Riona (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rionaleonhart) wrote2025-03-03 12:39 pm
rionaleonhart) wrote2025-03-03 12:39 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfiction: The Long Road Home (Severance)
It is increasingly difficult to write spoiler-free summaries for Severance fanfiction. Here is an AU for the most recent episode.
Title: The Long Road Home
Fandom: Severance
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,600
Summary: An escape.
Warnings: Severance spoilers up to episode 2.07, 'Chikhai Bardo'.
She’s awake.
Ms Casey walks slowly down the corridor, cautious, confused. Has she been taken out of retirement? Is there a wellness session she needs to conduct? How long has it been; will any of the employees she remembers still be here?
The door opens before she’s reached the end of the corridor. She’s expecting Mr Milchick, here to explain her presence and brief her on her task.
It isn’t Mr Milchick.
“Hello, Dylan G,” Ms Casey says. She’s relieved to see a familiar face. Perhaps he’s here to brief her; perhaps he’s been promoted?
“Holy fuck,” Dylan says. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Ms Casey confirms, uncertain.
Dylan looks quickly to his left and right. “You’re Mark’s dead wife. Holy shit, we’ve got to get you out of here.”
Ms Casey considers that.
“What?” she asks.
“Come on.” He gestures for her to follow him. “We need to get you to the elevator.”
“The elevator?” Ms Casey glances back at it. She’s only just found herself awake again; does she have to go back straight away?
“What? No, not that one. Jesus, does that take you wherever they’re keeping you trapped?”
“Trapped?” She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “The elevator takes me outside.”
“No,” Dylan says. “It doesn’t. Because on the outside they think you’re fucking dead.”
“They think I’m dead?” Ms Casey asks.
Mark’s dead wife, he said. What does that mean?
“We need to get you actually out of here,” Dylan says, “and we need to do it before Milchick shows up and fucking executes us both. C’mon.”
She doesn’t understand what’s happening. But she follows him.
-
“You called me Mark’s dead wife,” Ms Casey says, as they walk quickly through the corridors. “What did you mean by that?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know,” Dylan says. “Pretty much just means what it sounds like. You’re Mark’s wife. Only they think you’re dead, ’cause I guess Lumon has been keeping you in a fucking box or something.”
“Mark S?” Ms Casey asks. “I’m married to Mark S?”
“Yeah. Well, his outie. Mark got outside and saw a photo of you. Your name’s Gemma, if you’re wondering.”
Mark S was kind to her. She never felt romantically drawn to him. But there would be worse things than being married to him, she thinks.
She wonders how he feels about her supposed death. It would be a difficult thing to plan a wellness session for.
“Anyway, if they’re keeping you in here, we need to get you the fuck out,” Dylan says. “And I figure I might as well get Mark’s wife back to him, because it’s not like I’m ever going to get to see my wife again.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
“You’ve seen your wife?” Ms Casey asks.
“Yeah, I don’t really want to talk about that right now.”
He seems unhappy about it. It makes Ms Casey want to offer him a wellness session.
If they’re on their way to reunite Ms Casey’s outie with her husband, though, she supposes she’ll never have the opportunity. Regardless of the elevator that takes her out of the office, Ms Casey will no longer exist.
Her outie’s life is no longer a complete blank to her, though. She used to wonder, sometimes, what facts about her outie she might learn in a session of her own.
Your outie’s name is Gemma. Your outie is presumed dead. Your outie is married to someone you know.
It would be difficult to enjoy them equally.
She tries to take some comfort in the knowledge that, even if she no longer exists, her outie’s existence may bring some happiness to a valued colleague. Or her valued colleague’s outie, at least. Someone similar.
“You were outside the corridor,” she says. “Did you know I was there?”
Dylan shakes his head again. “Irving left the directions. I was just gonna take a look and leave. There’s no one else in the department today, so... fuck, I was just bored.” He lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I wasn’t expecting to blow up my whole fucking job. Again.”
They walk in silence for a moment.
“Thank you for blowing up your whole fucking job for me,” Ms Casey says.
“Dylan,” a voice calls, and Dylan stops walking. Throws an arm out in front of Ms Casey.
Mr Milchick appears at the end of the corridor, smiling.
“Dylan,” he says, walking slowly towards them, “good work finding Ms Casey. Her outie mistakenly came down here during a public art exhibition. I’ll escort her back to the elevator.”
“Nah, that’s fine,” Dylan says. “I was already doing that.”
