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Sometimes Scout really didn’t think he’d even scratched the surface of what Lumon had done to Mark S.
He’d known in the early days that he was ignorant. All he’d known was that Petey had been his best friend and there was a Break Room and that sometimes there were workplace accidents that definitely weren’t accidents. But other than that? All he’d really known was that something wasn’t right with Lumon and he couldn’t keep working there in good conscience. That he needed to find a way to get his innie out, or at least stop prolonging his suffering.
And then everything had happened so fast and suddenly everyone severed was given a second chance. Two second chances, really.
Everyone had dealt with their freedom or ‘lack of freedom’ differently.
Dylan and Irving had both decided to undergo reintegration. For Irving it hadn’t been a difficult choice at all; his innie had already lost all purpose in the company that had fulfilled him and his outie was already living alone as it was, so reintegration had really just been a matter of ensuring they did it safely rather than having to worry about the social repercussions. Their—or his—saving grace had been that Burt Goodman had decided not to undergo reintegration, but instead keep the switch, so Burt G. had been around to help Irving reintegrate every other day. He didn’t know much more than that really, as Irving wasn’t his friend, but Mark’s, but he’d tried to be more involved seeing how the entire reason this mess had happened was because Scout had been so willing to let everything slide.
Dylan had been in a slightly trickier position, as he’d already had a family, but ultimately his family decided that they’d created Dylan G. so it was their responsibility to respect his wishes with what he wanted to do with his existence. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been that difficult a choice for Dylan G. All he’d wanted to do was remember his kid being born. So that was that.
Helena and Helly had been a whole different issue.
The two had hated each other, so it was obvious that reintegration wasn’t going to happen. But neither wanted to switch either. It had ended up blowing up into its own separate court case from the case against Lumon about what to do with the severed innies; should control be given back to the outies? How much governance did innies have over bodies that were technically theirs, but that they hadn’t lived in for the entire existence of the body?
It had been a mess, with tons of blatant bribery going on from Lumon, but they’d barely managed to squeak through a verdict that the two of them had a right to dual custody of the body. In the court’s mind, Helly was a child that Helena had willingly brought into the world and thus it was her responsibility to share her body with her, and to ignore that would be to deprive Helly’s right to existence. Helly of course had been furious about so many different parts of that ruling that it hurt Scout’s brain just thinking about it, and Helena had been furious that she was being forced to share her body with a ‘tool.’ The two of them had really just made each other’s lives miserable for a long time. It was only when Helly made the highly questionable choice to force a half-reintegration, where Helena got to experience the horrors of the Break Room and Helly got to experience an entire childhood being an Eagan that they both came to a better understanding of one another. They still didn’t like one another; there was just too much baggage for that, but they at least tolerated each other’s existences now. So they’d kept the switch, albeit with some subtle personality changes.
Finally, Mark and Scout had had a lot of conversations about what they wanted to do about it. These days their preferred means of conversation was audio messages or notes, but for those first couple days they’d spoken exclusively through recorded videos of themselves to ensure there was no confusion about how they wanted to deal with their existences. Ultimately, they’d decided against reintegration.
Mark’s issue with reintegration was that he didn’t want Scout’s baggage. He hadn’t said it in that way of course, because Mark was leagues more diplomatic about the way he phrased things, but that had been the gist. He’d told Scout that even when he hadn’t known anything about Scout’s life he’d been able to feel the ache of loss, and it had been painful. He’d said that he didn’t want to feel what it must have been like for Scout.
Scout had been vindicated at first, because that was exactly what his reasoning had been for putting Mark in there. But then again, he hadn’t really succeeded. Because Mark had still felt the pain. Maybe he hadn’t felt all of it, but he’d still felt it. And he hadn’t even known what it was to deal with it.
He thought about that a lot.
Scout’s issue with reintegration meanwhile had just been that it didn’t feel safe.
Sure, everyone else who had undergone integration had been fine. No problems, no bleeding from their brain or collapsing in front of gas stations. But Petey hadn’t been fine. And Scout had watched him die before his eyes.
He was glad Mark had decided not to go with integration. He’d already been broken up enough about his death when he’d heard about it. He didn’t need to remember watching his best friend die too.
So they’d decided to keep the switch. Mark had kept Mark, because he’d never known his last name in the first place (yet another thing that kept Scout up at night sometimes. It was such a simple thing. Why had even that been taken away from them?), and Scout had started going by Scout, because he wasn’t going to dare take another thing from Mark. He’d already taken far too much.
So they’d started living together. And it had been both hard and easy getting used to. Hard because they’d both been used to their switches happening in such a controlled environment at such controlled times that transitioning to switching whenever and wherever had been scary and overwhelming (Mark had made a schedule and Scout was ashamed to admit how much of a help it had been), but easy because, at the end of the day, the hours of Scout being unconscious weren’t all that different from the hours he’d had at work. Sure, he lost more hours so that he and Mark had an even split instead of a 16-8 split, but he got used to it.
Honestly, the hardest part had been getting used to having Gemma back.
Don’t get him wrong, he was so happy she was back and literally nothing in the world could describe the sheer love and relief and joy he’d felt seeing and holding her in his arms again but…
…she was…different.
Then again so was he, and he didn’t even have the excuse of being kidnapped by an evil megacorporation.
For the most part, she was the same Gemma she’d been in the day before she died. She laughed, she was sarcastic, she ribbed Scout and cooed over Eleanor and teased him about being a nerd. She was still Gemma. She was still the woman he’d fallen in love with.
