tells him about Lumon in vague, long winded tangents. At times he sounds like an ill conspiracist and Mark's stomach churns with anxiety. Maybe this is all a scam designed specifically for severed people. Hell, they can implant chips to sever one’s memory, who's to say someone can't doctor a simple voice clip on tape? Was that even his voice on it?
Mark vows to kick the guy out at the first sign of him asking for money, but Petey never goes there. And, oddly enough, Mark didn't actually expect him to; there certainly is a disarming presence to him.
"All this grease can’t be helping with... your sickness," Mark says, gesturing at his own head.
"Sometimes, I stayed up late eating junk," Petey says, laughing. "Came in to work bloated to hell and not knowing why. Reintegration almost sucks as much as that."
Mark chuckles, but Petey sobers. "I'm ashamed of treating my body like that, Mark. Of treating myself like that. Because that is yourself down there."
Mark looks down at the slice in his hand and decides to change the subject to milder territory. "So, we're friends down there?"
Petey nods eagerly, then pauses. "Hey, what day is it?"
"Tuesday," Mark replies, frowning, but before he has a chance to say anything else, Petey drops the slice on his lap and clutches the back of his head. The episode passes quickly, leaving him visibly shaken.
"I'm sorry," Petey says pitifully, grabbing the pizza off his leg.
Mark is starting to feel really bad for the guy, liar or not. He wonders what work must be like for his Innie, provided anything coming out of Petey’s mouth is true. Mark can't imagine the guy in front of him in any sort of casual office situation.
"You said you left, were you fired?"
Petey shakes his head. "No, I just left,” he says, struggling for a moment. Mark expects another attack, but it doesn’t come.
"You said there's four of us down there, right?"
Petey nods.
"Well, why did you find me and not someone else?" Mark asks.
"Because I trust you," Petey replies immediately.
"But you trust my Innie, not me," Mark says, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Does my Innie know about all this?"
Petey shakes his head. "Nobody knew anything. But I think you realized something was wrong a couple of days before I left."
"How?"
Petey smiles. "You thought I was sick because I didn't laugh at your jokes. You asked me about it."
Mark didn't expect that kind of answer. It almost sounds sweet.
"So, now my Innie thinks you're, where?” He asks. “Sick? Fired?" He internally cringes at the rapid-fire questions he’s been asking, not intending to set Petey off further, but his curiosity wins this round.
"They probably told 'em I was fired," Petey replies, nodding gravely.
Mark processes all he's heard. He tries one last Hail Mary to see if Petey is lying to him, get him on a technicality.
"Would you really do that to your friend, then? Disappear?"
Petey stares directly at him, suddenly appearing more lucid now than he's been all day. Mark realizes he might have gone too far; he's just ready to backtrack when Petey balances the pizza on his knee and clears his throat.
"No. You’re right. I owed you an explanation. That's gonna haunt me for the rest of my life."
Mark doesn't respond. He's not exactly adamant that Petey is trying to scam him out of his money, except maybe his takeout, which makes the situation all the more complex. Is he going to harbor this guy in his basement forever? He certainly doesn't want to be a part of a conspiracy, much less bring down a company he actively works for and has no problem continuing to. Would they make him a mole? Who even is 'they'?
Mark scratches his chin with his clean hand. He glances at Petey, who’s looking somewhat like a kicked dog, and wonders what exactly his Innie would say if he knew what was happening on this side of his world.
Mark S. visits Wellness quite a lot. He doesn't complain. Ms. Casey is nice.
It's been a fair few quarters since his start at Lumon. He doesn't think he has settled right in, he knows he has. He feels good about himself, more confident. There's a spring in his step he lacked in the beginning.
He even thinks his Outie's health has improved, judging by the lessening amount of stretches he feels he should do every day.
That isn't always the case. But Mark doesn't have to worry as much about his Outie anymore, and he's completely okay with that. He is more than happy to go along with the routine and see where it leads him.
Though Ms. Cobel is still sending him to Wellness. Way more than the others, at least.
The general feel of the room makes him a bit uneasy, despite all the lovely plants, but Ms. Casey more than makes up for it. She is great at her work; he certainly feels well after Wellness.
This time, she has him choose and finish a small jigsaw puzzle. He goes for the one with the picture of a luscious forest to match the theme of the room.
He finishes the puzzle quite quickly, taking a minute to compare the picture on the box with his own creation. Ms. Casey does her best approximation of a smile at him.
"Congratulations, Mark. You finished the puzzle in twelve minutes and twenty seconds. You engaged your dopamine receptors to great effect."
"Uh. Thanks, Ms. Casey."
"Now I'd like to share with you some facts about your Outie for the remainder of our session."
Mark nods, sitting back. He has lost zero points by the time the thirty minutes are up. Ms. Casey congratulates him on that too.
He walks back to MDR, thinking about lunch.
Next thing he knows, he's crying.
Mark gasps in between breathy sobs. He reaches up to touch the tears steadily trickling down his cheeks. His fingers come back glistening.
Mark runs. He takes what he thinks is a quick shortcut back to MDR and ends up facing a wall. Panting, heaving with tears, he runs back the way he came, takes a sharp left twice and barges into MDR, making a break for the bathroom, ignoring the others calling out for him.
He locks himself in the stall farthest from the door and falls all over the toilet seat, gripping the edges.
"Mark?" Petey calls from very far away. He's breathing rapidly, the edges of his vision blur. From one moment to the next, Mr. Milchick has teleported in front of him, yelling and shaking him.
