#my macrodata refinement
As you all know I’ve been rabid for Severance the past few weeks, and I’ve been mulling over various theories, ideas and character arcs. But I did notice that food is a running theme on the show: food, its absence, its uses, its meaning.
Severance is a show about connections, what happens when we lose or lack them, and how we can grow by developing these connections and relationships to other. Food is often used as shorthand for community and togetherness, and Severance uses food – or the lack of it – to help underscore these bonds, whether broken or whole.
Mark, a grieving, alcoholic widower, is rarely shown to eat. His normal post-work routine is beer or whiskey or wine on the couch. There’s no montage of him even making a lonely bachelor dinner. He typically eschews food entirely outside of his interactions with others.
When Devon tries to pull him out of his house and away from himself, knowing the anniversary of his wife’s death is approaching, they find themselves in a dinnerless dinner party, a pretentious, masturbatory bit of nonsense. The participants describe food as mere fuel for higher things, and not worthy of weight in and of itself. But these are hollow people, tactless and empty. Their relationships are plastic. There is nothing real about them, and thus, nothing real about their “dinner party.”
The only real relationship that is explored here is Mark and Devon’s.
Which is where we see the healthiest, freshest, and most filling meal of the show, lit with golden warmth, made by Devon and given to Mark. Their relationship is real, their connections are real. Their food is real. Devon asks Mark about therapy (he’s not going) and Mark drinks from a hip flask (he’s ill, but doesn’t feel a need to hide it from Devon). The food in this scene underlines the strength of their bond.
Mark’s other attempts at meals go less well. Mrs. Selvig/Cobel nearly force feeds him cookies; he eats them out of politeness, but the batch of burned ones in her kitchen shows that the effort to connect in this way is doomed. He goes to Pip’s VIP area and is accosted by Petey before his food ever arrives. Later he and Petey share a pizza, but we don’t see Mark eating, and the pizza looks sad and listless. Petey is trying to form a connection with him, but Mark is unable or unwilling to reciprocate.
A relationship that Mark does truly try to cultivate is that with Alexa. However, it doesn’t go well. His first date with Alexa is entirely foodless, though he orders a second whiskey while they sit with empty plates. He ruins the date later by aggressively arguing with people downtown, his defensiveness fueled by whiskey, and heads home alone for a beer.
The best he manages to do with Alexa is to decline alcohol at his second dinner with her and enjoy some fries – and this is their healthiest interaction, where they mutually extend the date and Alexa comes home with him. Food as connection.
Contrast ordering whiskey number 2 in an empty restaurant on their first date, with being good with only water and having at least fries in a restaurant that shows more warmth, more liveliness, other couples. It’s a healthier step, and one that almost gets Mark to a better place, until he runs out on Alexa in the middle of the night.
His worst meal, and the only time we see himself having his own food in his house, is when he scours the news for information on Graner’s murder, makes an ass of himself to Alexa, tears up Gemma’s photo, and grieves her more than ever. This is not sustaining. This is not healthy. It’s a fucking bag of potato chips and a bottle of whiskey for dinner.
In contrast, innie Mark doesn’t fare much better. The food at Lumon is doled out purely as soulless rewards for work the innies must perform. The food is precisely regulated, either with tokens or with Milchick’s falsely cheerful deliveries of bizarrely regimented melons and eggs. Lunches are provided and noted on the list of the senior refiner’s duties, but we never see the innies get to enjoy them, if they are indeed enjoyable. Food is fuel. Food is incentive. Food is out of their control.
Even the vaunted waffle party, lauded all season, requires taking a refiner away from their team so they can eat alone, where they then put on a mask and watch other people in masks. Food as separation. Food as distance. Food that encourages distance rather than fostering closeness.
But slowly, the innies begin to band together. They realize their prison is cold and cruel, that they have been deprived of basic, vital, precious relationships. Helly realizes that her own escape is not enough, and she wants the others to find freedom too. Dylan realizes corporate incentives mean nothing in the face of his son’s embrace — and he insists the others deserve the same chance to experience their own lives. Mark begins to realize through Ricken’s book and their new experiences that self-worth and community are vital goals. And Irving realizes his love for Burt is beautiful, Kier be damned.
The egg bar, coveted as fuck, is actually good. So is their teamwork. Their friendship. Their connections, finally recognized by all of them as more important than punishment or toeing the line or making it through another day.
So they plan their rebellion, their chance to break through to the outside world, to honor their mutual struggle and their bond. Dylan gazes upon his reward, a glass cube of all of them united; and Irving, excited, determined, triumphant, says:
“Let’s find out what’s for dinner.”
The News (Severance)
“Sorry?”
It was stupid, the first word out of his mouth. He blinked at the police officer at his door.
The woman’s mouth moved. Words fell into the air. He heard some of them, and others vanished.
Wife
Gemma
Accident
Mark stood with his hand on the doorknob, and it fell on him like a hammer blow, a cold weight that dropped into his gut and his legs and his bare feet. He was clammy, blinking, lost.