And part of that was because she didn’t remember a lot of what happened while she was gone. Most of her time had been spent either drugged for ‘testing’ or drugged so she was unconscious, so for her it had only been a few weeks rather than the 2 years she’d actually been gone. But sometimes she did remember enough. Those days she’d just get very, very quiet. And on those days when Scout got too close too fast she would scream and beg for him to stop and she was so sorry and sorry was all she was—
Those were hard days.
He tried to help the best he could those days, but it was hard. How could he help when the reality of what had happened to her was so far out of his understanding it hurt? How could he relate to her? He couldn’t. Out of everyone who lived in the house he was by far the least equipped to help, and as her husband that stung more than any amount of alcohol could ever cure.
It had been even harder realizing he’d have to share Gemma with Casey. Because selfishly, Scout felt that he’d suffered enough waiting for Gemma to come back, and it wasn’t fair that sometimes he’d look at her and know that he wasn’t looking into the eyes of someone he loved. It wasn’t fair that sometimes he felt like he’d lost her all over again to some dead-eyed Lumon drone.
It had been much easier to do so when he’d learned that she hadn’t even been awake a full business week prior to leaving Lumon. It was kind of hard to keep seeing someone as a thief when you realized they’d only been awake for a full day of work once in her life.
But 8 years had passed, and they’d turned a house back into a home. Gemma and Scout shared switches the most obviously, as the two were married, and Mark was happy to share switches with Casey, but they made sure that they kept variety because Gemma liked showing Mark new recipes and Scout liked showing Casey newer and more adrenaline-fueled sports. He’d been surprised at how into it she got at first seeing how soft spoken she was, but he guessed it was the perfect release for the obsessively calm persona she’d been forced to use at Lumon. It had become a weird little family where no one was the dad and no one was the mom but they all knew intrinsically that there was no getting rid of one another, even if they did somehow come up with a way to get their bodies separated.
Scout and Mark would wear different bracelets to show who was switching at the moment, and Casey and Gemma would wear different necklaces, but generally it was easy to tell who was who anyway. Mark always preferred softer, more flowy materials, Casey preferred hoodies and sweatpants when she wasn’t wearing the fanciest outfits she could muster up, Gemma just wore her usual flattering outfits and Scout wore his trashy tee-shirts that Gemma always liked to tease him about.
But despite how well they worked now, there were still some weeks when Gemma and Casey would need to leave. Where things would just get too much for the two of them and they’d need to focus on themselves. They’d tried once to have the two of them stay while Mark and Scout made themselves scarce, but Casey had ended up sensing Scout’s worry and giving him ‘wellness statements’ about how ‘your outie is a good person.’
It had single-handedly been the most horrifying interaction he’d ever had with Casey. Not only because she’d kept going when he’d told her to stop, like something bad would happen to her if she didn’t, but because when he’d tried to ask her a list about good things about herself instead she’d told him that innies don’t do good things. Only outies do good things.
Scout had broken his sobriety to get very drunk that night. He’d stayed with Devon for the remainder of the week.
So yeah, Gemma and Casey were gone for the week. Scout missed them, but he knew they needed their time, so he was just trying to struggle through teaching his classes and not go itching for a drink. Mark hated feeling drunk and he knew he was missing them too.
Scout bobbed his head to one of the playlists Devon had sent him, scraping the scrambled eggs off the pan and wiping off the spatula to get all the best bits. The toaster went off behind him and he reached over to pull out a piece, quickly slathering some jam on it and then tossing the knife into the sink. He licked his thumb to get rid of the stray bits of jam there.
Buzzzzzzz
Shit, was that his phone? Where had he put it?
He patted his pockets and did a full 180 trying to find it, cursing himself all the while.
Buzzzzzzz
There it was.
He scooped up the phone and looked at the contact. Devon. She could probably sense that he was playing one of her playlists. If he answered while it was still playing she would subtly mock him for weeks.
He turned the music off and answered the call as nonchalantly as he could.
”Hey, Devon. How’s the baby?”
The ambient sound of Ricken and Eleanor chatting away could be heard in the background, along with the even rumble of a moving car. ”Even though I don’t know what you’re doing, I want you to know you’re not slick.”
Scout tipped his head, little half-smile forming on his face even though he knew she couldn’t see. ”You know, I take offense to that.”
“Hi, Uncle Mark!” Eleanor’s voice called distantly, and although Scout couldn’t see her he could hear how she was practically vibrating out of her seat.
“It’s Uncle Scout, honey,” Devon explained, voice muffled as if she was pulling the phone away from her.
“Oh. Hi, Uncle Scout,” Eleanor said, sounding much more subdued but still happy.
Scout grinned wryly. “Wow, really feeling the love here.”
He couldn’t blame her though. Scout loved her like an Uncle, and not a bad one either, but Mark loved her like he was experiencing life through her vicariously. In a way, he was. Mark hadn’t gotten any of the memories of their childhood; Scout had found pictures on his phone once of MDR going to a playground, a few days before Irving and Dylan had undergone reintegration, and all of them had had faces of absolute delight and surprise. He’d ended up hanging one of them up, and it was still by far the biggest smile any of them had seen on Mark.
So when Mark saw Eleanor, he didn’t just treat her like his beloved niece, but like a beloved colleague with experience he wanted to learn from. He would listen attentively and ask all the right questions, and generally didn’t treat her like a child. He never had. Mark had never learned how to baby-talk or entertain kids; he’d just learned how to interact in the same professional setting with the same four people, and he’d continued to apply that to her. It probably would have been awkward if she wasn’t Ricken’s daughter, honestly. As it was, she never tired of trying to explain the intricacies of her life in a way Mark could understand, and she always made the effort to understand Mark’s.
Scout and Eleanor were close. Mark and Eleanor were confidants.