“You should really get back to work,” Mr Milchick says.
“The elevator’s not far,” Dylan says. “I’ll get back to work once I’ve seen Ms Casey out of here.”
“Your department’s been falling woefully below quota. It’s hard to offer any perks under these circumstances.”
Dylan breaks into a sudden run, steering off to the right and pulling Ms Casey with him.
She follows, breathless and terrified. She manages to overtake Dylan, and he calls directions to her as she runs through unknown corridors.
She reaches an elevator before long: not the one she knows. Presses the call button. It takes a few seconds for the doors to open, and in those few seconds Dylan manages to catch up.
“Stay away from her, you fuck!” Dylan yells, at their surroundings in general. He pulls Ms Casey with him into the elevator and hits the button to ascend.
The doors slide closed.
“I’m definitely gonna get fired,” Dylan mutters, as the elevator begins to move. “I guess these are my last few seconds.” He looks over at Ms Casey. “Makes two of us, huh?”
She surprises herself by giving him a hug. It’s something she’s only ever done on request, before.
He holds on to her more tightly than anyone ever has in her short existence.
-
Someone has their arms around Gemma. She was alone, she was escaping, and suddenly there’s a man in the elevator with her, pinning her in place.
Which means she’s been caught. She’s been caught, and she’s being escorted back to that hell.
She jerks out of his hold.
“Whoa!” the man exclaims.
Gemma presses a hand to her mouth, trying to hold everything in. She doesn’t want them to see her cry. But she lets out a sob; she can’t help it.
“What the – who are you?” The man winces, touches a hand to his chest. “Have I been running?”
Gemma stares at him. That’s not the reaction she expected.
She doesn’t remember ever seeing him before, but there’s a lot she doesn’t remember. They must have boarded the elevator together. If he doesn’t remember seeing her...
“Are you severed?” she asks.
The doors slide open.
It’s somewhere else. It’s somewhere else. It’s somewhere else.
“You one of my coworkers?” the man asks.
She barely hears him; she’s nothing but focus right now. The man in the elevator doesn’t seem to be moving to restrain her; he might not be a danger after all. But there’s a desk ahead. There’s a man at the desk. A security guard?
The man at the desk looks up. “Hey, why are—”
Gemma runs.
She runs, she runs, she fucking runs. She pelts past the guard, doesn’t look back to see if she’s following. She runs until she can see sunlight; she vaults a security gate and shoulders the glass front door open so hard that she’s amazed it doesn’t break.
She’s not used to moving like this. But she does it, because she has to. Because she’s not going back there.
The sky above her is a pale, thin blue; there’s the kind of wintery sunlight that always used to make her feel vaguely dissatisfied, like the sun wasn’t trying hard enough. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
She needs to get out of sight.
She’s outside the Lumon building; there’s a parking lot here, plenty of cars. She ducks down behind one of them, keeps an eye on the door of the building, watching for pursuers. Trying to catch her breath.
But she keeps waiting, and nobody emerges.
Because they know people might see if they drag her back now, might ask questions? Because they know she won’t get far without a vehicle? Maybe this is some kind of trap, some elaborate test; maybe she’s still in there, somehow.
It’s been snowing. (God, she thought she’d never see snow again.) If she walks along the road, they’ll catch up with her easily. If she tries to walk any other route, though, she’ll leave footprints, and she’s likely to get lost. She doesn’t have a coat, and this is the first time she’s known cold in two years; how long can she cope in this weather?
She’s out. She’s out of there. How does she stay that way?
Someone walks out of the building while she’s still trying to think of a plan, and Gemma tenses up. Are they coming for her after all?
But it’s the man she was in the elevator with. He’s severed; he asked if she was a colleague. So he’s just an ordinary person, right? He shouldn’t be tied up in... whatever Lumon was doing to her.
The man heads over to a car, one parked not too far from Gemma’s hiding place, and Gemma makes a decision. It’s a risk. But she doesn’t know what else to do.
She hurries in his direction, staying low.
He glances up with his keys in his hand, catches sight of her. “Oh, f—”
He cuts himself off. It’s the second time he’s almost sworn around her. Does he have kids?
There’s a small pang somewhere inside her at the thought. But she has so many bigger problems right now.
“Hey,” she says, quietly. “I need your help.”
“Uh,” the man says. His eyes dart towards the Lumon building. That doesn’t feel encouraging, but she’s committed to this now.
