Chapter Text
Mark wakes up on the floor, his cheek digging into the cold concrete.
He tries to move and immediately regrets it. His body feels like it ran a marathon and then went twelve rounds with a brick wall, every muscle achingly sore. Mark struggles to get his knees underneath him, his limbs slow and stiff like swimming through molasses. He groans. Christ, what happened to him?
Sitting up causes the room to tilt like a carnival ride. Mark holds onto the floor like he's going to fly off into empty space, nearly pitching forward again. He presses a hand against his temple and his stomach lurches. He takes a deep breath, and then another, doing his best to breathe through the dizziness and nausea.
Mark looks around, his vision wavering in and out of focus. Industrial work lamps burn his eyes, casting everything into harsh lines of light and dark. The room is made entirely of cement, and it smells damp, like mildew and dirt. A basement? Nearby are several pieces of equipment, some of it still draped in plastic. Mark thinks a few look vaguely medical, but he can only guess what the others are for. Off to the side, there's a desk with a computer and a cluster of monitors. Near the center of the room is something that resembles a dentist's chair, except for the frankly terrifying number of restraints and attachments that hang from it. He gets a shuddering, prickling sensation just looking at it.
Mark's eyes follow a trail of wires leading from the chair to an object on the floor just in front of him. He reaches for it. At first it simply looks like a bundle of cords, but closer inspection reveals it to be a sort of net studded with metal sensors. Like something used to monitor and test brain activity, just the right size and shape to fit on someone's head.
It's then Mark remembers.
Lumon. Dr. Reghabi. His doomed coworkers, his sister, Petey. Gemma—
Reintegration.
A pain like Mark has never felt before rips through his head. The force of it makes him scream and drop to the floor. It feels like a pick-axe between his eyes, like his brain is on fire. Like his skull is going to split right down the middle and spill everything inside.
Mark grips his head in a desperate attempt to keep himself together. The pain redoubles and he cries out again, blood dribbling from his nose and down his chin. He's sweaty and shaking all over, tears leaking from his eyes. It feels like he's dying. Is he dying?
(Is this what Petey felt before he died?)
Mark remembers, but too much all at once. Memories pour into his brain like a tidal wave, his life flashing before his eyes and rising up to drown him—his childhood, Devon, his parents, college, teaching, Gemma—the images come faster and faster, until Mark feels like his head will burst under the pressure.
But not just his memories. Unfamiliar recollections of white hallways, green carpeting, suits and ties and tepid coffee. Handbook quotes treated like bible verses, erasers without pencils, numbers that go on forever. Fear, frustration, color-coded keycards, maps drawn in secret that shouldn't exist. His hands trembling on a table in a dark room while a tape recorder whirs in the background.
The memories mix together, overlapping and bleeding into one another, until it becomes impossible to tell which are his and which are not. Are they all his? Are any of them? Mark clutches his head and curls in on himself, a sob slipping out of him. This was a mistake, it's too much, he can't handle it—
In between writhing on the concrete and his brain melting out of his ears, Mark sees something, a flicker of shadow and light that coalesces into a blurry outline. A figure as familiar as his own reflection, and yet not at the same time, solid and real in a way no nightmare has any right to be.
A person wearing his own face, who speaks using his own voice.
"Mark, what did you do?"
Mark laughs, high and hysterical. His innie's stricken expression is the last thing Mark sees before his consciousness fades to black.
Mark comes to in the middle of his sister's dining room. Everyone is staring at him like he's committed some irreparable faux pas, like shitting on the carpet, or whipping his dick out. The silence in the room is overwhelming and growing tenser by the second.
Devon looks absolutely devastated, her hands cradled around Eleanor. Mark swallows, his breath stuttering in his chest. Oh god, what did he do this time? Did he get wasted and embarrass himself somehow? But he doesn't feel drunk. He feels, well. Like he does after coming off the elevator at Lumon. But that can't be right.
Devon says something low and urgent in Ricken's ear. He nods eagerly. Eager to be helpful, or to escape this situation? Probably both. Mark is eyeing the back door himself.
"Everyone," Ricken says. "The spirit is moving me towards deep reflection, but without the bounds of this physical structure. All those who are willing, let us reconvene outside in nature, to really dig in and continue our search for self."
Ricken's disciples murmur excitedly. They follow their leader down the stairs and out to the patio, leaving Mark and Devon alone. Without a word, Devon takes Mark by the elbow and leads him into the kitchen.
"Devon, whatever I did, I'm sorry—"
"Drink this," she says, plunking a glass of red wine on the counter in front of him.
