“Just fucking nothing, Petey, that shit’s magic,” Mark gushes. “I felt–calm, you know? Like all of me just… relaxed. I get so, you know–” he hunches up his shoulders in a mockery of his own usual anxious posture. “It just went away. Even my hands weren’t shaking.” He holds up his right hand. There’s no tremor there, not this early in the day, but by 4pm Mark will be gripping his mouse with white knuckles to hide it.
From the fic, “On Waffle Parties” by EightMinutestoSunrise. What if the Waffle Parties are tailored to the desires of each refiner’s outie? Mark S. gets a Waffle Party and everything hurts. Broke my freaking heart, and I had to draw it as I had pictured it.
Mark S. suffers from a mysterious illness, and his terminal only wants to show him the kind of numbers that make him feel like crying. He just wishes he knew why.
(4000 words. Angst, hurt/comfort - okay, a lot more hurt than comfort - sickfic, grief. Warning for alcoholism and emetophobia.)
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Mark S. opened his eyes, and he was himself again.
Sort of. Why did he feel like shit?
The elevator eased to its stop with a slight sway he normally scarcely noticed, but today, his head swam with the motion. He reached out, grabbing the handrail for support and swallowing back a wave of nausea.
Am I sick? he wondered. His head ached with a dull throb, and his mouth felt desperately, horribly dry. He tried to remember if he’d ever been sick before. He racked his brain for memories, though the effort tired him.
No, he’d never been sick before, not unless you counted the elevator allergy. He usually carried the allergy – if that’s what it was – in puffy eyes and a stuffy nose, and a hollowness somewhere beneath his breastbone. He took a deep breath. He did feel those things, but they had combined with something much more visceral, something roiling in his head and gut. This was different. New.
Perhaps it was just an extra bad attack. The thought heartened him. Allergy or not, the puffy eyes and the hollow feeling always tended to lift after a few minutes on the severed floor. Mark squinted against the bright fluorescent lights as the doors opened. Maybe he just needed a little time.
He stepped out into the white hallways, running one hand along the closest wall. He knew he wasn’t supposed to. The handbook was very clear that walls and other surfaces were to be kept clean and free of unsightly smudges. Still, he felt better with his hand there for support. He made his way carefully down the hallway, the white walls and floor and ceiling blurring and swimming as he walked.
It took him twice as long as usual to reach the shelter of MDR. He dragged himself across the threshold, hoping the others wouldn’t notice anything.
Dylan glanced up at him and instantly recoiled. “Wow, dude. You look terrible.”
Lumon requires company clothing for all severed workers. As with everything they do, there is a process. Mark Scout gets fitted.
1731 words, angst at a remove. Set just prior to Mark undergoing Severance.
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Alice glanced up at the clock above the front door of the shop. She checked her list of appointments at her desk, nodding to herself as she finished her last swig of coffee. Yes. Her 10:15 should be arriving any moment now.
She waited at the register near the front door, smoothing the front of her sleek gray pencil skirt. She considered her selection of men’s clothing options, running through the possibilities and wondering what sort of apparel the man might favor. Sometimes the appointments were given with high levels of detail, other times, she was merely given a name. She almost preferred the latter. She could daydream much more effectively without pesky details in the way.
Five minutes later, though, she had lost interest in hypotheticals. The gentleman was late. Grumbling quietly, she wondered if she should go put on another pot of coffee.
A knock came at the front door just as she had decided to brew another pot. Relieved, she turned back to the register and buzzed the man in with the blue button on the desk.
“Mr. Mark Scout?” Alice asked politely as he swung the door open. A shaft of sunlight from outside bathed him momentarily in gold before he closed the door. Alice blinked, both at the sudden sunlight and the quick return to muted fluorescence.
“Uh, yeah.” He pulled an official Lumon appointment card out of his pocket, and she winced, taking in his outfit. His black suit hung off his narrow frame, ill-fitting and clearly unlaundered since the last time it had been worn. Oh, dear. There was work to be done here.
I see that just as Dragon Age taught me about fantasy armor and The Mandalorian taught me about space armor, so too will Severance learn me a thing about business wear
“Just fucking nothing, Petey, that shit’s magic,” Mark gushes. “I felt–calm, you know? Like all of me just… relaxed. I get so, you know–” he hunches up his shoulders in a mockery of his own usual anxious posture. “It just went away. Even my hands weren’t shaking.” He holds up his right hand. There’s no tremor there, not this early in the day, but by 4pm Mark will be gripping his mouse with white knuckles to hide it.
From the fic, “On Waffle Parties” by EightMinutestoSunrise. What if the Waffle Parties are tailored to the desires of each refiner’s outie? Mark S. gets a Waffle Party and everything hurts. Broke my freaking heart, and I had to draw it as I had pictured it.
![ilariaminions:[Y]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f6c01c95c640545e7757d2e7ab39e8c5/tumblr_mqqp4sgCfn1ro9ezbo1_400.gif "ilariaminions:[Y]")
![ilariaminions:[Y]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/514b5c3d347087b40221506457ce63e1/tumblr_mqqp4sgCfn1ro9ezbo2_400.gif "ilariaminions:[Y]")