“I really need someone to drive me home,” she says.
“I’m married, you know?” he asks. “I don’t know what things are like down there, but—”
“What?” Gemma asks, cutting him off. “I’m not – that’s not what I’m asking. I’m married too.”
“Oh,” the man says. “I just – we were hugging in the elevator, right? I don’t really know what’s going on.”
Hugging. It reframes things in Gemma’s mind. Who is this man; who is he to some other version of her?
She’ll never know. She’s leaving that place behind.
“I just need to get home,” she says. “It’s only about thirty minutes, and then I swear I’ll never bother you again.”
“Who are you?” he asks. “I just got asked so many questions about you. Are you, like, a terrorist?”
She hasn’t made a good first impression, apparently. To be fair, that wasn’t really her primary concern.
“You can just take me ten minutes away,” she says. “I can find my own way from there. I just need to get out of here.”
“Can you maybe answer my terrorism question first?”
“I’m just a person,” she says. “Lumon was keeping me prisoner down there. This is the first time I’ve seen the sun in two years.”
“Wait, what?” the man asks. “Are you serious? That’s f— that’s messed up.”
What about the version of yourself you send down there every day? When did he last see the sun?
She doesn’t say anything. It’s something she’s thought about a lot, what the other versions of herself might be going through. But, for a regular severed worker, she guesses it might not be as intensely on their mind.
“Okay,” the man says. “This sounds crazy, and I don’t know if I believe you.” He hesitates. “But I know you seemed really scared. I guess...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just unlocks his car and gestures at it.
This could still be a Lumon trap, somehow. But Gemma gets into the car anyway, before he can change his mind.
-
The man is called Dylan, apparently. Three children. Gemma spends a lot of the car ride asking about his family, building up a picture of their interests and quirks and personalities.
It hurts, a little. But it feels good to hear about someone’s ordinary life, to remind herself that there’s a whole world out here. People loving each other, people living together, people doing more than just walking into rooms and walking out with pain they don’t remember the cause of.
Her hand still hurts.
He says at first that he’s just going to bring her into town. He ends up driving her all the way home, though.
“Thanks,” Gemma says, when he asks her for the exact address. “I’m sorry for taking you out of your way.”
“I’ve got time,” Dylan says. “This is like an hour earlier than I normally leave work. They said I might as well go home. You don’t know how we ended up in that elevator, do you?”
Gemma shakes her head. “I don’t keep my memories from that floor. Maybe you were trying to help me escape. Or trying to stop me from escaping.”
“You don’t think I was trying to escape as well, right?” Dylan asks. “I kind of need this job.”
Gemma looks at him for a moment, really taking him in. It’s a strange experience. When did she last see anyone new?
“I get it,” she says. “But I really don’t think you should go back. You don’t know what they’re doing to you down there.”
“Fuck,” Dylan mutters.
It’s the first time she’s actually heard him swear. But it feels like there’s a comfortable familiarity to it, somehow.
-
“This it?” Dylan asks, pulling up outside her house. It simultaneously feels so familiar and so alien, being here after all this time.
She swallows. Now that they’re here, she finds herself terrified of what she might learn.
“Could you... could you wait here?” she asks. “Until I’m inside?”
He nods. “Yeah, okay. Hey, good luck with not getting locked up by my crazy employer again.”
“Thanks.” She gives him a smile. It feels like something her face has almost forgotten how to do. “Good luck with your kids.”
She gets out of the car, approaches the house. Braces herself before she rings the doorbell. There might not be an answer, he’s probably at work, she might just have to—
A woman answers the door.
Gemma goes cold. They said he’d remarried. What if there’s no room left for her in her own life; where does she go?
“Is—” She swallows. “Is Mark here?”
“The guy who used to live here?” the woman asks. “He moved about two years ago.”
This isn’t my home. Gemma feels nauseous. When she pictured escaping, she always pictured coming back here, walking through her front door, sleeping in her own bed. This isn’t my home any more. “Do you, uh, do you know where...?”
“He got a job with Lumon, I think,” the woman says. “He’s probably in Lumon housing.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t give me a forwarding address. I’m sorry.”
He got a job with Lumon?
She’s terrified, suddenly, that Mark is back in the place she just escaped from. Down there somewhere, imprisoned and missing her, being sent into rooms of his own.
Or maybe they were in the same rooms; maybe she’s been seeing Mark all this time. How would she know?