“Accident?” he tried. “She… Is she okay?”
His mind went blank. He shivered and didn’t stop. Something happened, more talking, they wrote things down. They recommended he call somebody.
Hand on the phone. He knew how to do this. Devon’s voice. “Mark, hey, what’s up?”
She didn’t know.
She didn’t know and he was supposed to tell her. The police officer was a dark blur on the threshold.
“Mark?”
“It’s Gemma,” he started, and his voice gave out. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Tried not to throw up. “They - they said I have to go, I have to see her — before she —“
“Mark, what are you talking about? What happened to Gemma? Oh my god, Mark, what happened? Are you okay?”
“She was driving — They said there was an accident — They said it’s bad, Devon — She’s at the hospital —“
She asked questions. He didn’t know. The blood rushed in his ears, a fuzzy droning roar. He was going to be sick. He was going to run. He was going to cry. He was going to collapse.
He didn’t do any of those things.
He told Devon which hospital and he got in the car and he went. He didn’t remember how he got there, but he went.
He just had flashes. Her hand, swollen and bandaged, cold and still. Her hair, sticky with blood that they had tried to clean and failed. Her face, sweet and ruined and empty.
The machines beeped for a while until they didn’t. Devon sobbed on his shoulder. Ricken sobbed on hers. Mark cried until his head throbbed and he couldn’t breathe and a man in a white coat with a blue pin told them it was over.
She was over.
His hand did things with paperwork. People said things that Devon wrote down. He nodded but he had no idea what they had said.
They walked out of the hospital, and the sun rose over the hills and the trees. It was beautiful. He wanted to set all of it on fire. He put his hand in his pocket and felt her wedding ring, cut in two when her hand swelled so badly, and he knew that he was over, too.
The News (Severance)
“Sorry?”
It was stupid, the first word out of his mouth. He blinked at the police officer at his door.
The woman’s mouth moved. Words fell into the air. He heard some of them, and others vanished.
Wife
Gemma
Accident
Mark stood with his hand on the doorknob, and it fell on him like a hammer blow, a cold weight that dropped into his gut and his legs and his bare feet. He was clammy, blinking, lost.
“Accident?” he tried. “She… Is she okay?”
His mind went blank. He shivered and didn’t stop. Something happened, more talking, they wrote things down. They recommended he call somebody.
Hand on the phone. He knew how to do this. Devon’s voice. “Mark, hey, what’s up?”
She didn’t know.
She didn’t know and he was supposed to tell her. The police officer was a dark blur on the threshold.
“Mark?”
“It’s Gemma,” he started, and his voice gave out. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Tried not to throw up. “They - they said I have to go, I have to see her — before she —“
“Mark, what are you talking about? What happened to Gemma? Oh my god, Mark, what happened? Are you okay?”
“She was driving — They said there was an accident — They said it’s bad, Devon — She’s at the hospital —“
She asked questions. He didn’t know. The blood rushed in his ears, a fuzzy droning roar. He was going to be sick. He was going to run. He was going to cry. He was going to collapse.
He didn’t do any of those things.
He told Devon which hospital and he got in the car and he went. He didn’t remember how he got there, but he went.
He just had flashes. Her hand, swollen and bandaged, cold and still. Her hair, sticky with blood that they had tried to clean and failed. Her face, sweet and ruined and empty.
The machines beeped for a while until they didn’t. Devon sobbed on his shoulder. Ricken sobbed on hers. Mark cried until his head throbbed and he couldn’t breathe and a man in a white coat with a blue pin told them it was over.
She was over.
His hand did things with paperwork. People said things that Devon wrote down. He nodded but he had no idea what they had said.
They walked out of the hospital, and the sun rose over the hills and the trees. It was beautiful. He wanted to set all of it on fire. He put his hand in his pocket and felt her wedding ring, cut in two when her hand swelled so badly, and he knew that he was over, too.
ghosts (Severance)
Devon grieves after the accident. Sometimes it feels like she’s grieving two deaths.
Mark & Devon sibling relationship, Devon & Gemma friendship, angst, alcoholism, grief. 2400 words, set not long before episode 1.
-
Sometimes Devon wonders if Mark died in the accident after all.
It’s a ghoulish thought. One that doesn’t even make sense. She tries telling herself this when it strikes her in the middle of the night, Ricken snoring gently beside her, the bedroom big and dark and empty.
Mark hadn’t even been there. Gemma had been on her own, driving home from a late night grading at the campus library. She’d hit a patch of black ice. Then the tree. Mark had been at home, asleep on the couch with pasta for Gemma waiting in the microwave. He’d been… safe.
Still, here in the dark where anything seems possible, it’s a thought she can’t shake.
-
“I thought you were gonna put up some decorations in here. It’s kind of creepy, Mark. Like a prison cell. And please tell me you’re going to get some more lamps.”