He is taken to Ms. Cobel. They have a lengthy conversation and he comes out of it feeling dazed. Ms. Cobel asks him a lot of pointed, vague questions, but he can barely answer any of them. He tells her about his Outie's physical health over the past year. In the end, she lets him go with a promise to talk to his Outie about valuing his Innie's health and Lumon’s time.
He is escorted back to MDR. The moment he finds himself back in his seat, he lets out a long, silent, stuttering breath.
Mr Milchick supervises the rest of their day. Nobody talks until five, though he can hear the dividers rattling whenever Mr. Milchick isn't looking.
Mark doesn’t pay them any attention. He doesn't want to think about what happened. He heads to the elevator as soon as he is able to.
The next day, he feels apparently rested enough to let Petey corner him at lunchtime. They sit at the table in the kitchenette, each clutching a box of blueberries.
"Ms. Cobel thought it was some sort of stress related breakdown," he says, eating.
"Is it about the deadline?"
"I don't know, I don't think so," Mark says, finishing the blueberries. Petey hands him his own box right away, even when Mark tries to refuse it.
"They said they were going to talk to my Outie," he mutters, rotating the box in his hands. "They think he didn't sleep.”
Petey frowns. "That's good, right? That's what you wanted."
Mark shakes his head. "I thought he- or, I-" He cuts himself off, breathes out. "I don't know. I just- I want things to be normal.”
Petey looks thoughtful for a moment, then he leans forward.
"Hey," Petey says, gently, his hand covering Mark's. Mark’s eyes automatically fly up to the camera watching the kitchenette, but he leans in to the touch all the same.
”Name a place,” Petey whispers, almost conspiratorial in his tone.
”What?” Mark asks, smiling, slightly taken aback.
”Name a place you’d want to go, in the Outie world.”
”Uh,” Mark chuckles, thinking. "What, like Miami?" He asks, jokingly.
"Yeah, like Miami," Petey chuckles. "Come on."
The general concept of a beach floats up to the surface of his mind. ”I guess the beach.”
Petey looks impressed. “I could go for a swim.”
Mark laughs. “What would that even feel like?” He wonders aloud, amazed, trying his best to picture something he apparently already knows, yet his mind comes up short.
”Remember when the toilet broke?” Petey asks, delighted.
The memory flashes in Mark’s mind’s eye and he laughs. "And we all took our shoes off and stepped in the puddle?”
“Made the Break Room trip worth it,” Petey says, laughing. The mention of the Break Room stymies Mark’s laughter. He tries to say something, but the sight of Mr. Milchick standing by the door silences him.
”Refiners,” Mr. Milchick says, face always stuck in a perpetual smile. Mark can feel his own smile slowly evaporating, but his hands are still warm; Petey is still holding his palm above them.
”It’s past nine-thirty, you should be at your desks. How are you feeling, Mark S.?”
"I’m fine,” Mark says, keeping his voice and smile casual. “Thanks, Mr. Milchick.”
Mr. Milchick chuckles. “Glad to hear. Your Outie extends his apologies; it appears he was struck by a bad case of food poisoning.”
Mark nods politely. As far as management is concerned, the issue has been put to bed.
Mr. Milchick gazes at them for a beat, then promptly leaves the kitchenette without another word. Petey is watching him walk out, then turns back to face Mark.
Mark meets his eyes, expecting to see the usual, inviting warmth; instead, there is fire.
"Petey?”
Gradually, the fire extinguishes. They look at each other for a moment, Petey's warm hand still over Mark's. Eventually, Petey breaks first, pats Mark's cheek, takes a blueberry and returns to his desk.
Mark lets his thoughts meander back to work, back to his reality, away from treacherous dreams about the beach. After yesterday’s events, they'll probably be sending him to Wellness every day now. He's never going to finish his file on time.
Mark doesn't go to Wellness for a long time. Petey makes him refiner of the quarter.
Mark Scout watches a man die in front of him outside a lonely gas station and the first thing he does is cover his tracks. Afterward, he tries to forget he ever existed. He compartmentalizes everything he’s heard over the course of the day he got to know him and tries his best to ignore it all.
Until he goes to his funeral. He isn’t exactly sure what compelled him to go there in the first place; Mark isn’t great with funerals.
Soon, he knows he's about to lose it. Everything is overwhelming and he has to leave. It’s all too much. It’s all too painful. His legs feel like jelly, leading him back to the car.
He has to see it again. It’s the only thing that makes it real.
The tree is still there, plain as day. The only sign of anything that might have happened is a roll of caution tape all around the trunk.
If only it knew what it had done. But nature is indifferent to Mark’s pain. The rustling of the leaves almost sounds like whispers in the night.
Gemma is dead, sleeping under the snow. Tape around a tree and his memories is all he has left. He touches the trunk, his nails scraping against the rough bark. Mark cries and his tears burn.
Later, when he's sat on the couch, drink in hand, mindlessly changing channels on the TV, the image of Petey falling to his knees flashes uninvited in his mind’s eye and his stomach clenches with the thought he's been dreading; that the odd, ill man he felt inexplicably comfortable enough with to let in his house, had maybe been telling him the truth.
Mark huffs. So, what? He thinks, despite the pang of guilt he feels about it. What good would that do the man now, that Mark would be more open to his ramblings? He is dead. It doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters.
He downs the glass. If he squinted, maybe he could almost make her shape out in the floating dust.
The room is as empty as it ever was.