”Aaaand she’s back to talking with Ricken. You just can’t beat Mark. Sorry m’lord. Speaking of Mark, how is he by the way?”
Scout turned back to the eggs and toast, turning off the stove and grabbing a slice. He took a bite. Still a little hot, but not too bad. “He’s fine. He’s started reading through my books though, so I think he’s on Ricken withdrawal.”
”Hear that, babe? Mark’s on Ricken withdrawal,” Devon called, voice quieter as she pulled away from the phone. Ricken’s smug voice was tinny in Scout’s ear,
”Well he won’t be for long!”
Scout sighed, taking another bite. Looks like his bookshelf was getting another ugly, Ricken covered book.
“I’m guessing you heard that, Scout?”
”Oh, is he interested in reading the book for himself? I can get him a second copy!”
”No, I think he’s fine, babe. He and Mark can share the same copy,” Devon assured, subtle exasperation coloring her tone. How the two of them ended up together forever proved a mystery to Scout, but at least they were happy.
“Yeah, I heard. Thanks. Are you calling to invite Mark to some sort of book reading party?”
”We were actually wondering if we could swing by the university in an hour and surprise him with it? I know you’re busy but Eleanor really wanted to see her Uncle Mark before going to camp.”
Scout squinted his eyes, trying to wrack his brain for any reason that wouldn’t work. He switched the phone between his hands so he could more easily reach the drawer where they kept their schedules. “Um, let me just check, but I think that should be fine. He’s basically got the whole day after my classes, so I’ll just check he’s not peopled-out or anything.”
It had been a hard lesson for Mark to learn that he could say no to interacting with people. It had been a hard lesson for all of them to learn that. When their entire existences had been defined by being in the same environment with the same people trying to perform for some and keep the others from falling apart there had been no option for Mark to just take a breather alone. He still struggles with that sometimes.
“Take your time, I think Ricken and Eleanor just decided to stop in and grab some supplies for a project.”
“How much do I need to prepare myself?”
“Don’t worry it’s just dream catchers.”
“You know, that’s probably the most normal project I’ve heard from Ricken so far,” Scout commented, finger trailing over the yellow boxes showing Mark’s plans for his switches. It didn’t say anything obvious about any plans to stay in, so he’d go ahead and ask.
“I’ll be right back.”
Mark muted the call and got a pad of paper.
How was your Tuesday?
Switch.
It was good! I went to the park with Helly. She’s thinking about getting a cat once she gets back from her anti-severance tours.
Switch.
Really? What type?
She can’t tell. It’s a stray, but the photo she showed me was gray with a flat face.
Scout hummed, moving to take another bite of his toast only to realize Mark had eaten the rest of it. Bastard.
Just a reminder that we’re allergic, but I can pick up some allergy medication later.
You have any plans Thursday?
Right, I forgot about that. No, why? Did someone call?
Just wanted to know if I could wake you up somewhere unexpected.
Well that’s ominous. But sure, as long as it isn’t too dark or looks like a waiting room.
Scout picked the phone back up and unmuted.
“M’lady? You still there?”
“Yeah I’m still here. Ricken and Eleanor went in without me. I think they were talking about tattoo markers.”
“Mmm. Tell me how that goes later. Mark said he’s okay waking up somewhere weird though, so I think you’ll be fine. I’ll drop him off after my classes.”
“You’re the best, Scout, thanks.”
Scout hung up and stretched out his tired muscles. Might as well get started.
His arm was sore. Throbbing, actually.
Scout blinked away the confusion and looked around to get his bearings. He was in his room curled up in a ball under the sheets. Alright. That was a little weird. Usually Mark would stand up next to the bed when switching.
It had been something they’d decided way back in the early days when they’d still been getting used to sharing the same body in everyday life. At first they’d just switched whenever it was time to switch bodies, but that had quickly gotten disorienting because then Scout or Mark would have to figure out where they were and why the other had brought them there. It had also resulted in a few incidents where one or the other had actually switched on accident because they got overwhelmed, and there had been no way to tell if they were suddenly finding themselves in the grocery store because the other had had a panic attack or because they’d realized they’d been switched in for 5 hours longer than they were supposed to. By keeping the place consistent they had a ‘home base’ for making plans and knowing when they actually had full control of the body. The only times they switched outside of their room now was when they were writing messages back and forth or when there was something going on.
Even though he was in their room, this felt suspiciously like something was going on.
He uncurled himself slowly from the tight ball he’d been in before, wincing at the empty pit that was his stomach. What the hell? Scout had just switched so Mark could have lunch with the others. How long had Mark been switched for?
He pushed himself into a sitting position, his muscles screaming in protest all the while. They did not want to straighten themselves out. He rolled his shoulders out, which actually felt like driving knives into his shoulder blades, and looked at what he was wearing.
He was still wearing the clothes he’d put on this morning. Which, yeah, it wasn’t like he was wearing a suit or anything (on the off-chance Mark switched with Scout he always tried to make sure he wasn’t wearing anything too business-like to the university), but Mark had obviously come back to the house, so he should have gotten dressed into something comfier. Polos were not something Scout associated with Mark. And almost his entire forearm was poorly bandaged, which was where that dull throbbing was coming from. Something was definitely going on.
He almost started unwrapping it, but hesitated. He didn’t know what had caused it and he didn’t want to irritate it or something.
He looked to the bedside where Mark usually left his phone to ask, but it wasn’t there.
He slowly untangled himself from the sheets and limped out of the bedroom, scanning the house for his phone or something he could write with.
He stopped when he saw the state of the kitchen.