Mark shrugged over his carton of fried rice, gesturing with his chopsticks as he swallowed his bite of food. “I dunno. It’s kind of growing on me. Maybe I’m just getting into minimalist decor.”
“Yeah, right. What about those tapestries you guys used to have? Or pictures? All your band posters?” Devon pushed, glancing around Mark’s empty living room. The place looked like it came out of a college dorm catalog. A depressing one. “I mean, seriously. How do you even know it’s your house when you get home? I bet all the other houses on the row look exactly the same inside.”
“Mm, the electricity works on this one,” Mark pointed out. “Kind of a giveaway. Plus, my clothes are here.” He rummaged about in his rice, pulling out a shrimp and gazing at it, held between the tips of his chopsticks. “I just… haven’t felt like it. Decorating.”
Devon frowned, and took another bite of orange chicken. “I’ll help, if you want. I could bring over frames. We could put on some music, make it a thing, swank the place up.”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s fine. I’ll get around to it.”
But Devon couldn’t help but remember Gemma’s art peeking around random corners in their old house, Mark’s framed music posters on the walls, clean warm sunlight slanting through the windows.
She nodded, though she knew that he was lying.
-
Devon laughed over her beer, tapping her foot and shifting her shoulders to the beat. “Damn, I haven’t heard this song in a thousand years.”
“When did it come out? College?” Mark asked, nodding his head very slightly along with the driving bass.
“Speak for yourself, old man. I was a senior in high school.”
“Sorry, shrimp,” Mark chuckled, and she allowed herself a secret smile, a warm glow starting in her chest. For a moment, he looked like himself again, a spark gleaming through the shadows she’d grown used to seeing beneath his eyes.
“Can’t believe this plays on the oldies station now,,” she grumbled.
“Not oldies. Classics,” Mark corrected. “Christ, way to really make me feel old.” He plopped onto the couch beside her, kicking his feet up. “You must be feeling lonely with Ricken on his book tour. What is this, the second one? Glad I could come by and cheer you up.”
“It’s the fourth book.” She grinned at him. “Nice to have you around, though. Like old times. The two Scout kids, double trouble.”
The song ended, and a new one came on. Only a few bars played before she remembered the last time she’d heard it. Oh, fuck. She stared at him, frozen, wondering if she should get up and turn off the music or pretend that she hadn’t noticed what was playing.
“She always loved this stupid song,” Mark whispered, and the spark in his eyes faded, replaced by a blank, bitter look. He drained his beer, shoulders heaving, breathing hard. He got to his feet and crossed the distance to the kitchen. “Want another?” he asked, face hidden by the refrigerator door, his voice cracking.
Devon blinked back tears, getting to her feet. “Mark, are you okay? It’s okay to not be. I miss her too, man.” She joined him by the fridge, reaching out and patting his back.
He stiffened under her touch on his shoulders, and she pulled away, letting her hand fall by her side.
He turned away from the fridge, beer in hand, his gaze casting about for the bottle opener. “I mean, these lyrics are so cliche,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a shit song. It’s always been a shit song.”
“Mark –”
He opened the beer and drained a third of it in a few gulps. “Anyway, how’s Ricken’s tour going?”
-
Devon got out of the car, walking through the ankle-deep snow up the hill. She walked at a brisk pace, her breath puffing out in thick white clouds as she walked. The dove-gray sky, looming with the threat of new snow, pressed heavily upon her.
The cemetery was nearly silent between the snow and the early morning hour. The only sounds were the trudging of her own footsteps through the crisp snow, and the calls and songs of the few birds that didn’t mind the cold. She hugged the flowers in her arms closer, shivering even in her best coat.
Gemma’s grave was in a quiet, wayback part of the cemetery, near a stately old pine and a patch of dormant rosebushes. Devon noticed a few trails of other footsteps, only half-filled in by the newly falling snow, coming to the same area. Mark had told her he didn’t want company on Gemma’s birthday, but she still hoped that maybe they’d run into each other out here.
Maybe he’d finally talk to her. Instead of the thing they usually did, where she tried to prod him and he shut down even more.
It’s not good for you to be alone, dammit.
Yeah? I have to do this my own way. You can’t fix it for me.
She let out a long sigh. He was such a stubborn bastard, sometimes. Just like she was. Probably why her efforts weren’t working.
She stopped beneath the furthest reaches of the old pine, gazing down at Gemma’s grave marker, flecked with snow. Gemma Scout, beloved wife and dear friend.
And best sister-in-law ever, Devon thought. That part had been too awkward and clunky to include on the marker. It was true, though.
She smiled at what already adorned the marker; a little green candle that had burned down to its base, and a lush spray of blue irises and white lilies. Maybe Mark had already been here. She hoped for his sake he had.
She knelt down in the snow, gently setting down her own flowers, blue delphinium and yellow roses. She settled back on her heels, brushing the snow from the edges of the marker.