"Encouraging my alcoholism, this is new." Mark does as he's told, draining half the glass in one go. "So, I didn't ruin your fancy party?"
"What do you remember?"
"What do you mean, what do I—" Mark stops, frowning. It feels like he's missing something, and he doesn't like how eerily familiar it is. He wrinkles his brow. "I was hugging Mrs. Selvig, I think. And then… I don't know."
"You mean Ms. Cobel?"
"Who?"
Devon leans heavily against the counter, wrapping her arms protectively around Eleanor. "Oh fuck me, you really don't remember. He was telling the truth."
"Okay, what's going on? You're starting to freak me out."
Devon laughs, but she still looks like she's about to cry. "Oh, you're freaking out? Just wait."
"Devon—"
"Finish your drink."
Mark does, bringing the glass down on the counter harder than necessary. He waves his hand in a sarcastic flourish. "There. Now what is it?"
"Maybe we should sit down—"
"Devon. If you don't start talking, I'm going to go downstairs and insult every single one of Ricken's followers until they cry."
Devon sighs, looking uncharacteristically nervous. She also fails to remind Mark that they're my friends too, asshole. Now he's really worried.
"He was here. Your worksona."
"Don't call him that, it's creepy. And weirdly sexual." Mark's brain catches up with Devon's words. "Wait, what?"
"You know, the work version of you, your whatever you call it—"
"My innie. My innie was here?" Mark freezes. "That's impossible. They told me that could never happen."
"Well, it sounds like Lumon has been real fucking shady about a lot of stuff."
"I don't understand, how—what did he want? Did he say anything?"
"Oh, yeah. He said some shit."
Devon tells him. About the overtime contingency. About his innie conspiring with his coworkers to escape Lumon. About the strange and mysterious work they do. About Mrs. Selvig actually being Ms. Cobel, and almost kidnapping Eleanor.
"Jesus, is she okay?" Mark reaches for the baby, but then hesitates. He's still unsure around Eleanor, afraid he might do something wrong, or hurt her somehow.
"She's fine, we found her in the office in her carseat. Like Cobel changed her mind at the last minute." Devon shudders. "I was more upset than Eleanor. She was only missing five minutes, but I swear it took five years off my life."
"And Mrs. Selvig—Cobel—is my boss at Lumon, living some sort of double life? Why would she do that?"
"I don't fucking know, Mark! Why did she move right next door to you in a development that's practically empty? And why did she come here, to my house? She's obviously some kind of psychotic stalker."
Mark feels unease creep under his skin. Mrs. Selvig has always been a little nosy, a little odd. But she seemed harmless. Mostly, Mark is upset at himself for occasionally appreciating her visits.
It felt nice, sometimes. Not being so alone.
Mark leans against the counter, but stops when something bangs into the cabinet below. He brings his hand up and stares. Why is he holding one of his old wedding photos?
"Oh, god." There are tears shining in Devon's eyes. "He said something else, Mark. Something crazy that can't be true. But I also can't think of why he would lie about it. He looked so upset."
Ice slides into Mark's gut. "What?"
Devon swallows. "He said she's alive. Screamed it, actually."
The kitchen goes fuzzy and slides out of focus. There's no question who Devon means. She's always there, following Mark like a ghost, without anyone ever saying her name.
Mark opens his mouth to speak, but nothing happens. When he finally does get the word out, it's so small and pathetic it's barely audible.
"Gemma?"
Tears roll down Devon's cheeks. "Mark, I'm so sorry."
"But. That can't—I saw her body, Dev. At the hospital, I saw her."
"I know, I know, so did I—"
A fierce ringing in Mark's ears drowns out whatever Devon says next. His knees turn to rubber, pitching him forward. He staggers to the sink and vomits, the wine and all the hors d'oeuvres he snaked being retched up until he's heaving nothing but bile.
Mark slides to the floor, clutching the wedding photo like a life preserver. He sobs, ugly and open-mouthed, until his whole body is shaking, until he can hardly breathe. Devon sits down beside him and pulls him into a hug, pressing his face into her shoulder.
Gemma. Gemma. Gemma—
"Shh, you gotta breathe, Mark." Devon puts a hand on his chest, just over his heart, like she used to when they were kids and he would have panic attacks. "Breathe."
Mark wraps his hand around Devon's and holds on tight. Everything inside of him is spilling out like an open wound. He's been fighting for so long just to survive without Gemma. He sold their home, quit his job, packed her things out of sight. Clipped all those invisible threads that held them together so he wouldn't drown, no matter how much he wanted to.
Closure, letting go, moving on. And all this time, Gemma has been alive, alive, alive—
"Where?" Mark chokes out. "How?"