All of the cupboards under the sink were open, with all of the cleaning supplies pulled out in a little semi-circle on the floor. There was a bowl in the center of it with pinkish water and soapy studs floating on the top. The trash can was overfilled, with used paper towels propping the lid open. The pad of paper they always used had been tossed in there too.
What the fuck??
Scout hesitantly walked over to the trash can and fished out the pad of paper, because it was the only thing he could think to do right now. He stared at the words written there.
FORGIVE ME FOR THE HARM I HAVE CAUSED THIS WORLD.
NONE MAY ATONE FOR MY ACTIONS BUT ME,
AND ONLY IN ME SHALL THEIR STAIN LIVE ON.
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 THAT I AM.
He flipped through the pad numbly, horror growing the more pages he saw filled with the frantic words. There must have been at least 50 pages left on the pad, and every single one of them was filled to the brim. The last few pages were incomprehensible messes, and were those tear stains?
He dropped the pad like it burned him, stumbling backwards. This was creepy. This was really, really creepy.
He’d heard snippets of the speech the Lumon workers had had to read out when they were in the break room, but he’d never heard or seen it in full. Actually seeing it was disturbing in a way Scout had never felt before. Seeing it 50 times with chemicals tossed on the ground around him was dystopian.
Scout was getting the sense that he was way over his head here.
Where was his phone??
It took him another 20 minutes to find it, and that was only because it started buzzing. For some reason it had been shoved under the cushions in the couch. Scout would say Mark had just lost it if this entire situation wasn’t completely bizarre.
He looked at the contact. Devon.
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking to Scout or Mark right now?” Devon asked tersely, voice devoid of any dry humor. It was never good when she spoke in that tone.
“Scout. What the hell’s going on? I just switched 5 minutes ago and found my kitchen looking like a bad science experiment. What time is it?”
It was quiet over the phone for a second. “What did Mark tell you?”
Scout huffed irritably, but there was a tremor to his voice. Nothing about this was right. “Mark didn’t tell me anything. As far as I’m aware I just high-fived Eleanor and let you guys hide to surprise Mark and then handed over control for lunch. Why?”
Devon sighed. She sounded so much older all of a second. Like how she’d used to sound back when Scout had called her completely wasted and on the brink of a major meltdown. Scout settled onto the edge of the couch, tense.
“I honestly don’t know exactly what happened. We waited until you counted down and then Ricken and Eleanor jumped out to surprise Mark, and he seemed happy. He got really excited when Ricken showed him the book and they talked about that for a while. Eleanor got bored so she got out some of the tattoo markers she’d bought at the store with Ricken and asked if she could draw on Mark’s arm. Looking back on it, he seemed really surprised and kept looking at me?” Scout looked at his arm, searching for any signs of marker or something, but if there was it was all covered up by the bandage.
“Anyways, I finally managed to convince them to keep talking about the book at lunch–you know how they can get when they really get going–but Mark got really quiet all of a sudden and said he needed to go to the bathroom. I didn’t think anything of it until ten minutes had passed and he still hadn’t come out. Ricken went in to check on him, but I think he must have startled Mark because he just started…” Devon went quiet. Scout’s hand had tightened on the phone to the point it was shaking.
“Did he hurt Ricken or something?”
Devon took a shaky breath. “No no, Ricken’s fine but…are you sure you don’t remember anything from what happened down at Lumon? Not even a little bit?” He’d never heard Devon sound so shaken before. Not when she’d told him that Mark had taken over and told her that Lumon was bad, not when she’d told him that Gemma was still alive, not even when she’d told him that his creepy boss had been watching them all for years. She’d gotten disturbed yes, but she’d always been his unflappable twin sister who took no bullshit and kept him grounded.
“No. No, Mark has all the memories of what happened at Lumon. Why?”
Devon took a deep breath, and when she started speaking again it was almost even again. “...he started screaming and begging. I ran in there but I don’t think he knew where he was. He just kept smiling and calling Ricken Mr. Milchick, but every time Ricken took a step closer he’d start begging again. The second he realized I was there too he made a break for it, and I was too slow to catch him. I’ve been trying to get a hold of one of you since.”
Scout swallowed hard. He could imagine exactly what a reaction like that would have looked like. Casey and Gemma got them sometimes. Ricken and Devon would be staying up for some sleepless nights after this.
“...I’m going to see if I can get in contact with some of his MDR buddies. They’ll know what’s going on,” Scout said, willing himself to sound more confident than he felt.
“So you haven’t talked to him at all?” Devon asked. Scout glanced at the kitchen where the bowl of pinkish water was still sitting on the ground. He flexed his hand. He needed a drink.
“I want to know what I’m dealing with before I spook him. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll keep you updated. But, before I forget, how long ago was that?”
“8 hours ago. And you better,” she replied, but there was no heart to it. He hung up, even more shaken, and opened up the group chat for Mark and his friends.
Fuck Kier
Sugar Daddy: Im just saying youre a fucking pussy if you think tabasco sauce is too hot
FuckEagans: Did you even read my last message or did all the numbers from MDR get to you? I’ll eat tabasco sauce right here right now. I nearly swallowed a pen cap in the first three days of starting at Lumon I’ll beat your ass
Puppy Eyes: Scout here, I have an emergency. Mark just switched back with me after seeing my sister and he had an episode, but neither of us know why. All we know is he ran into the restroom and when Ricken went in to check on him he started calling him Mr. Milchick and freaking out. My kitchen’s a mess and my arm’s hurt
[image of kitchen]
[image of bandaged arm]
FuckEagans: Well shit. That’s a new one. Did we even have cleaning supplies in the office?
Sugar Daddy : No, I’ve never seen anything like that before. Is that blood?
Irving: We did in fact used to, but there was an incident shortly before Petey’s arrival. They were removed following that.