“I’m still pissed at you, Gemma,” Devon said into the silence. She swallowed. “Remember when we went on that girls’ trip? That little bed and breakfast way up in the hills? They gave the best fucking massages. I thought someday we might go up there again, ditch the guys and just get away from everything. I always loved those conversations we used to have. Weird philosophical shit. Shit we couldn’t talk about with all four of us.”
She sat back, pulling her knees up to her chin and hugging herself in the cold. “Why did…” She took a deep breath. “Why’d you stay so late that night?” she whispered. “You could’ve taken the grading home. Mark said you both did it all the time. He used to joke about your epic grading parties. What was different? Why didn’t you just come home?”
Devon bowed her head, cold tears streaking her cheeks. “You know I don’t believe in any of that afterlife crap. But if you could see what it’s been like without you – Dammit, Gemma, it feels like I lost both of you. And maybe it’s selfish of me to feel as shitty as I still do – I mean, you weren’t my wife – but I never said I was a saint.” She wiped her cheeks and blew her nose on the back of her glove. “He’s losing it, you know. He got this crazy severance thing done, and I think he’s blowing off his therapist – and every time I see him, he’s got a drink in his hand. LIke our dad. And I hateit!”
The word hate burst out of her with a loud cry, and she clapped her hand over her mouth, looking around. For a moment the birdsong stopped, and all she heard was the wind and the falling snow. At least she hadn’t disturbed anyone else. She sniffed.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “I haven’t even told Ricken yet. Just found out yesterday.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” she said softly. “I’m excited, and scared to death, and I wanna scream my head off about it and then go hide in the closet. Everything’s going to change. And I used to think – I don’t know. I don’t know how you and Mark got through the miscarriages. Maybe you’d be upset that I’m pregnant, maybe you’d just be happy, maybe both? But I don’t know because you’re not here. And that sucks, Gemma, it really, really sucks.”
She carefully adjusted the two sets of flowers, making sure they were centered and turned with their best sides facing out. She scrubbed at her face again. “You’d have been such a badass auntie.”
She clambered back to her feet, brushing the snow off her knees and butt. She shoved her hands in her coat pockets and drew up her hood. “I’ll take care of him,” she promised. “As much as he’ll let me.”
-
She knocked at his front door until her knuckles ached. Why the hell wasn’t he answering? He knew they had plans tonight, dinner and the dumb new sci-fi movie downtown. She rapped again, her hand throbbing.
A thought struck her and she tried the doorknob experimentally. She swore when it opened. Must have forgotten to lock it when he came home. She stepped inside, squinting at the shadowed hallway.
“Mark?” she called. “Hey asshole, we’re gonna be late for the movie!”
She stopped when she reached the living room, where the TV was blaring nonsense and Mark was asleep and snoring on the couch. No. Not asleep. There were two empty bottles of wine and a single glass on the end table.
Fuck.
She turned off the TV, the sudden silence like a gasp. She turned to her brother. “Mark.”
He lay there on his side, face burrowed into the arm of the couch, his rumpled shirt half riding up. Even from a few feet back she could smell the alcohol, and she didn’t think it was because of her superpowered pregnancy nose.
“Mark.”
She reached out and shook his shoulder. He blinked owlishly at her and raised his head slightly, groaning.
“Devon? What the – why’re you –”
The blood rushed to her face, and her hands shook. “We had plans, dipshit. What the hell happened? It’s five in the afternoon and you’re already passed out?”
Mark slowly hauled himself up to a sitting position, then slid down into a slump, groaning. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Must’ve lost track of time… We still going to the, the thing?”
“Of course we’re not! What were you doing? Why would you –” She glanced around and saw a tub full of books sitting next to the couch. She bent over to examine it, reaching in and touching a thick book with a handsome blue velvet cover. She pulled it out, her heart sinking as she realized she was looking at Mark and Gemma’s wedding album. She looked askance at him, and he flushed, a dull red color creeping into his cheeks and around his eyes.
“I was just trying to – to organize some things,” he rasped. “And I –” He shrugged. “I forgot that was in there, and I saw her, I saw us –” He hung his head. “I don’t know what to do, Devon, I can’t fucking do this.” He sounded near tears.
She nodded to herself, trying to stay calm. She moved the wine bottles to the floor and placed the wedding album on the end table, brushing a bit of dust from the cover. “It takes time, Mark,” Devon said, the anger draining out of her, replaced with a deep and profound regret. “Probably therapy that you aren’t going to. And a helluva lot less alcohol. It fucking sucks. I know it does.”
He was quiet. She could sense him trying to come up with some kind of argument as to how he knew what he was doing, how he was gonna be fine after all, how she shouldn’t lecture him.
But he couldn’t muster the words, and the silence between them stretched.
Devon’s eyes burned. She leaned down and gave him a hug, which he clumsily returned, holding onto her for a moment before his arms slid back down.
She smiled tearily at him. “Um, so, I’m not gonna… be around you, when you’re like this.” Boundaries. They were a good thing. Right? Her own therapist kept saying so. “But… drink some water. Take some ibuprofen. And we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
Mark’s mouth thinned, scrunched, his face twisting in an expression that had been all too familiar the past eighteen months. He looked up at her with puffy eyes, nodding. “I’m sorry,” he slurred softly. “’m really sorry.”
