Chapter Text
It was a flash of auburn hair.
Another strange passing by in a convenience store. A stranger whose life was put together enough to surpass the refrigerator full of cheap beer.
At least it was beer now. He can proudly say he's trying next time Devon starts insulting his coping mechanisms.
Devon.
He has to buy some gift for Eleanor’s six month birthday, right? What one could even get for a kid whose parent is obsessed with the ecological footprint and spiritual origins of every toy their daughter has?
Just a bottle of red, then. Devon would appreciate a courtesy. She has to know how hard it is for him to walk into a children's store, even without Ricken’s guidelines for presents in mind.
A bottle of red it is.
He catches a flash of ginger in the glass again, so rich and absurd in the all-consuming whiteness of the Seven-Eleven, a bright sterile corner in a town filled with yellowish yet to wake up from winter slumber grass, leftover dirty snow and bleak streetlights.
Mark Scout is no stranger to flashes of white nor he’s a stranger to feeling watched. It has become familiar some time ago, in between the hospital and actually remembering Petey and their shared jokes. A memory, a sense, that, it feels, he has always had. A new norm, just like blood dripping from his nose or closing his eyes in front of the fridge and seeing weird drop-shaped snacks instead, except there was nothing surprising about them. They were always this way and you could have only two of them a day. The handbook hasn't specified who has to eat the snack after it's extraction, so lately Mark used to share them with Helly just to cheer her up rather than eating them by herself. Somehow that knowledge came too, carefully tucked away beside the memory of picking up plants for the house they just moved in with Gemma.
The feeling of being watched shouldn't come with much surprise either. Lumon can't do a thing against him legally — if they haven't pressed charges for covering up a murder they probably have no clue he has been there at all — but surely they wouldn't left a man who has all mights to destroy their reputation unattended.
A smarter man would move states weeks ago. But Mark Scout never cared much about his safety or wellbeing, and was told he’s an asshole one too many times to not embrace the title. So he stayed where he was and did absolutely nothing. Occasionally lashed out at teenagers, Mark was convinced Lumon had underpaid to follow him around.
He turns away from the wine shelf abruptly, a shape of a curse ready to slip from his lips and…
He has to look twice. To pinch his skin to make sure it's not another hallucination.
Wouldn't be the first time he imagined her beside him. Far from it.
Helly — Helena, probably — was there, lingering at the end of the isle. Just as Mark remembered her. Not from the severed floor, but from that one evening she haunted him in a chinese restaurant, a desperate attempt to avoid Reghabi on Mark’s part and who knows what intentions Helena had had.
“Jesus!” he reacts a bit too late for it to sound authentic. “Are you fucking stalking me?”
Helena makes her way closer, steps deliberate, certain in contrast to an awkward smile that's so uniquely her.
“And what if I did?” she asks, teasing. As if they're friends with established banter.
Which they are not. Even if Mark feels he has known her for half of his life.
“Then I’m calling my fucking lawyer,” Mark snaps. It doesn't exactly matter that he doesn't have a lawyer he can call his, just a bunch of Devon’s contacts who agreed to help with a lawsuit that never proceeded to be filed. Helena doesn't need to know it. There's a dozen numbers in Mark’s phone left with a bitter taste of arguments he witnessed, too weak and mindfucked to pick a side.
Surely someone will pick up.
“I’m not on behalf of Lumon,” Helena quickly adds. “And it's not about… her.”
“What do you want?”
Helena bites her lip. “Can we talk somewhere private?”
“Quit that!”
Helena blinks at him and bows her head to the side. Exactly. “Your fucking pretenses and vagueness. What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Just talk. Off records, I swear.”
“Talk,” Mark glances at his watch. Five minutes. He wouldn't grant her a second longer.
“Look, you know that our innies worked together, right? Helly, she trusted you, and… “
“Not me. My innie. And he’s a fucking child.”
“He helped you to save your wife,” Helena reminds. Her voice stays quiet. Gentle. Pleading.
She doesn't say it like a threat. She's not bitter or angry about it.
She has to be furious at him for ruining their wicked plans, for the innie strike he apparently was involved in.