Sugar Daddy: Can you give us some more than just you dont know what happened? Lumon fucked MDR over for some pretty mundane stuff every once in a while.
Give us like a detectives timeline or something
Puppy Eyes: Devon, Ricken, and Eleanor were surprising him with Ricken’s new book. Ricken talked with Mark while Eleanor drew on Mark’s arm. They were leaving when Mark ran to the restroom. Ricken went in and Mark started freaking out calling him Mr. Milchick and switching between normal and begging. Devon went in and he ran out
FuckEagans: Wait, you said Eleanor drew on his arm? Have you looked at your arm yet?
Puppy Eyes: I didn’t want to take the bandage off without knowing what happened. Why?
Sugar Daddy: Ohhhh
Irving: Astute observation, Helly.
Sugar Daddy: Do you know if they tried to take an elevator or something?
FuckEagans: It was just something Mark said once. I’d written a message on my arms and he told me to wash it off before Mr. Milchick used the bad soap.
Puppy Eyes: Wtf is ‘the bad soap’
Idk, probably? The lunchroom is downstairs and the elevator is closer
FuckEagans: Idk, that was all he said
Irving: I might be of some help in this regard. It was before any of you had joined the department, when MDR consisted of Carol, Petey, Mark, and myself. Mark had still been rather troublesome in those days, and he’d written out a message on his arms. Mr. Milchick took Mark to the breakroom and when Mark came back some hours later his arms were bandaged, but there were visible sections of irritated and even bleeding spots along his arms. It looked quite painful.
Puppy Eyes: Jesus Christ
FuckEagans: Holy shit
Sugar Daddy: Oh fuck
Irving: I am surprised you don’t remember that incident, Scout. I remember Mark having the bandages for a week or so.
Puppy Eyes: They told me that I’d had an allergic reaction to something but they didn’t know what not that my skin had been rubbed raw! Wtf??
Sugar Daddy: That makes sense tho
If he was about to get in the elevator with shit on his arms he would have probably wanted to wash it off just to be safe
FuckEagans: Okay but shouldn’t he have been fine after washing it off
It sounds like he got manic about it
Sugar Daddy: Thats true Mark was like a duck that way
If he hid it in time hed act like the very concept
was crazy
Scout put the phone facedown and stared at his arm.
He remembered the day he’d come up with both of them bandaged. He’d just blinked and suddenly been hit with a feeling akin to fiery, curling roots embedded in his arms, pulling at his muscles with every movement. He’d gasped in pain and put a hand on them, and then immediately pulled back when that had made them throb in more pain. When he’d stumbled out of the elevator, still in shock, Mr. Milchick had been there smiling sympathetically. He’d explained that his innie had had a severe allergic reaction and that he’d taken a pain killer a few minutes ago, but obviously it hadn’t taken its full effect yet, and had Scout known he was allergic to anything?
Scout had been reeling and trying not to move his arms too much, and told them that no of course he wasn’t aware he was allergic to anything, what had he eaten?
But Mr. Milchick had told him that his innie couldn’t remember clearly because they’d been having a buffet downstairs and they’d eaten a lot of food.
Now Scout wondered why he’d bought it so easily. Why he’d just huffed and grumbled on his way out the door. Why he hadn’t stopped to ask about his mouth and throat not being in pain, or the lack of food in his stomach.
He stared at his arm.
What had run through Mark’s mind when he felt the felt tip of Eleanor’s marker hit his skin? Had his first thought been about the last time ink had blemished his skin, or had he still been thinking of Ricken’s stupid book? Had he only started to feel the phantom burn seeping through his skin when he walked to the elevator? Had he been seeing the university restroom when he’d been washing his arm, or had he been back in hell?
Why hadn’t it washed off?
It occurred to him that he’d actually have to take the bandage off now. If not to see the injury, then at least to clean the bandages.
With great trepidation he reached forward and peeled off the tape Mark had hastily put on and started unwrapping it.
The sight made him genuinely nauseous.
His comprehension of what exactly he was looking at came in waves.
First he saw the red. Red bandages, red skin, red marks. A simple, angry color that reeked of pain and confusion and betrayal. His body practically demanded to know why he would have done this to himself, why he would have injured himself so.
Next he saw the places where skin had been scraped away by nails, leaving jagged edges where they had cut and minute flecks of skin sticking to his bloodied skin. Blood wept from spots, now free to trail down his arm without being impeded by the bandages.
Then he saw the letters. The faint, barely visible impressions of messy handwriting cut through from the nails and wear.
ove y u Unc e M k!
Scout, in that moment, had only ever hated himself as much as he did in this moment when he’d first triggered a panic attack in Gemma after her time at Lumon.
Because Mark had had a beautiful note written on his arm from his niece. He’d had something that should have made him smile and hug her and spin her around like the silly little girl she was. And instead he’d panicked and damn well torn the skin off his arm in his haste to get rid of the sweet message. Because he’d been scared. Because he’d been sure he was going to be punished. Because Scout had trapped him down in a place where things like this had been acceptable.
Scout had caused this.
Even years later and Mark was still suffering from the things Scout had made him endure in the depths of that monster corporation.
However, even with this hatred raging around in his head, he did make a dim realization while staring into the deep, throbbing red with its painful scarlet tears.
Tattoo markers.
Eleanor had bought tattoo markers with Ricken.
He didn’t know how on earth she’d managed to find tattoo markers so strong he could still read them after Mark had used the variety of chemicals still sitting on the floor, but it was the only explanation for why they hadn’t washed off.
Numbly, he pulled the phone back up.