“Me too,” said Devon, and she walked past him, and out the front door, and back to her car. She slid into the driver’s seat. She stuck her key in the ignition. She buckled her seatbelt.
She rested her hands on the steering wheel, and she broke down sobbing.
-
Sometimes Devon wakes up in the night, her heart pounding, afraid that Mark died in the accident. It takes her a moment every time to come back to reality, to remember. She thinks of black ice and bare trees and the best sister-in-law ever.
She knows Mark wasn’t lost in the car accident. She knows it, sure and true in her veins, her bones, the beat of her heart. She knows she’s lucky. She knows she should be grateful to still have him, and she is.
She’s just not sure if she has her brother, or his ghost.
I’ve been writing up a storm for Severance so far! 5 fics in 9 days, it’s a problem Come join us on AO3! It’s a small fandom but the writing is A+++ from the other fics I’ve been checking out. And of course I always like my own stuff too . I’ve also been tagging everything I post here under ‘my macrodata refinement.’ Enjoy!
The Severed Floor - fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin - Severance (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
I’ve been writing up a storm for Severance so far! 5 fics in 9 days, it’s a problem Come join us on AO3! It’s a small fandom but the writing is A+++ from the other fics I’ve been checking out. And of course I always like my own stuff too . I’ve also been tagging everything I post here under ‘my macrodata refinement.’ Enjoy!
The Severed Floor - fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin - Severance (TV) [Archive of Our Own]
the way we get by (Severance)
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.)
-
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.”
the way we get by (Severance)
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.)
-
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.”
So much for that hope. “I feel like ass,” Mark mumbled. “Do I have a fever?”
“How the hell would I know? Are you delirious? This is weird.” Dylan rolled his chair around to Mark’s desk, hooking one foot around the base of Mark’s chair to slide it toward him. Mark sank onto it gratefully.
Irving came out of the restroom, bright and chipper as always. “Hey, kids, what’s for —“ He frowned, his mustache turning down at the edges. “Mark, what was your outie thinking, bringing you here at a time like this?”
Mark hunched in his chair, his stomach cramping unpleasantly. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to miss work? He didn’t want to miss work?” He rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the pounding behind his eyes. He took a deep breath. “It’ll be fine. Maybe I just need some coffee.”
“We should tell Petey,” said Irving to Dylan. “This isn’t right. He can’t work like this.”
“It’s like the elevator allergy times a thousand,” Dylan agreed. “Dude’s a mess. Did someone kick the shit out of his outie?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Mark groaned, switching his terminal on. It powered up with a hum, and he trawled through the files, opening up Hahamongna on autopilot. The numbers pulsed at him like a heartbeat. One glinted in the corner, partially obscured, but he knew what kind it was. He scrolled away from it reflexively, breathing a little faster. No. He didn’t want that kind of number today.
He narrowed his eyes, trying to limit the amount of light that came through. Had the overhead lights always been thisbright? He realized that Dylan and Irving were still talking.
“Mark, I know you wish to do Kier’s work, but you should rest. We’ll try to determine the best course of action,” said Irving patiently. He turned to Dylan. “Would it kill you to show a littlecompassion?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth. Dylan let out a heave of a sigh at the admonishment, throwing his hands up.
“Just calling it like I see it, man.”
Irving leaned over Mark’s desk and started fretting, nibbling his lower lip and rocking slightly on the heels of his shoes. “I’m surprised Petey’s not back yet. He’ll know what to do.”
“Where is he, anyway?” Mark asked. If nothing else, maybe Petey could make the others knock off the bickering for a while.
“Weekly meeting with Cobel, remember?” Dylan said. He gave Mark a skeptical look. “You must be out of it. You always remember that shit.”
“Sorry I have bigger things to worry about, like my skull trying to explode,” Mark muttered. He got to his feet, the room swinging slightly around him. “There’d better be some coffee left.” He crossed the distance to the kitchenette, sniffing. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled his nostrils, cutting slightly through the fog in his head.
He made a cup of coffee with cream and sugar, hands trembling badly enough to spill creamer on the counter. He swore under his breath. He knew he was supposed to wipe it up, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to care, no matter what the handbook said. He took a gulp of the steaming coffee —
He felt cold. It descended upon him, that awful hollow feeling that followed him out of the elevator so often. It settled in his chest like it belonged there, mingling with the nausea and the headache and the cotton-mouth. He stood there, blinking back tears, wishing that he could give it a name.
“Oh jeez, Mark, they weren’t kidding,” said Petey from the doorway. “What the hell happened to you? You were fine yesterday.” Mark turned to him, moving in a daze. How long had he been standing there? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog.
“No idea. Woke up like this. I must look fucking pathetic,” Mark said, trying to crack a smile through the teary feeling that still lingered. Petey raised his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline, clearly not impressed.