“And he left her! He left her when she needed me the most and-”
“He's not a child. He's… They…” Helena looks down, uncertain. She's anything but the woman he comes to recognize in TV ads and on billboards nor is the woman with her face that haunted his dreams and sterile-white memories. “I lied. I’m nothing like the head of the company. I know about the OTC because it happened to me too.”
“You're severed?" Mark asks, dumbfounded.
He knows she was on the severed floor. It's hard to figure out how long exactly, but he knows her as Helly, a free spirit who tried to get out since the moment she woke up on the table. He knows her outie was mean, knows how hurt she was by it. It's hard to imagine she was never really severed. A head of the company wouldn't start such a mess on purpose.
But he can't let Helena know any of it.
Even if she has seen his hospital records, he can't let her know how memories of her haunt him every night.
Instead of answering, Helena bows her head and threads her fingers through the hair.
“Here, you can feel it. I don't exactly have an x-ray with me.”
Mark doesn't trust himself to touch her. Not like this, with his hand tangled in her hair, not so intimate, so easy to slip and…
He knows there's a scar on the back of her head. He had felt it with his fingers before.
“I trust you,” Mark says instead. I think I’m done here.”
Helena follows him to the checkout. A cashier, even if he has recognized her, says nothing.
Mark pays in cash. Devon’s insistence to cash out all the savings when they started corporate espionage. Just in case. They thought they would have to go on a run the night before Cold Harbor. Only if he’d walked through the damn door…
Cashier hands him the receipt and wishes good night. Mark nods. In the corner of his eyes he catches some coupons displayed. Home cleaning supplies, pastries, car wash discounts. He grabs them too.
That earns a chuckle from Helena.
“What?” Mark asks. “I’m not exactly employed right now.”
“No, I mean. Our innies joked about it once. It's just… interesting to see what transcends the severance barrier.”
“How would you know?”
“Surveillance tapes. I was allowed to watch them.”
“Right. CEO privileges.”
Mark expects Helena to laugh. To tease him back. To say something. Anything.
Instead, when Mark opens the trunk of his car, he's in a hallway. There's an elevator which only goes up. Helly. You're cutting them wrong.
Honey.
She had called him honey.
Or not him exactly, but it was implied. Had to be.
Mark feels overwhelming warmth spreading through his chest. Shy, for some reason. Unsure of what to say or do or how not to embarrass himself in front of Helly, the most important task he has ever had.
A passing car jolts Mark back to reality. Helena stands beside the passenger door, not reaching for it. Not asking may I? but following him nevertheless.
Somewhere private, she said. She must know where he lives anyway.
On impulse, Mark grabs two beer bottles. It's a five minute drive. He needs it like hell.
Then, he thinks of Helena again.
“Right, you probably…”
“Fuck you,” Helena snatches the bottle from his hands and cracked it open with her teeth. For a moment before the discarded cap hit the ground, Mark was in a shining white kitchenette, Helly’s in front of him with a smug fine, have it your way, boss.
It was a good try on her part, though. He’s proud of her, but can't pinpoint for what exactly.
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, you should be,” Helena smiles as they get inside the car.
“Seriously?”
“Kidding.”
They let the laughter linger in the night air.
Mark starts the engine and drives out of the parking lot. His beer was left untouched.
“So, the OTC?” he prompts. It's easier. It's a common ground, apparently. Mark doesn't intend it as a test, but he remembers bits and pieces, he remembers her innie. Maybe it'll be enough to know Helena is not lying. Maybe her story will trigger more memories.
He's not sure if he wants them.
He's not sure he wants to know why the fuck she's approaching him this time. Why is it even important whether she lies or not? He won't let her know shit regardless.
“A hell of a night,” Helena laughs bitterly. “It's the end of the quota, for the innies. I was supposed to go for one, for PR reasons. You know, the congress voting, controversies. What's a better strategy than to send a future CEO to the severed floor, right? Closer to people, crawling up the corporate ladder, all this bulshit.”
“Huh.”
“I didn't have a choice, really. The board approved before the idea was brought up to me.”