Fuck Kier
Sugar Daddy: Im not saying its the right thing to do but Marks pretty cagey and there’s no way hes talking to us about it
FuckEagans: Well that’s too damn bad he’s just going to have to live with it then. I’m not going to just stand by and let him hurt himself
Irving: Helly, we understand you’re worried about Mark, but Dylan and I are more familiar with Mark’s reactions to disciplinary action than you are, especially in environments where he does not need to hide his pain for your own benefit. It may be more beneficial if we simply attempt to be there for him in a non-threatening environment such as an art studio or a stroll in a park.
Puppy Eyes: Eleanor had tattoo markers.
FuckEagans: He’s never going to get better if we’re always just dancing around the crazy shit Lumon did!
Oh
Sugar Daddy: Ah shit. That stuffs crazy resistant sometimes. Did he get it off?
Puppy Eyes: No
Sugar Daddy: Damn
FuckEagans: Scout I’m coming over to talk to Mark
Irving: Helly, as admirable as that resolution may be, you are currently multiple hours away from us campaigning against the severance procedure. Dylan and I are more than capable enough to help Mark.
FuckEagans: I can come back. And you guys aren’t any closer either! Dylan’s literally an hour away for his son’s game and you’re out in the middle of nowhere to spend the weekend with Burt! I’m coming to knock some sense into him
PuppyEyes: I just don’t get it. Why did he react so strongly to this?
FuckEagans: Fucking pardon?
Sugar Daddy: You might want to rephrase Scout or Helly will come back specifically to whoop your ass
PuppyEyes: I just mean it’s been years and Eleanor wrote a really sweet note. Of course I’m not saying he shouldn’t have reacted at all, I live with Casey and Gemma ffs, but they haven’t clawed their skin off.
This is bad enough it’s going to scar.
Surely he should have gotten a little bit of pain and then realized what was going on and remembered that he wasn’t there? Or he should have gotten back home and just put on a shirt that covered up the message? It’s been 8 years and this reaction is
It’s brutal
FuckEagans: Well that’s what trauma does to you dipshit
Sugar Daddy: I’d explain but it looks like Irving is typing out a long response
Irving: Unfortunately it’s not as simple as that, Scout. The primary strength of Lumon was that its punishments and method of control were almost entirely psychological. They conditioned us to think of ourselves as inherently worthless or as failures, and by doing so conditioned us to be open to instruction and/or methods of improvement. Although we have escaped, the scars we experienced are not merely something on our skin that can be covered up and forgotten; they are deep scars on our psyche that changed the ways we developed and view ourselves. As such, when we do occasionally find reason to find ourselves guilty of something against Lumon we can find ourselves trapped in cycles of self-loathing and panic for disobeying Lumon and for considering ourselves more knowledgeable than the corporation that only had our best interests in mind. Dylan and I have escaped some of those effects because we absorbed our outie’s experiences of a childhood unhindered by such an environment, and Helly was never fully indoctrinated. Mark however was fully indoctrinated, and he has had only the benefit of time and effort to convince himself he is not stupid and entirely reliant on the doctrine of Kier to find truth. But as all of us are occasionally wont to do, sometimes we falter, and find ourselves in need of punishing ourselves in order to purify our minds, including by overcommitting to punishments prescribed by Kier in an attempt to make up for lost time. I’m afraid that no amount of time will ever be able to fully undo the damage of developing–and we were developing, as we had no life experience except for muscle memory to inform us of what the world was–in an environment defined by fear and a need to prove we are worthy to the system that ‘cares’ about us.
Sugar Daddy: Damn Im glad I didnt say anything because thats deep as shit man
Irving: I spent my entire time in Lumon constructing my life around how to best serve it. Once I realized it had failed me I felt the need to understand why I had done so and how to extract myself from it so I could live a life with Burt unburdened by doubt.
Perhaps Kier has some benefits. Perhaps he originally had good intentions with me. Either way I cannot entertain such a notion any longer because if I do I fall back into his trappings and I cease thinking for myself, instead thinking only in line with what has been defined as ‘good’ without considering the nuance there. I have decided I would rather make mistakes happy and fulfilled than live rigidly by Kier again, always second-guessing if I have made the correct choice or if I could make a better one.
Sugar Daddy: Good for you man Im proud
FuckEagans: I’m really happy you’ve reached that conclusion Irving, but right now how can we help Mark? Because he sure as shit needs help.
Puppy Eyes: I’m going to talk to him
FuckEagans: And do what, huh? Of everyone here you understand him the least.
And Scout knew that Helly was saying some of this because she was worried about Mark and she’d never liked Scout in the first place, but she wasn’t wrong. Scout did understand Mark the least.
Because although Scout and Mark took videos of themselves so they could understand what the other sounded and acted like, and although they wrote back and forth everyday, they weren’t able to actually talk one-on-one. Everything they did and said was filtered through a screen or a paper, and that made all the difference when it came to the topic of Lumon.
Mark had never told Devon anything about Lumon unprompted since that first time. But Devon knew far more about Mark’s time there because she was able to catch little details from Mark’s body language. She told Scout that sometimes his eyes would grow haunted, or sometimes he’d say something offhand that was extremely worrying, and because of those observations she’d worked out ways to talk to him about ways she could help without scaring him off.
“It’s like a dance with him,” she’d explained.
But Mark was always much more careful in the videos and messages he wrote, and because of that the few times Scout had asked had immediately gotten him shut down. Which was really effective when Mark could just continuously switch back to Scout until Scout gave in and left Mark alone.
But Scout needed to do this. Helly was out doing important work actually making difference with severance (Whole Mind Collective could take a fucking walk), and apparently the other two were out and about with their loved ones. And he knew Mark would just panic about not making Devon and Ricken feel bad and not his own mental health, so they were a bust too.