“You want me to talk to Milchick?” Petey asked in a low voice. “He could look you over. Maybe your outie needs to sleep it off.”
“Sleep what off?” He felt like he knew what Petey was getting at – it was at the tip of his tongue – but the thought slipped away before he could get a handle on it.
“I don’t know. That’s just something people say, right? Man. You really do look out of it,” Petey said, frowning.
“Just leave me alone,” said Mark irritably, waving a hand. He took another drink of coffee. His stomach rumbled again uncomfortably, and he hoped Petey hadn’t heard.
He shoved past Petey, going back to his desk. Dylan and Irving gave him weird looks that he ignored. Feeling like shit was bad enough, but everyone fussing over him was worse. He dropped back into his seat, staring at the numbers.
The numbers.
They were important, weren’t they? He should just focus on the work. Ignore the headache, which had settled over one eye and now drubbed rhythmically at him in the background. Ignore the way the coffee churned in his gut. Ignore the —
He fixated on the number winking on his screen. This wasn’t one of the scary numbers, nor one of the sharp cruel ones that made him want to hurt somebody, nor the rare numbers that glimmered joyfully amongst the rest. This was one of the sorrow-numbers, and it crawled into his bones. It felt… right, and it felt terrible.
His hand jerked forward to the familiar keyboard, and he fenced it off, organized it, as quickly as he could. The little box received its delivery willingly. Mark watched it go, relieved, hoping he wouldn’t get another one of those today.
He took another drink of coffee, and his gut spasmed. His eyes widened. Oh, hell.
He got to his feet and dashed to the bathroom, barely making it into the closest stall before he threw up his coffee and some kind of half-digested breakfast.
He stood there with his hands gripping his thighs painfully hard, hovering over the toilet in case it happened again. He flung his tie up over his shoulder. Sweat beaded on his head, saliva pooled in his mouth, and he threw up again, doubling over.
He leaned against the wall and slid down to his knees, breathing hard. He grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and dabbed cautiously at his mouth, willing himself to keep whatever was left in his stomach down. Fuck.
The bathroom door opened and he heard Petey’s voice. “Mark, enough’s enough. I’m getting Milchick. Your outie needs to step up and deal with this.” He came closer, and Mark flushed the toilet, embarrassed and not wanting Petey to see.
The stall door he’d forgotten to lock swung open, just enough for Petey to look in at him. “Sorry, man. Hey, here’s some water. Try to drink some, okay? You just hang out here until I get Milchick. Don’t worry about the fucking numbers today.”
Mark reached up to take the water, suddenly aware of how pathetic he must look, huddled on the floor by the toilet. “Petey –”
But the words stuck in his mouth, and Petey just gave him a worried smile before leaving him alone.
-
He was feeling… better. Not great. Not even decent. But the nausea and the stomach cramping seemed to have faded once he’d gotten sick, the water had helped, and now he felt strong enough to get back to his feet, leave the stall, and wash his face.
He caught sight of himself in the mirror. “Fuck.” So thatwas why everyone had known right away that he was sick. Swollen eyes, the rings beneath them purplish under the fluorescent lights, greeted him. His face was somehow both pale and flushed, and his hair was badly mussed, the long edges that always tickled his neck sticking out at weird angles. Overall he just looked like shit. He splashed water on his face and tried to smooth down his hair.
The door opened, and Mr. Milchick’s smiling face poked in. His brows knit together with genuine concern. “Mark S., I’m so sorry to hear you’ve taken ill. You’ve never been sick before.”
“It’s nothing,” said Mark, fully aware of how his reflection still looked like crap. He stood up straight, though that seemed to aggravate the headache again.
“Nonsense. Let’s take a walk, Mark. We can have your outie assessed by Medical. If you’re sick, we need to take care of you. After all, you’re part of the Lumon family.” Mr. Milchick gave him one of those warm looks that Mark knew he couldn’t argue with, and he allowed Milchick to lead him out of the restroom.
Irving looked as if he’d feared Mark had already died; the relief on his face was palpable. Dylan just gave him a silent, solemn nod. Petey smiled ruefully. “Hope you get some rest, buddy.”
“See ya tomorrow.”
“Rest well, Mark.”
“Thanks, guys. See you next time.”
He trailed after Milchick, realizing after a moment that they were taking the way to the stairs and not the elevator. He wondered, not for the first time, what the building above them was like. Was there a medical wing up the stairs? Why wouldn’t they take the elevator?
Why didn’t innies have Medical on their floor –
But that was skating too close to forbidden thinking, and questions too big and hard for his aching head to deal with. He let the thought fade and followed Milchick willingly into the stairwell.
-
Mark S. stepped back into the white hallway, confused. Mr. Milchick stood before him, wearing one of those big, kind smiles he so favored. “I’m sorry, Mark S. I know you weren’t expecting to be back today. Let me assure you that your outie went to Medical at my request, and they determined that your condition is neither serious, nor contagious. In fact, you’re already starting to feel better. When your outie heard this good news, he decided to come back and finish his shift. Tomorrow I’m sure you’ll feel right as rain.”