“You couldn't, like, take some photos? Staged whatever?”
Helena stares straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. She barely let it be shown, but she's bitter. Burning underneath the surface.
She wouldn't have said any of it if she wasn't.
“I think father really wanted me out of sight,” Helena whispers with a weak smile. “And I thought,” her voice changes. It's rougher now. Angrier. “Fuck it, eight hours cut out of the day? Fucking perfect. Even if only for two months. Except Helly didn't want to be there.”
“Yeah,” Mark chuckles. “She threw a receiver at me minutes after we met.”
It's an accident.
He didn't mean to slip like this.
He doesn't know what's worse: Helena knowing about reintegration or the implications of pride and tenderness he feels at the memory.
He doesn't expect Helena to simply ask: “How much do you remember?”
“You, or she, i guess, really didn't want to be there. You broke the door to the stairwell? You had blood, there,” Mark gently traces the spot, fingertips barely touching Helena's coat. “You threatened to cut your fingers and, uh, i caught you. In the elevator?”
Mark doesn't elaborate and he doesn't need to. Helena sighs heavily.
Mark half-expects her to curse Helly, to be furious at her, at his innie, at Lumon or whoever was managing the severed floor at the time, Jude, Milchick, the guy whose murder Mark witnessed, a guard who was too late.
Instead she looks ahead of the road with no emotion.
“Do you think it was my first time?” she whispers, lips trembling. “I hoped it wouldn't transcend severance."
Mark can’t breathe. He barely knows the woman beside him, but he can't bear the thought of a word without her.
Simple as that.
Fucking Lumon. If only he hadn't noticed that damn advertisement two years ago…
“This is Lumon housing,” Helena points out. Mark’s thankful for the opportunity to switch the subject. He can't handle thinking about it, about Helly, suffocating what-ifs.
He doesn't even know her. He can do it again.
“Well, no one bothered to throw me out yet,” Mark says, shutting the car down. “The neighbourhood never really filled up. I guess they're losing their money either way.”
“I guess we were,” Helena echoes.
“Was it all a simulation? These houses? My boss apparently lived next door? My wife? The fucking archive job advertisement?”
“I haven't figured out everything yet,” Helena murmurs as they walk in. She ditches her shoes and unwraps her scarf, but doesn't let go of the coat.
“So you can't answer any questions either?”
“There's a couple of other severed employees placed in this neighborhood, ones who were in need of housing benefits. This particular branch is… special. Experiential. Less employees than in other places, but we build the usual infrastructure. Some non-severed employees needed housing too, although I never could figure out Cobel. She's… was,.. loyal. Father trusted her, but he doesn't believe in second chances.”
Somehow, this was the most answers Mark has ever gotten in the past two months. Petey, who hadn't had enough time while Mark didn't even care to listen to him, Cobel herself. Even Reghabi, the most willing of all them, was speaking in fucking riddles.
“What's with the rest?” He pushed his luck further. “Why us? Me? Is everyone in this town hand-picked?”
“You’ve seen those TV commercials,” Helena's voice changes. From quiet desperation to calculated precision. This isn't a confession anymore, it's a checklist of selling points, “no previous experience needed, your innie would be oriented and educated. Most of the people come from those.”
“And what the fuck are you telling them?”
“Lumon is a bio-tech company, Mark. Most of our profit comes from selling medical equipment and medicines. Severed workers are employed in the process of making them, not every part of the chain requires deep expertise and education, so we tell them the truth, mostly. But MDR, the department both of us worked in, it's essential for the severance chip working. Pre-programming, I believe.”
“And how do you know that's not a lie?”
“I’ve closed dozens of deals over private dinners and have been present when new severed centers were opened in many places, inspected them, even. I know things, Mark. Just not the experimental parts.”
“Private dinners?” Mark repeats.
“That's all you heard?” Helena smirks. “Jealous?”
Mark chokes out a broken no and drowns remains of his beer in one go.
“Doesn't sound very professional,” he points out.
Where did it come from? This urge to throw her off the rails, to hurt her, to make her laugh.