Scout might not be the best, but Mark needed help now and he could provide it. He’d feel really shitty if he just purposefully kept the switch until one of the others came around to rescue Mark from whatever panic attack he’d probably been experiencing for Scout to have switched so weirdly.
So he sent out a message saying as much and put the phone down before any of them could question him. Then he got to work cleaning up.
Sue him, he needed some time to prep what he wanted to say before he touched such a messy situation.
It took him a while, and he somehow felt even more ill the second time he looked at the wound on his arm, but finally he had the kitchen put back in order, a fresh dressing on his arm, and a pain killer because holy shit his arm was really throbbing. And he ate some food. It didn’t make him feel less nauseous, but it did buy him some more time and he hoped that Mark might be more willing to talk if he wasn’t distracted by hunger.
Finally he sat down on the couch, got out his phone, and started recording a video of himself. He didn’t want there to be any confusion or avoidance in this conversation.
“Hey, Mark,” he started, voice deliberately casual as he looked at the camera with crossed arms, trying not to appear aggressive in any way. “Devon told me what happened. How’re you holding up?”
He blinked. His phone had been switched to the notes app.
I’m doing better now, thank you for asking! Sorry for eating into so much of your day. You can take today and tomorrow to make up for it.
He stared at the screen, unimpressed, and pulled the camera back up.
“Nice try, but this is a camera on kind of conversation, not notes app. How are you actually feeling?”
Switch.
I’m fine. I don’t need nor want to talk about it. Please enjoy your day!
“Mark. I can’t just let this one go this time. If I could, I would.”
Why not? That’s what you did last time.
Scout paused. It had been a long time since Mark had been passive aggressive with him.
He felt like he was getting somewhere. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.
“I texted your friends. They told me about the uh, bad soap. They told me that they…hurt you. I…” Scout hated using the camera. He knew he hesitated or said dumb things or just acted stupid, but the camera always brought that into focus. He could see the way he’d started clasping his hands together too tight on the camera, he could see the way his brow was furrowing with guilt, he could see the hesitation in his own eyes. He hated it. He couldn’t show any of this or Mark would just push it away. But at the same time, Mark needed to see he was being sincere. He blew out a breath and resented the way it made his bangs flutter on the screen. “Mr. Milchick said it was an allergic reaction. I shouldn’t have just taken him at face value. Just…I’m here for you, even if I can’t hug you or anything.”
Scout stopped the recording and took a deep breath, not sure what to expect.
Switch.
He definitely wasn’t expecting to suddenly find himself on the kitchen floor with a half-drunk bottle of whiskey and a body that felt like it was floating.
He instinctively caught himself on his knees as his body tilted forwards dangerously, blinking hard to make the world stop swimming, and then gave up and screwed his eyes shut. He groaned, brain desperately trying to play catch up as to what was going on.
I’m going to be sick holy shit. Am I drunk? Does this mean I broke sobriety or just Mark?
Blearily he recalled a conversation Mark and him had had a long time ago when they’d still be trying to go sober.
“Okay, but is it really bad if I just take a few drinks to take the edge off?”
“Yes, it makes me feel sick every time. Just because you’re expecting to feel drunk doesn’t mean I’m expecting to feel drunk. It’s like–like–I don’t know, it’s just not fun, okay? You’ve never been on the receiving end of it and I don’t like drinking, so just trust me.”
Well, given Scout had a couple more years of experience, he could give a better description as to what it felt like. It felt like waking up in the middle of a washing machine spin cycle. It felt like walking off a boat onto the harbor and still getting sea sickness because your body hadn’t readjusted yet. It felt like falling asleep waiting for a roller coaster to get started and waking up in the middle of a loop. He suddenly sympathized so much more with the frog in the boiling water analogy; he hadn’t had the slow build up of being drunk, so he’d basically just been tossed into boiling water.
Fucking hell I used to go to work hungover all the time.
Just another thing to be guilty about apparently.
When his brain had finally caught back up with the rest of his body that apparently drunk was the current state of affairs, he opened his eyes again and saw his phone strewn haphazardly on the ground. He picked it up, squinting at it.
Fucking hell. It’s 2 am. He switched for 4 hours?
A little more sober now, he went to the notes app.
I don’t kn
Well. That’s unhelpful.
He went to the camera instead. There was a new video there. He could see Mark with his legs splayed out on the ground, whiskey bottle loosely held in his hand, his head resting on the cabinet behind him and staring up at the ceiling. Scout swallowed hard, not liking where this was going.
Okay, I’m going to take 20 minutes to sober up and then watch this. 20 minutes.
He stumbled to his feet, dumped out the rest of the whiskey (had Mark run to a store to grab some or something? Scout hadn’t emptied his house of alcohol years ago and he definitely didn’t drink whiskey), and snacked on crackers until he felt a little more stable. Then he sat on the couch and pulled out his phone. He played the video.
The Mark in the video didn’t say anything for a long while, just muttering under his breath and taking the occasional sip of alcohol. Every time he did he made a disgusted face and dropped it back to the floor with such force Scout was honestly surprised he hadn’t broken the bottle. Finally, just when Scout was starting to doubt that Mark was going to say anything at all, Mark’s head flopped forward to reveal eyes burning with resentment and pain and shame. “Fuck you,” Mark spat, hand tightening around the bottle until the skin there turned white. The words seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of Mark and he said even more forcefully, “Fuck you.”