“It’s not contagious?” Mark asked thickly, trying to pinpoint how he felt. It was always disorienting, the first few seconds after entering the severed floor. He realized that he did feel a little better, though. The pounding headache was fading into the background, leaving him feeling sluggish and tired but not nearly as sick as before. He tasted something minty and fresh, and his mouth didn’t feel nearly as dry. “Then what is it?”
He rubbed his chest, swallowing. He just wished Medical had been able to do something about the hollow part.
“I’m sorry, Mark, but you know I cannot give you private information about your outie,” said Mr. Milchick. He raised one hand, gesturing in the direction of MDR. “I’m sure if you just stay well-hydrated, you’ll continue to feel better throughout the day. Won’t that be great? Besides, I hear that you’re at twenty-three percent on the Hahamongna file. This might be your lucky day to reach twenty-five percent. I bet you’re dying to get that fingertrap!”
“Right,” said Mark as they began to walk. “That’d be… nice.” He thought of the three other fingertraps stuffed in the back of his desk drawer. What did anybody need more than one fingertrap for?
They reached MDR and Mr. Milchick came inside with him, clearing his throat for one of his announcements. “Hello again, MDR Refiners! Now, I know you’ve all been concerned about Mark S.” Irving and Dylan nodded, and Petey sat back in his chair, watching Milchick.
“I’m here to let you know that he’s feeling much better, and he’ll be able to finish his day out with all of you. We truly appreciate that your team was so attentive to him while he was feeling ill.” Mr. Milchick beamed at them. “This is why MDR is my favoritedepartment. Your camaraderie is truly a testament to the benevolence we all strive for here at Lumon.” He smiled broadly at Mark, clapping him on the shoulder. “Keep up the great work!” he said as he left them alone.
Dylan glared at Mark suspiciously as soon as Milchick left. “Did you really get checked out?”
“Well, I left,” said Mark, shrugging. He let out a long breath. “And I came back. I figure if my outie really felt that bad he would have gone home.” He made his way to his desk, pushing aside the half-full cup of coffee to where he didn’t have to look at it. “Milchick said it’s not contagious, anyway. And I do feel a little better.”
“It’s fucked that they wouldn’t make your outie go home after you ralphed everywhere,” Dylan said.
“I didn’t – come on, I made it to the bathroom,” Mark protested.
“Well, there was a little splatter,” said Petey. He waved a hand as Mark opened his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. I took care of it.”
“Jeez. Sorry.”
“All part of the glamorous side of being Senior Refiner,” Petey said sagely. “But I agree with Dylan. It is kinda weird. Remember when Irv was sick?”
“My outie went back home to rest as soon as he realized, if you’ll recall,” said Irving. “I wonder why yours did not do the same.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Mark, rubbing his head where the last of the headache lingered. He groaned. “Well, hell. Maybe I’ll hit twenty-five percent today after all.”
“Way ahead of you, my dude. Thirty-two percent. Suck it,” said Dylan.
“No one likes a braggart, Dylan.”
“Guys, knock it off. Let Mark concentrate. He doesn’t need your color commentary.”
The sound of keys tap-tapping, mixed with the regular BS of his teammates, started to put him into a lull. He slumped low in his chair and hid behind the green walls and stared at his screen. At least he knew what to expect now. The worst of the sickness, or whatever it was, was over and he could just focus on the work. That’s what he was here for, wasn’t it?
The numbers ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed, dancing across his terminal. He knew how to do this. He focused, trying to find those flickers of emotion – fear, joy, hatred – hiding amongst the data. He just hoped he could avoid —
The numbers coalesced, their meaning both clear and ineffable. The hollow feeling pulled at him, constricting his chest, making it hard to breathe.
No. He didn’t want thesenumbers. Not these numbers that seemed to crawl inside his skull, not these numbers that felt so raw, not these numbers he somehow knew – Tears filled his eyes, and he let out a stifled sob.
He clapped his hand over his mouth, hoping desperately the others hadn’t heard him. He pushed back away from his terminal and stood up with his coffee cup. “Time for a refill!” he sputtered, and hurried to the kitchenette, wiping his face.
What’s wrong with me?
What’s wrong with us?
He turned the question over in his mind, breathing quickly. You’re not allowed to think that. You’re not allowed to knowthat. He shoved his cup under the faucet and rinsed it out, the water painfully hot on his hands. He didn’t mind. It felt real, at least, realer than the numbers, the fading headache, the exhaustion.
Fuck. Five o’clock could not come too soon.
-
Mark Scout’s hands gripped the steering wheel on the way home, his knuckles white and aching. Not that he wanted to go home. Not that home felt like one. But it was somewhere to go, and he kept driving.
Sometimes eight hours just wasn’t long enough.
