Chapter Text
Mark S. had known, he supposed, that this was inevitable.
It didn’t matter how much his team had tried to convince each other that management and security was too busy to notice, or thought that innies were too stupid to try and escape with anything more advanced than a note – he had known it was inevitable.
Regardless, it took all of his effort to stop himself from shaking as Cobel and Milchick led them back to MDR. He already knew he’d be the one in the break room – it just wasn’t worth it rotating the whole team through, and he was pretty sure Cobel would happily agree to send him in there in place of the rest of MDR. She always seemed to be a little more interested in him than the others, anyway.
It had been a good idea, though, scouting out the other departments. They’d already discovered more than he’d ever found the rest of his years there, and it just keeps hitting him how stupidly compliant he’d always been. It would be worth the trip to the break room. It was nothing he hadn’t dealt with before.
It was fine.
His fingers tapped against his thigh, drumming on in a steady pattern, a reminder he was real, he was alive, he was fine.
“I am a person. You are not.”
Did his outie think like that? None of them had ever had such direct contact with an outie before – it was unnerving that Helly’s was like that. He hoped he wasn’t that awful, outside of the office.
He didn’t have much hope. His outie put him down here, after all. He was either one self-loathing bastard, or an evil one.
Soon, too soon, he was brought out of his speculating by the rapidly approaching entrance of macro data refinement, and he knew he wouldn’t have long to convince Cobel, and whatever system they used to determine if an innie was being ‘truthful’, that he was sorry for what he’d done.
He took a shaky breath in, then another.
It was fine. He’d be fine.
Nothing he hasn’t done before.
“Mark S.,” Cobel’s voice rings out loudly in the nervous silence. It’s unsettling in the way it contradicts him; confident, sure of herself, professional. Everything he isn’t, really. “Lumon is greatly displeased with you and your teams behaviour, and you must be appropriately punished. Come with me.”
Mark’s hands clench into fists by his side. “Yes, Ms Cobel.”
His hands begin to tremble as he walks down the long, sterile halls, the white fluorescent lights beaming down on him. He wonders what outside looks like. He wonders if there are different kinds of lights. There are different lights in Ms Caseys room – he likes those. He thinks that if he ever got to go outside, and have his own lights, he’d have some like that.
He begins to realise something isn’t right.
These aren’t the halls he’s used to.
What was supposed to be a left turn was a right, and he was sure there should’ve been a painting there, and…
“Uhm, Ms Cobel, where am— where are we going?”
“You will see when we arrive. Have patience, Mark, for Kier’s sake!”
He flinches, though he tries not to. He nods his head meekly, and feels his face flush with embarrassment.
The halls feel even worse to walk in, after that.
The journey is winding, and long – he’s wondered how big the severed floor is before, but the more he thinks about it, the more it feels like an endless expanse than any finite place – and they’ve been walking for almost 10 minutes, and are in the part of the building where the lights flick on one at a time, and it all only aids the growing unease coiling low in Mark’s gut, making everything feel hot and cold and terrifying, when Cobel stops.
There’s a door, the sign next to it sort of odd in a way he can’t quite place, and it reads “Isolation”. He turns to Cobel, mouth ajar, afraid to ask what’s going on but equally terrified of what will happen to him.
Luckily, she solves that problem for him.
“Now Mark, you must know that this is for your own good, and to ensure the integrity and good behaviour of your department. The Isolation room is a little different from the Break Room, but I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Turn around.”
He shuts his mouth, opens it again, and with a final glare from Cobel he slams it shut and turns around. He hears her opening a draw, and suddenly a piece of black cloth is over his eyes, and he’s so confused he nearly forgets his fear and laughs.
He doesn’t, though, because this is the severed floor, and he knows that whatever will happen to him here is going to be worse than the break room, so this is going to suck.
Cobel orders him to put his hands behind his back, so he does, and he feels something heavy and padded click shut around his wrists. She slots something over his ears and it’s itchy and uncomfortable, and he realises he can’t hear a thing, not even his own breathing or the click, click, click of Ms Cobel’s shoes on the floor.
Before he knows it she shoves him through the door, and he’s completely, and utterly, alone.
He tries to feel around the room, but it’s difficult, and mainly involves stumbling around, desperately trying not to fall over, trying to feel where things are with his chin, or shoulder, or knee.
The room is small; each wall maybe as long as he is tall, and unlike anywhere he’s ever been before. Something soft and springy covers the walls and floor, and presumably ceiling, although he has no way to tell. It’s an odd texture, sort of scratchy and yet soft, and it’s so alien compared to the glossy, smooth walls he’s used to being surrounded with.
When he’s done mapping out the room, which takes a disappointingly small amount of time, he sinks down as far away from what he assumes is the door, in between the corner of two walls. He tries to reason that it isn’t too bad – and so far, it really isn't. It’s a little boring, sure, but most of his life has been spent without all that much sensory input, and he’s sure this can’t be much worse. At least in here, he doesn’t have to endlessly recite lines, trying hopelessly to convince them all that he’s sorry, he is, he’s so, so sorry, and that all he wants is to fix his mistake.
He mulls over the idea of sleeping – risky, yes; he can’t imagine there isn’t a camera in here, but it would be so cool to try. From what Irv had said, it felt odd – kind of like the elevator, but less quick, more peaceful, and definitely more restful.