“Father expected it, I think,” Helena admits, looking away at the darkness outside the window. “Close the deal whatever it takes, you know? But I never did. Sleep with business partners, that's it.”
Helena isn't offended, isn't defensive about her dignity.
Just tired
“Sorry, uh, to assume.”
Helena smiles weakly. “You're not the first one. Kier knows, they tried, but. Father always said I’m not,..” she trails off briefly, “I always tried to do business like a man would. Prayed to be respected.”
“And how's that going for you?”
“Father prefers me downstairs with no memories.”
“Jesus, fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Don't be.”
“You can stop pretending this isn't fucked. My sister hates me for severing, and your family…”
“It's nothing.”
“It's not.”
“Drop it, Mark.”
For now, he does. God knows, pushing her wouldn't end well. He barely knows her, but there's a feeling that he's already burnt once.
“Okay, fine, why the fuck have you followed me the first time?”
“It was a punishment,” Helena murmurs. “I failed to do what was expected from me.”
“Jesus.”
Helena walks slowly towards the aquarium, her fingers twirling a ring on her index finger restlessly.
“After the overtime thing, everyone involved was fired, except for you.”
“Because of Gemma?”
“Yes, but I didn't know why at the time, only that your work was highly important. But you, or he, refused to work without your friends. They couldn't have Helly down there again, she's too unpredictable, apparently. So I had to go down as myself. Pretend to be her.”
“You met my innie,” Mark guesses.
“I had to get the information. About the OTC. But the innies figured me out before I…”
Memory flash is as violent as every other Mark has had. Sunshine. Crisp wind, distant roar of a waterfall. Helly's — no, Helena's, he knows now, — piercing cry, his own name. Again and again. Irving’s — they’d never met, but somehow Mark knows this voice belongs to Irving — hoarse turn it off, Mr. Milchick! Turn it off!
“... face the man I… Mark?”
“Wh-what?”
“Are you okay?”
“I, yeah. Good.” But he stumbles back, grips the counter. He's short of breath again and the ripple of the headache has him squeezing his eyes. Fucking hell.
“You're sure?”
“You were saying…”
“I lied,” Helena murmured. “I couldn't believe they faked someone's death, I've never… so I never told them what I heard from you. So I was tasked to try and get information another way.”
“By bringing up my wife,” Mark spat bitterly.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn't,” Helena lowered her head again. Her voice pained. “I just had to see your reaction. To be sure, to…” she trails off, digging her nails into the other wrist hard enough to leave marks. “All I can be is sorry and this is all I am.”
Milchick’s voice flashes through Mark’s head. I’m afraid you still don't mean it. Not the disturbed one he heard through Petey’s recorder. This time it was loud and clear, filling Mark with rage and despair. Someone's crying just behind the wall — no, not someone, it's Gemma, just like the night after… — but he knows he can't help them. He’s terrified. He's sorry. He didn't mean to do whatever he had done, fuck, he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for, but he knows there's nothing he can do about it except repeat it again, and again, and pray that overwhelming helplessness won't pour out of his eyes. Again.
Except Helena hasn't been reintegrated. If she was telling the truth, she might not even know about the break room. No way they’d send Helena herself, not Helly, Helly’d been there, to the fuckung torture chamber. And still, somehow, she knows.
Mark has no idea what to make of it.
“You wanted something,” he reminds instead. “What is it?”
“I know you talked to your innie. You had to. I want to know how. I want to make it right, with Helly, but I can't do it at Lumon. Code detectors, you know? But I want to let her live. She deserves it,..”
“Helly?” Mark cuts off, dumbfounded. “You expect me to help the woman who kept me away from my wife?”
“What?”
“It was her idea! The strike. She convinced him to stay down there, when she needed me most and”
“How the fuck you're so sure about this?!”
“Partially reinterpreted, remember?” Mark spats, twirling his finger at his temple. “Oh, you know, I started this to save my wife from your fucking company and the first memory I get? Him fucking you on the floor of some abandoned office room! I can't stop fucking thinking about you!”
“Don't act like It's my fault!” Helena yells back.