She walks away numbly, without another word.
Dylan winds down the window as she approaches his car. “You okay?”
“My...” What does she do now? She can’t phone Mark; she doesn’t know his number, she always just relied on her phone’s address book. “My husband doesn’t live here any more. This isn’t my house.”
Does she have a home at all, now?
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dylan says. “So, uh... is there anywhere else I can take you?”
“Uh...” She can’t focus; she can’t think. “Do you know anyone called Mark?”
Dylan looks bewildered. “I have a cousin called Mark, I guess.”
Right. Even if they’re colleagues, Dylan wouldn’t remember him.
Where can she go? This guy isn’t her personal chauffeur; he won’t drive her states away to see her family. Who lives nearby?
She draws in an unsteady breath. “Uh, can you – I’m really sorry, I don’t want to keep – can you drive me to my sister-in-law’s house, maybe?”
-
She asks Dylan to come with her to the door. If it’s answered by a stranger again... well, she doesn’t want to face that alone.
She rings Devon’s doorbell and closes her eyes. Breathes, slowly, in and out.
The door opens, and she braces herself. Opens her eyes.
Ricken is staring at her.
Ricken is here. Someone she knows, someone she recognises. A part of her old life. Ricken.
There are tears in his eyes. There are tears in hers. She throws herself into his arms.
After a long, long moment, Dylan clears his throat behind her. “Uh, so are you cool now?”
She pulls away from Ricken and gives Dylan a hug as well. Tries to thank him in three different ways at once; the words get tangled up in her mouth, but hopefully the intention gets across.
“Don’t go back to Lumon,” she says, pulling away. “I don’t know what they’re doing to you down there, but I know it’s not worth it.”
-
Ricken leads her into the house, asking her thirty different questions. There’s no possible way to start answering, but the act of asking itself seems to be enough for him right now, so Gemma takes the opportunity to look around. Taking note of what’s the same, what’s changed. God, she’s been absent from her own life for so long.
There’s a crib. There is a baby in the crib.
“Ah,” Ricken says, “I see you’ve noticed Eleanor.”
Eleanor is sleeping. Gemma stands there for a long moment, just looking at her. Reaches down to touch the back of her tiny hand.
“Is she Mark’s?” she asks. It feels like something is blocking the words in her throat. He’s remarried. He has a daughter.
“Mark’s?” Ricken asks. “With whom? Eleanor is my own achievement. And Devon’s, of course. She’s a collaboration.”
With whom? “He hasn’t remarried, then?”
“Gemma,” Ricken says, “Mark is devoted to you. He’ll be ecstatic to see you.”
Gemma closes her eyes. Breathes out, slowly. He hasn’t left her behind.
“Where is he?” she asks, opening her eyes. “And Devon?”
Something in Ricken’s expression changes in a way that terrifies her, suddenly.
“Mark is... unwell,” he says, carefully. “Devon is at his home with him.”
Unwell? What does that mean?
At his home. Not at the hospital. Does that mean it’s not that serious?
But why would Ricken look like that?
“Take me there,” Gemma begs.
-
Devon throws herself on Gemma and cries messily into her shoulder. She has a lot of questions, and Gemma can’t blame her, but Gemma has a question she really needs answered first.
“What’s wrong with Mark?”
Devon shows her to him, in this unknown house Mark apparently lives in. For a moment, stepping through an unfamiliar door, Gemma expects to become someone else.
Mark is lying on the couch. He’s real, he’s here. He looks like he’s sleeping.
“He’s unconscious,” Devon says, shattering Gemma’s thoughts into pieces. “I’ve been told he’ll be okay, but...”
Whatever was coming after that but, she doesn’t say it.
“Who said that?” Gemma asks, kneeling next to Mark. “A doctor?”
When Devon doesn’t answer, Gemma looks back at her. She really doesn’t know how to interpret Devon’s expression.
“I don’t—” Devon scrubs her hands over her face. “I don’t really know what’s going on. But she said he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay, right?”
Gemma looks at Mark again. Puts her hand on his head, strokes his hair. She’s never seen it this long before.
He looks different. Older. She guesses she probably does too.
He’ll be okay, she tells herself.
“Congratulations on Eleanor,” she says, without looking up from him. “She’s beautiful.”
Eleanor makes an indistinct noise from where Ricken is sitting with her, which Gemma chooses to take as a thank-you.