On the other hand, he was already creeped out by this place, so maybe it would be best if he didn’t do anything that could extend his stay.
Whatever. Nothing was hurting him here, it was just a bit of boredom . After everything Lumon has done to him, there’s no way this could be the worst.
He had no idea how much time had passed. It had been past lunch when they got caught, so hopefully he’d get a break at some point to walk to the elevator, but he didn’t know how long that would take, and it had become increasingly obvious this was not the easy punishment he’d thought it would be.
He’d spent a while sitting there, but that quickly got boring, and his wrists ached where they were pressed against the wall, so he stood up and started pacing. Then running laps around the room until his legs ached, desperate for sensation. That worked for a while, but he discovered pretty quickly that his outie must not be the athletic type, because soon he had to sit down again, sweat clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
He tried shouting, to see if he could hear anything, but the earmuffs worked well, and he was completely deaf to the noise. He kept shouting anyway, because it made his throat ache, and maybe if he just leaves here hurting enough, his outie would realise something was wrong, and do something, anything, to help him.
Next, he tried getting out of the things on his wrists. He tried to shove them off, desperately trying to worm his fingers out of them, but it seemed like no matter what he did, they wouldn’t budge. He felt hot tears welling up in his eyes, blinking them away self-consciously, but despite his efforts they were soon streaming down his face as he sobbed, falling to the floor in defeat and curling in on himself, pressing his chin to his knees, grateful for the contact that brought.
He resigned himself to his hell, and screamed.
Mark was lying on the floor face-down, trying and failing to suffocate himself on the floor, when he felt a hand grab his arm and yank him up. His mouth fell open and he felt himself inhale, but he was unsure if the noise was audible to whoever else it was that was in there with him now. The hand tugged him up and he hated the way he loved the sensation, the knowledge that someone else was there, that he wasn't alone.
His feet were shaky and he stumbles as he’s pulled along the halls, and he could only assume that it’s the end of the day and he was going home. His assumption was proved right when he felt the earmuffs being taken off, then the blindfold, and then the handcuffs, and suddenly he was very aware that Mr Graner is standing in front of him, and that the lights that were blinding him, and that he felt like he was going to cry.
He didn't want to get in the elevator, but he knew he had to. There’s no point trying to fight. He doesn’t want to be in the room any longer. He knows as soon as he steps in the elevator, he’ll have to go back.
He doesn't want to he doesn't want to he doesn't want to he doesn't—
He walks forward, slots his keycard into the scanner, and gets in the elevator. As he feels his consciousness slip, tears well in his eyes and—
The elevator doors open, and he sees Graner on the other side, waiting for him. The lights are still blinding, and the colour in the chairs is overwhelming, and he can’t help flinching when Graner tells Mark to come with him because he swears nothing has ever felt so loud.
He’s shaking as he feels himself being restrained all over again – handcuffs, blindfold, earmuffs – and when he’s pushed into the room he slams himself back into the door, already sobbing.
He spends his day pacing, again, and then screaming and crying. He bangs his head on the padded walls, but it doesn’t do much to satisfy him, and eventually he falls still. He can’t think of anything to do; he can’t escape, he can’t feel anything, and so eventually he falls back to the only thing he knows helps when he’s being punished:
He starts reciting the apology.
He can’t hear himself saying it, but he knows it better than anything else by now; his many trips to the break room have engrained it so deep his mind he’s not sure anything could make him forget it.
Over and over, he goes through the lines. Guilt and regret consume him, he sobs it and he yells it and he whispers it. He can’t be sure if it does anything to help, but he knows it can’t hurt, and it’s almost a reflex by now. Graner takes him to the elevator again, and the lights and colours feel even more overstimulating in the few seconds he’s granted his senses, but before he knows it he’s back in the room again, and everything is back to the dark silence he’s starting to get used to.
It’s early in the fifth day when Cobel takes him. He’d begun hearing voices whispering to him, just murmurs in the back of his head, and his throat felt sore all the time now. He couldn’t focus on anything for too long, just barely conscious enough to know that he had to apologise. He had to show them he was sorry, and then they’d let him go. He was so, so sorry, even if he wasn't quite sure what for.
Her hand is different to Graner’s – it’s still firm but it’s smaller, the grip more forgiving. She undoes the handcuffs, and takes off the earmuffs and the blindfold, and she puts them away neatly in the cabinet before turning to face him. She says something, but he can barely make it out; his ears are ringing and he flinches at every loud, clicking step, at every light that flicks on as he walks by, at every sharp nail that presses into his skin as she tightens her grip on his arm, at every little thing that seems so impossibly big.
One of the lights doesn’t flick on overhead and that brief darkness is all it takes for him to start reciting the apology again, but even that beginning of a whisper is enough to make him wince, and he shuts his mouth again. He thinks he hears Cobel say something, but there are still the whispers behind him, and the crying woman from the break room is behind him too, and it’s all just too much.
Eventually, he comes up to MDR. He looks to Cobel for confirmation, and as she nods he takes a cautious step forward, looking behind his back to check she’s really gone – and then walks slowly to his desk, keeping his eyes trained on the carpet floor, squinting slightly in an attempt to soften all the harsh colours. He hears someone – Dylan, he thinks – say something, he picks up on a few words here and there, but he ignores it. It doesn't matter.
Mark S. sits down at his desk, and tries not to sob.
It’s fine now.
It's all fine now.