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For some reason, Mark had expected the reintegration to work a whole lot faster. But Reghabi had reminded him that it had taken Petey two whole weeks to reach the state Mark had seen him in, and the transition might be even more gradual this time because she was trying not to kill another one of her patients.
He’d protested at that at first, of course— two more weeks unable to get into Lumon meant two more weeks Gemma would be trapped there, he couldn’t just sit around waiting for the reintegration to work— but then Reghabi just asked him very plainly if he had a death wish. She was right, unfortunately. All his death would do at this point is seal Gemma’s fate.
So now, he just waits. He wakes up, he goes to work, he comes home from work, he drinks himself to sleep, all as before. Nothing has changed. Before he left for the day, Milchick had given him paperwork for something called an ORTBO. He would need to purchase a Lumon-approved set of winter wear. Everything is perfectly normal, perfectly as it was. He never makes it all the way down the elevator. The only reminder Mark ever gets that anything happened at all, that the whole reintegration procedure wasn’t just a weird dream, are the regular check ups with Reghabi and the occasional moments when the world flickers and he’s standing in a room with white walls and white lights. Sometimes Petey is looking at him, clean-shaven and grinning. Other times it’s a woman with red hair and a sharp frown. Her name is at the tip of his tongue, but every time he tries to say it it disappears.
Reghabi has advised him, in order to make sure his hippocampus is at least trying to work as it should, to ask himself five questions every morning. She has also advised him to write the questions down on a piece of paper, in case he forgets what they are or that he’s supposed to ask himself them. He’s taped it to the wall. When he wakes the morning of whatever an ORTBO is supposed to be, he sees the familiar paper and runs through the questions in his mind.
Who are you?
His name is Mark Daniel Scout. Daniel came from some relative on his father’s side of the family. He has no idea where his parents got Mark from.
In which US state or territory were you born?
Michigan, actually. They’d moved up here when he was small.
Name any US state or territory.
He says Wyoming this time. He doesn’t know why, but it feels right.
What is Mr. Eagan’s favorite breakfast?
This had been something they’d told him during orientation. He didn’t care, and he doesn’t care now, but he was pretty sure it had been something insanely stupid like raw eggs with milk. Maybe he should ask Reghabi, maybe she’d know. Or was the point that it was only the sort of thing his innie would know? Why would his innie care about the CEO’s weird fad diet? Whatever.
What is, or was, the color of your mother’s eyes?
His mom’s eyes had been brown. He remembers this time.
-
Mark stares at himself in the mirror of the bathroom of the Macrodata Refinement office for the first time, and it feels strangely underwhelming. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it feels wrong. He doesn’t know who he is, but he can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t it.
He’d begged the man from the conference room— Petey was his name, right?— to let him at least go to the bathroom, even though he’d said there was another step for his orientation. After he’d said no, Mark had threatened to piss his pants. Maybe he shouldn’t have done that, he thinks for a second, but he decides it doesn’t matter. If the guy hadn’t trapped him here, maybe he’d be a bit more worried about making a good first impression.
It’s not like there was any actual danger of him pissing his pants, anyway. All he wanted was the mirror. He’d woken up with no idea who he was, no idea what he looked like. (Petey had said his name was Mark S., but it didn’t feel quite right either. What if Petey was just lying to him and his name was something totally different?) He’d wanted to at least see for himself what he looked like, have something certain about his identity. Now all he has is this. Too-long hair crusty with gel, like he’d used too much of it trying to look professional for his first day. A dark blue suit that fit strangely on him. A plain, boring watch.
On impulse, he leans closer into the mirror. The overhead lighting makes it difficult, shrouding his face in shadow, but he gets a better look at his eyes. They’re sunken and ringed with dark circles, horribly bloodshot from waking up alone in the conference room.
They’re brown. Maybe his mother’s are too.
(When he comes out from the bathroom, Petey and a woman named Cobel lead him to a television and play a video of a man with the same too-long hair, the same suit, and the same eyes. The man tells him that his name is Mark S., that he has consented to undergo the procedure known as severance, and that he makes these statements freely. It’s the strangest thing he’s ever heard, even though he can only remember hearing very few things and most of them have been strange. He doesn’t want to believe it for a second. But what other choice does he have?)