It's the first time Helena has lost her composure, her defeat slipping into despair. She's painfully familiar like this, painfully Helly. Mark loves it in her, Mark hates her for it, but he's too blinded by his rage to notice any of it.
“Oh, so fucking convinient! It wasn't you, if…”
“But it wasn't me!”
“Funny. Because I remember you saying the same thing down there.”
“I… you just have to trust me,” Helena murmurs, that senseless defeat resurfacing. “But I know can't ask that of you.”
“Right. You can't.”
It's cruel, in some way.
But he can't do this anymore. He has barely survived, fresh out of the hospital, Devon’s urge to fight and Gemma’s hopeless deflection. He tried to convince Gemma at first, if only because of the urge for justice that wasn't really him — Mark wasn't really himself anymore, not with all the memories that slowly found their way into his mind, not as violently, but much quieter, much sinister, changing him in ways he didn't know how to explain, — but he'd be a fucking hypocrite, Gemma told him as much. How can he push her into something she’s not ready for when he spent the last three years chasing ghosts and drinking himself to sleep.
So he stopped. Now, he doesn't give a shit whether severance lives or dies. He just doesn't have energy for this.
Mark expects Helena to fight back. To push further, to manipulate, threaten him. Instead, Helena deflects.
“This was a mistake, I’m going to… I won't bother you anymore.”
The first time anyone from Lumon didn't act entitled.
It's unsettling, to see Helena retrieve after the first no.
Helly wouldn't. Helly would fight time after time, even if all her attempts were in vain, she never stopped. She was pure fire.
Them and innies, Mark came to realize, are way more similar than he'd like to admit. So it's really fucking unsettling to see Helly go without trying for a second time. Unsettling enough to break Mark’s resolve.
“Damona birthing retreat,” Helena’s at the door when Mark yells after her. She freezes mid step. “Cabin five has a severance barrier. We recorded messages for each other. Harmony Cobel knows more about it.”
“Of course,” Helena turns to him. There's a hesitant smile on her lips. “I should've thought about it,” she bites her lower lip and turns back around. “Why sell out Harmony?”
“Sell out? She's been spying on me for years!! Haven't answered a single fucking question. Her damn chamomile cookies alone? I don't owe her shit.”
Mark half expects a smug grin and was it that hard? but that's Helly's voice in his head. Helena only nods and quietly says: “Thank you.” Her hands twist on their own, worrying the lapels of her coat. “I should go.”
Mark doesn't stop her this time.
He's not looking after her either, doesn't see as she walks away along the side of the road, how her hands twitch in the pockets of her coat or a hesitant smile that flickers on and off her face.
He can't.
And stop being a fucking asshole, she yells and disappears in the endless white corridors.
I thought it was you, his own voice. There in the bathroom, warm green tiled walls just like in his own. But it wasn't me.
Another door slammed in front of him. Another helpless, hopeless attempt to make this right, but how can he fix it if he can't make himself regret?
Regret what? He’s supposed to feel guilty, supposed to fix something, anything, but he has no idea. The numbers whispering and screaming at him don't make sense at all. How can he feel emotions in them when he can't temper his own?
Emotions? Why the fuck he's supposed to feel emotions?
It wasn't Helly. It wasn't Helly, if it wasn't Helly it means…
I don't want her memory. I want my own.
He wants it too, oh fuck, he wants it. Touch her, hold her, never let her cry because of him again. He wants to remember her properly.
Helena must feel it too, somehow.
It's dark again except for the dim artificial kitchen light and the aquarium. He's home. He won't see those overwhelming white corridors ever again.
Your outie is kind, Gemma says, but her voice is weird. Detached, half-whisper. She’d never talked like that before. She's always been like this.
Open or closed?
Another emotionless hiss, someone he can't quite figure out, someone he's terrified of. Someone he's mad at.
We do nothing because Helena told them!
She's hurt. It's not her fault, it's his, and now he hurt her, he hurt her, he…
He's in the dark again. Mark has to grab the wall behind him to stay upright. It doesn't help.
His world is spinning.
He, the other he, had a plan. Wanted to help even before they found a way to converse.
And Helena, she was down, but she said nothing.
She said nothing.
Oh, fuck.