“She is, isn’t she?” Devon asks. “Now that you’re back from the dead, you’re getting pressed straight into babysitting duties.”
Gemma laughs, quietly. “I would love that.”
Mark’s expression shifts, just slightly, and Gemma is instantly alert.
He breathes something out. A word, two words? It’s not clear; it sounds like okay, see?
“He’s trying to talk,” Gemma says, urgently. She takes hold of his hand, leans closer to him. “Mark? Can you hear me?”
“Mark?” Devon asks. “Gemma’s here. I know you don’t want to miss this.”
“Wake up,” Gemma says. “I broke out of hell to come here and see you. It’s honestly very rude of you to sleep through it.”
His fingers stir in her hand, his eyelids flicker. Flicker again. Open, slowly, and his eyes find hers.
They look at each other, in silence, for what feels like a solid minute.
“Are you real?” Mark whispers. His voice is faded and unstable, only half there.
Gemma strokes her hand through his hair and kisses him.
She doesn’t know what comes next. Things have changed; she’s afraid of learning just how much things have changed. Lumon might still come after her. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with Mark, whether it’s something they need to be scared of.
But right now—
She closes her eyes, trying to rein in the tears.
Right now, she has this. She’s with her family. She’s free.
Title: The Long Road Home
Fandom: Severance
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,600
Summary: An escape.
Warnings: Severance spoilers up to episode 2.07, 'Chikhai Bardo'.
She’s awake.
Ms Casey walks slowly down the corridor, cautious, confused. Has she been taken out of retirement? Is there a wellness session she needs to conduct? How long has it been; will any of the employees she remembers still be here?
The door opens before she’s reached the end of the corridor. She’s expecting Mr Milchick, here to explain her presence and brief her on her task.
It isn’t Mr Milchick.
“Hello, Dylan G,” Ms Casey says. She’s relieved to see a familiar face. Perhaps he’s here to brief her; perhaps he’s been promoted?
“Holy fuck,” Dylan says. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” Ms Casey confirms, uncertain.
Dylan looks quickly to his left and right. “You’re Mark’s dead wife. Holy shit, we’ve got to get you out of here.”
Ms Casey considers that.
“What?” she asks.
“Come on.” He gestures for her to follow him. “We need to get you to the elevator.”
“The elevator?” Ms Casey glances back at it. She’s only just found herself awake again; does she have to go back straight away?
“What? No, not that one. Jesus, does that take you wherever they’re keeping you trapped?”
“Trapped?” She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “The elevator takes me outside.”
“No,” Dylan says. “It doesn’t. Because on the outside they think you’re fucking dead.”
“They think I’m dead?” Ms Casey asks.
Mark’s dead wife, he said. What does that mean?
“We need to get you actually out of here,” Dylan says, “and we need to do it before Milchick shows up and fucking executes us both. C’mon.”
She doesn’t understand what’s happening. But she follows him.
“You called me Mark’s dead wife,” Ms Casey says, as they walk quickly through the corridors. “What did you mean by that?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess you wouldn’t know,” Dylan says. “Pretty much just means what it sounds like. You’re Mark’s wife. Only they think you’re dead, ’cause I guess Lumon has been keeping you in a fucking box or something.”
“Mark S?” Ms Casey asks. “I’m married to Mark S?”
“Yeah. Well, his outie. Mark got outside and saw a photo of you. Your name’s Gemma, if you’re wondering.”
Mark S was kind to her. She never felt romantically drawn to him. But there would be worse things than being married to him, she thinks.
She wonders how he feels about her supposed death. It would be a difficult thing to plan a wellness session for.
“Anyway, if they’re keeping you in here, we need to get you the fuck out,” Dylan says. “And I figure I might as well get Mark’s wife back to him, because it’s not like I’m ever going to get to see my wife again.” He shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
“You’ve seen your wife?” Ms Casey asks.
“Yeah, I don’t really want to talk about that right now.”
He seems unhappy about it. It makes Ms Casey want to offer him a wellness session.
If they’re on their way to reunite Ms Casey’s outie with her husband, though, she supposes she’ll never have the opportunity. Regardless of the elevator that takes her out of the office, Ms Casey will no longer exist.
Her outie’s life is no longer a complete blank to her, though. She used to wonder, sometimes, what facts about her outie she might learn in a session of her own.
Your outie’s name is Gemma. Your outie is presumed dead. Your outie is married to someone you know.
It would be difficult to enjoy them equally.