"He didn't get to say anything else before you switched back." Eleanor fusses between them, and Devon shushes her, too. "But the only place he ever goes is Lumon, right? So it must have something to do with them."
Petey's blood-stained face bobs to the surface of Mark's mind. He remembers the map, Petey talking about the different departments at Lumon. Including the one where no one gets to leave, ever. At the time, it sounded crazy. But what if it isn't?
Fire burns in Mark's veins. For the first time in two years, he's no longer wandering in the dark. He pulls away from Devon and struggles to his feet.
"Whoa, Mark, take it easy."
"What if Gemma's there, at Lumon? What if he saw her?"
"We don't know that. I mean, this entire situation is insane! We need more information before we—"
"Say you'll help me."
"Mark."
"You believe him, right? My innie?"
Devon pauses, taking a deep breath. Then she nods. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."
"Then say it. Say you'll help me tear down Lumon brick by brick, burn it to the motherfucking ground, if that's what it takes. It's my wife, Devon." Mark's voice cracks. "It's Gemma."
Devon gives Mark a long look. Then she offers her hands, and Mark helps to pull her upright. Eleanor burbles between them, waving her tiny fists.
"Of course. You don't even have to ask, you know that."
Mark squeezes her hands. "Thank you."
"Besides, what kind of sibling would I be if I didn't help you commit corporate espionage? Someone has to keep your ass from getting maimed or killed."
Devon's tone is joking, but Mark can see the humor doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's still so worried about him. Mark's not sure he deserves it after so many years of proving her right.
He sighs. "You're really not going to like this next part, then."
Finding the doctor turns out to be relatively easy. Convincing her not to beat Mark to death with her baseball bat is a little more difficult.
"Wait, stop!" Mark yells, sticking his hands in the air. "I come in peace!"
The doctor stops mid-swing, but doesn't lower the bat. "Mark Scout. How did you find me?"
"I told you, I used to work at Ganz College. I still have friends there." That sounds a lot better than what actually happened; Mark begging the information from Dean Kessler by invoking his dead wife in a truly pathetic phone call. "You have a thing for basements, huh?"
"I have a thing for not spending the rest of my life in jail." The doctor's latest hideout is under Ganz College's downtown satellite campus, in an auxiliary building used mainly to house their veterinary tech program. Still affiliated with the college, but a little farther removed. "What do you want?"
"I want to talk about reintegration."
The doctor drops the bat to her side. "You said you weren't interested. What's changed?"
Mark decides to tell the truth. "I think Lumon has my wife. I need to find her."
"Your dead wife?"
"Apparently not. At least according to my innie."
The doctor stares at him for a moment. Then she tucks the bat under her arm and clicks on a flashlight. "Follow me."
Mark hesitates. He doesn't want a repeat of their last encounter, when the doctor was in complete control, and Mark ended up an accomplice to murder. "What's your name?"
"Don't waste my time, Mark."
"Why? Your schedule all booked up with back alley brain surgery?"
The doctor glares at him.
"Sorry."
She rolls her eyes. "Reghabi," she finally says.
"And your first name?"
"Doctor. Let's go."
This time, Mark follows her. Reghabi leads them deeper into the basement, her flashlight cutting through the maze of storage shelves. Mark sees the outlines of old office equipment, crumbling cardboard boxes, filing cabinets hanging open and empty. All of it's covered in a thick layer of dust, making it clear no one's been down here in years.
They walk until they come to a large metal door. Reghabi opens it with a set of keys from her pocket, the hinges letting out a long, ominous creak. She walks in and begins turning on work lamps, the bright light making Mark squint after the basement darkness.
Inside is what looks like a rudimentary lab. Mark doesn't recognize much except the computer Reghabi boots up. She bustles around, collecting things on a tray and turning on other equipment. Eventually she drags a stool over to the computer desk, the metal scraping loudly against the concrete floor.
"Sit," Reghabi says. "And close the door behind you."
Mark does as he's told, still blinking in the harsh light. He's reminded of being in high school science class as he settles on the stool. Reghabi types something on the computer, and then turns to Mark with a device in her hand. Mark flinches away, the stool squeaking in protest.
"This is to scan your chip," Reghabi says. "It won't hurt."
"I said I wanted to talk first."
Reghabi gives him a look. "You didn't come all this way just to talk." When Mark doesn't budge, she sighs. "Fine. But I also need to examine you, to get a baseline before I do anything else. Okay?"
Slowly, Mark nods. He lets Reghabi point the device at his forehead until it beeps. Mark tries to get his thoughts in order, tries not to think about Petey dropping dead outside that gas station over and over again on a loop. He clears his throat.