His hands shook and his voice shook and even though he slurred there was something purposeful and quick about them, like even though they were pouring out of him they were not just being said as they came to him. No, it was obvious that he’d considered these words dozens of times over as his face twisted into a sneer and he ranted,
“I mean seriously? Fuck you. You just think–you think that I want you ‘here’ for me? Fucking hell. I don’t think I’ve heard emptier words since Cobel.” He turned away from the phone and took another swig. His hands trembled so badly he knocked the glass into his teeth but he didn’t seem to care. “‘I’m so proud of you, Mark,” he crooned mockingly, “you’re going to turn into such a nice young refiner Mark, I see such potential in you, Mark–it’s all such bullshit! It’s just bullshit.”
He trailed off, glaring at the ground as if it personally offended him. Then he turned back to the camera. The words came rushing out of him as if it would physically hurt him to stop now:
“I used to pity you, you know. We called it the elevator allergy every time I came down with red eyes and a runny nose but I knew. I knew that there was something more and I used to worry about what was going on in your life. It was almost enough to make me forgive you for putting me down there. But then I’d remember those first few days when I tried everything I could think of to get out and they’d punish me for swallowing notes or sticking them to the roof of the elevator or writing broken messages on my arm–did you know I left your shoes in the office once? Or I tried to at least. Mr. Milchick caught me and threw the shoes at the back of my head. I don’t know why. He was supposed to be the patient one. You must have put a bandaid on it because when I woke up I had a little bit of butterfly tape and I ripped it off so you’d have to put on a new one. But you just kept putting bandaids or bandages or whatever it was that had happened that week and I hated you for it. Because you knew. You had to know. Mr. Milchick used a kitchen scrubber and bad soap that burned my skin for fucks sake. But you just kept sending me back over and over again.
“Why are you pretending like you care now, huh? It’s been years. I’m happy now. I’ve got Eleanor and Devon and Ricken and you and MDR and I’m happy! I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it. Because if I think about it I think about how you trapped me there and then I get mad and I don’t like being mad at you because you’re the one outie who actually started to give a fuck and find out what was happening to us and we wouldn’t have gotten out if you hadn’t started caring but YOU PUT ME THERE.” Mark’s voice broke and he panted for breath, eyes haunted and distant. He put the bottle out of reach and buried his hands in his hair while he gasped for air.
“I’m not fucking Gemma, Scout,” he whispered, camera only just barely catching Mark’s voice, muffled as it was with a clogged voice, “Talking about things won’t fix me. I’m just…broken. They broke me.” His voice grew even more ragged as he repeated, “They broke me. And I’m trying to be happy despite that. So just…fuck off and let me do that.” He sniffed, taking a few measured breaths until he could look at the camera almost…reassuringly. “Sometimes I’ll get flashbacks, okay? And sometimes I won’t know what’s going on. But I’m happy for the most part. The past is in the past. I don’t need to think about Lumon because they’re gone and I’m here. I just…let me be happy. You always used to make the shots before. Let me make the shot here.”
The video ended.
Scout leaned back and took a shaky breath.
Scout hadn’t been even remotely emotionally prepared for what he’d just seen. He’d literally gone from Mark being somewhat passive aggressive over a notepad to sobbing over a bottle of whiskey saying that he was broken in an instant and it was genuinely nauseating. Even years later he still wasn’t used to the way things could just…escalate while he wasn’t conscious.
What could he even say to any of that? I’m sorry? You still need to talk to someone, if not me? That never should have happened to you? You’re not broken?
…did Scout even have the right to say anything? He’d done this to Mark. He’d forced Mark to endure everything he’d endured and then some. Mark had made it very clear he didn’t want to hear anything from him.
Honestly?
He could understand why.
Honestly?
He knew for a fact that he couldn’t say or do anything worthwhile to help Mark if he wanted to.
Mark had issues so much bigger than Scout knew how to help with. He’d lived in a world Scout had never dreamed of before. He’d had all of his freedom taken away from him and he’d had to adjust to suddenly having it.
If Mark didn’t want to talk about it…
…who was Scout to say he needed to?
It wasn’t like Scout had talked about Gemma’s ‘death’ in any meaningful way.
He scratched at the back of his neck, relishing the sting it left behind, and sighed heavily, staring longingly at where he’d dumped the whiskey down the drain. It had been the right choice of course, but this had been an unexpectedly heavy night. After a few minutes of staring at nothing and regretting everything he’d done to make Mark break down like he’d just seen, he got up and went to his room.
Scout wouldn’t talk to Mark about this anymore. It obviously wasn’t his place to. His MDR friends probably wouldn’t let it go, and Devon would probably subtly nudge Mark into going back into therapy for a little bit, so he could trust that Mark would get help eventually. But until then, he could do what Mark needed him to: shut up and leave him alone.
He’d just try to make his alone time more comfortable.
So he got dressed into Mark’s favorite sweater and sweatpants. He piled all the blankets and pillows he could find onto the couch. He made some popcorn, and he spent half an hour looking through documentaries about something interesting but light that he knew would fascinate Mark that he hadn’t seen before. Then he sifted through some letters until he found an unused cat card.
He spent a long time thinking over what he’d write before he finally wrote it.
Mark,
You’re right. It’s not my place to try and force you to talk about it. So I won’t. But I want you to know something.
You are NOT broken.
You’re just someone who was fucked over a lot. That doesn’t make you broken. It just makes you messed up. At least you look past the things that happened and try to keep living.
You’re a good man.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry about putting you down there, I’m sorry for pushing the matter, and I’m sorry that I can’t help more.
No one’s here tonight. And right after I finish writing this letter I’m going to send a message to the others telling them not to bother us for the next week. Just take your time.
When Scout blinked awake again, he was standing in his room with a new notepad in his hand. He looked at it.
Thank you.
It wasn’t much. But it was enough.