Especially when the relief of the day’s nothingness was interrupted with a visit to Medical. That had been new. His cheeks flushed at the memory. He’d only spoken to Mr. Milchick a handful of times when he first got the job, so it had been weird to see him again, and weirder still to hear him talk about what was going on with Mark’s innie.
He supposed he should be glad that the company worried when his innie wasn’t feeling great, but he wished he’d been more careful last night. It was just a fucking hangover, barely perceptible by now, but it sounded like it hadn’t been pleasant for his innie. He’d told Milchick it must have been some bad shrimp or something, and they seemed to have bought it, especially when he said that he didn’t mind, that he wanted to work.
Well. He just didn’t want to be home.
He pulled into his driveway, staring at Ms. Selvig’s wayward bins. Batty old woman. The bins taunted him, but he knew they didn’t mean a damn thing. Maybe he’d care about them tomorrow.
If he could make it until tomorrow –
He’d gotten this far, though. Eight hours closer to the end of the day. He turned off the car, sitting for a minute in the dark, letting out a long exhale between parted lips. A few small, shy snowflakes landed on the windshield as he watched.
She always loved new snow –
He got out of the car and slammed the door, hurrying inside against the bitter cold.
He flicked the hall lights on, shrugged out of his winter coat and tossed it in the direction of the hall closet. The coat landed on the floor in a pile. What did it matter? He used to be a stickler for making sure their coats made it into the closet; he’d been the neat and tidy one.
It didn’t matter at all.
The mess in the kitchen greeted him accusingly, a small graveyard of open beer bottles ringing the sink. The smell of the empties and their dregs turned his stomach. He’d just wanted to make sure he didn’t dream. Wanted to make sure he didn’t think about the next day, didn’t think about what it was, what it meant, what it would do to him.
He shoved the bottles into the recycling, not bothering to rinse them. He reached into the fridge, coming out with a bottle of white wine with a pretty blue label and gleaming sea-green glass. Pinot grigio, the one with the little bluebird on the bottle. He stared at it, his chest hollow, his eyes pricking.
Mark, you need to expand your horizons. We’re seniors now. You should try something classy, not freaking PBR.
I’m classy. I’m very classy. I got classy coming out of my ass.
Seriously? Are you twelve? It’s a good thing you’re smart. And that you have a cute butt. How did I ever start going out with you?
…I really don’t know. All I know is that I love you. And that for some reason, you put up with my terrible sense of humor and fratboy taste in beer.
That cute butt covers a lot of sins. You’d be surprised. Anyway, this is a white wine called –
He opened the bottle of wine, hands shaking as he reached for a glass. He’d barely poured the first glass when the doorbell rang.
“Fuck you, Mrs. Selvig,” he grumbled into the dimly lit kitchen. “We’re not doing this today.”
The knocking grew more insistent. Mark took a drink, closing his eyes. The wine was crisp and clean and smooth. They used to have it with cheese, even though she was lactose intolerant. She always said it was worth it. He didn’t have any cheese, but he thought he might still have some leftover pizza in the fridge.
His pocket buzzed.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, blearily staring at the number. The knocking kept out, loud and regular, and he heard a familiar voice. Slowly he put two and two together. He set the phone and the wine down and shuffled back to the front door, steeling himself before he opened it.
Devon gazed at him, hanging up her phone. “I’m freezing my butt off. You gonna let me in, or what?” She muscled past him, carrying something in her arms. Dinner. He could smell fast food cheeseburgers and french fries, their favorite as kids. He glanced warily behind her for Ricken, but she was alone. That was a relief, anyway. He closed the door and locked it.
“What are you doing here?” Mark asked as she pulled off her coat and hung it over a chair. She set the food down on the kitchen counter, then spotted the wine. She went to the cabinet, pulled out a glass and poured herself a serving without comment.
“Just making ourselves at home, are we?” he asked with false bravado.
She turned to face him, holding her hands in front of her, fingers knotting together. “Mark,” she said softly.
“Don’t,” he said, his breath hitching in his throat. He tried to look away, but she came closer. Her eyes shone with tears.
“We knew today was always going to fucking suck –”
“Devon, don’t –” His voice cracked. “Please. I can’t.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It’s here anyway. Did you really think I was gonna leave you alone on the first anniversary? I miss her, too, Mark. I really do.” She pulled him into a fierce hug, so tight his ribs ached. “She loved you so much. It isn’t fair.”
“I thought I could –” he choked. “I tried –”
But he didn’t know how to say that the empties in the recycling and the full day at work and the pinot grigio on the counter were the only way he knew how to make this day disappear, the only way he knew how to get through it, the only way he knew how to pretend she wasn’t really gone.
He gave up. He buried his face in Devon’s shoulder, and he remembered the way he used to hold Gemma, how she laughed, how she sneezed, how she danced, how she died. He started crying, and he didn’t stop for a long, long time.
New Threads (Severance)
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.
-
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.
“Welcome to Imogene’s Clothing, Mr. Scout.”