"So, how does reintegration work exactly?"
Reghabi speaks without looking away from the computer monitor. "The severance chip bifurcates your consciousness by emitting constant, low-level electric impulses into your brain tissue. One set of impulses blocks off your work memories from the rest of your consciousness while you're away from Lumon. Another set does the same for your personal memories whenever you're at work on the severed floor."
"So the chip… electrocutes me?"
"No. The chip's impulses are only fractionally more powerful than what your brain normally generates." While she talks, Reghabi begins running a check up on Mark, starting with his eyes. She clicks on a small penlight to check his pupils. "Anything more than that runs the risk of turning you into a drooling vegetable."
Mark allows Reghabi to manhandle him without complaint, letting her look in his ears, examine the glands in his neck. "Not very useful for creating capitalist worker drones."
"Exactly. Reintegration reprograms the chip to interrupt those impulse patterns, which allows your consciousness to gradually become whole again."
"Can't you just remove the chip?"
"I could. But without the chip to modulate the transition, the two parts of your consciousness would instantly crash together. Which doesn't bode well for you remaining sane at the end of the process."
Mark swallows. He holds still while Reghabi takes his temperature. "Is that what happened to Petey?"
"Peter," Reghabi says pointedly. She sounds angry. "His name was Peter Kilmer." She takes a breath, her voice becoming more clinical again. "Tell me about his symptoms, everything you can remember."
"I only knew him for about a day, before he…" Mark trails off. He remembers the look Petey—try as he might, he can't think of him as anything else—gave him right before he collapsed. A small, almost smile. Like he was glad to see Mark, despite everything. "He would be fine, talking and cracking jokes, but then he would get confused, disoriented. Like he was mixing up his work and personal memories, and couldn't tell where he was. I wondered if I was making it worse, since I was in both."
Reghabi nods. "Take your coat off and roll up your left sleeve. What else?"
Mark does so, folding his coat in his lap and pushing his shirt sleeve above his elbow. "He said the relativity of his memories was fucked, that his first day at Lumon was as far back as his fifth birthday. He also had headaches, nose bleeds, paranoia. And sometimes he would start crying at the drop of a hat."
"Emotional dysregulation." Reghabi wraps a blood pressure cuff around Mark's arm and hits a button to make it start inflating. She shakes her head, sounding frustrated. "If he had stayed, I could have helped him. I could have adjusted the impulse interruption to be less intense. But instead, he took off. He wouldn't listen to me."
"He was scared. Wouldn't you be?"
Mark might be imagining it, but Reghabi seems to soften. She takes off the blood pressure cuff and trades it for a stethoscope, warming the end between her hands. "I'm going to listen to your breathing now. Okay?"
"Okay."
Reghabi slips the stethoscope under Mark's shirt and presses it against his back. Mark dutifully takes deep breaths as she slides it from spot to spot, and then under his collar to check his chest. Her movements are less brusque, her fingertips warm on his skin.
"Good," Reghabi says, pulling away. She goes back to the computer and begins typing again. "You're in decent shape, but your blood pressure's a little high. Any history of that in your family?"
"No?"
Reghabi raises a brow. "Is that a question or a statement?"
"I mean, I don't know. My parents were both dead by the time I was in college, and I'm not close to any of my extended family."
"What about stroke?"
"Not that I know of."
Reghabi types more notes. Then she turns to look him directly in the eye. "I need you to be sure this is what you want, Mark. No hesitation, one-hundred percent. Because the procedure's not without risk, and there's no going back once it's done."
Mark meets her gaze. "I'm sure. If Lumon has my wife, I'll do anything to get her back."
Reghabi considers him carefully, her eyes drilling into his. Mark holds his breath, feeling like he's being x-rayed, turned inside out and examined piece by piece. Finally, she must find whatever she's looking for, and nods.
"Okay. I need about about a week to get all the supplies and equipment." She hands Mark a flip phone, almost identical to the one Petey had. "I'll contact you when everything's ready."
Mark takes the phone. "What should I do in the meantime?"
"Go about your normal routine. Work, home, family. Tell no one about me, or this place."
"But what about my innie? What he did to communicate with me, if Lumon finds out about it..." Mark thinks about his bruised knuckles, the horrible tape Petey played for him, all the gift cards he's found wedged under his wiper blades over the years. "What if they punish him for it?"
Reghabi is quiet for a moment. "Lumon won't kill him, not while he's still useful. And whatever else they can do to him, he must have thought the pain was worth it." Then she smiles, and it's hard and sharp and full of teeth. "And it will be. Of that you and I will make sure."
Mark likes the sound of that.