She tries to take some comfort in the knowledge that, even if she no longer exists, her outie’s existence may bring some happiness to a valued colleague. Or her valued colleague’s outie, at least. Someone similar.
“You were outside the corridor,” she says. “Did you know I was there?”
Dylan shakes his head again. “Irving left the directions. I was just gonna take a look and leave. There’s no one else in the department today, so... fuck, I was just bored.” He lets out a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “I wasn’t expecting to blow up my whole fucking job. Again.”
They walk in silence for a moment.
“Thank you for blowing up your whole fucking job for me,” Ms Casey says.
“Dylan,” a voice calls, and Dylan stops walking. Throws an arm out in front of Ms Casey.
Mr Milchick appears at the end of the corridor, smiling.
“Dylan,” he says, walking slowly towards them, “good work finding Ms Casey. Her outie mistakenly came down here during a public art exhibition. I’ll escort her back to the elevator.”
“Nah, that’s fine,” Dylan says. “I was already doing that.”
“You should really get back to work,” Mr Milchick says.
“The elevator’s not far,” Dylan says. “I’ll get back to work once I’ve seen Ms Casey out of here.”
“Your department’s been falling woefully below quota. It’s hard to offer any perks under these circumstances.”
Dylan breaks into a sudden run, steering off to the right and pulling Ms Casey with him.
She follows, breathless and terrified. She manages to overtake Dylan, and he calls directions to her as she runs through unknown corridors.
She reaches an elevator before long: not the one she knows. Presses the call button. It takes a few seconds for the doors to open, and in those few seconds Dylan manages to catch up.
“Stay away from her, you fuck!” Dylan yells, at their surroundings in general. He pulls Ms Casey with him into the elevator and hits the button to ascend.
The doors slide closed.
“I’m definitely gonna get fired,” Dylan mutters, as the elevator begins to move. “I guess these are my last few seconds.” He looks over at Ms Casey. “Makes two of us, huh?”
She surprises herself by giving him a hug. It’s something she’s only ever done on request, before.
He holds on to her more tightly than anyone ever has in her short existence.
Someone has their arms around Gemma. She was alone, she was escaping, and suddenly there’s a man in the elevator with her, pinning her in place.
Which means she’s been caught. She’s been caught, and she’s being escorted back to that hell.
She jerks out of his hold.
“Whoa!” the man exclaims.
Gemma presses a hand to her mouth, trying to hold everything in. She doesn’t want them to see her cry. But she lets out a sob; she can’t help it.
“What the – who are you?” The man winces, touches a hand to his chest. “Have I been running?”
Gemma stares at him. That’s not the reaction she expected.
She doesn’t remember ever seeing him before, but there’s a lot she doesn’t remember. They must have boarded the elevator together. If he doesn’t remember seeing her...
“Are you severed?” she asks.
The doors slide open.
It’s somewhere else. It’s somewhere else. It’s somewhere else.
“You one of my coworkers?” the man asks.
She barely hears him; she’s nothing but focus right now. The man in the elevator doesn’t seem to be moving to restrain her; he might not be a danger after all. But there’s a desk ahead. There’s a man at the desk. A security guard?
The man at the desk looks up. “Hey, why are—”
Gemma runs.
She runs, she runs, she fucking runs. She pelts past the guard, doesn’t look back to see if she’s following. She runs until she can see sunlight; she vaults a security gate and shoulders the glass front door open so hard that she’s amazed it doesn’t break.
She’s not used to moving like this. But she does it, because she has to. Because she’s not going back there.
The sky above her is a pale, thin blue; there’s the kind of wintery sunlight that always used to make her feel vaguely dissatisfied, like the sun wasn’t trying hard enough. It’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.
She needs to get out of sight.
She’s outside the Lumon building; there’s a parking lot here, plenty of cars. She ducks down behind one of them, keeps an eye on the door of the building, watching for pursuers. Trying to catch her breath.
But she keeps waiting, and nobody emerges.
Because they know people might see if they drag her back now, might ask questions? Because they know she won’t get far without a vehicle? Maybe this is some kind of trap, some elaborate test; maybe she’s still in there, somehow.
It’s been snowing. (God, she thought she’d never see snow again.) If she walks along the road, they’ll catch up with her easily. If she tries to walk any other route, though, she’ll leave footprints, and she’s likely to get lost. She doesn’t have a coat, and this is the first time she’s known cold in two years; how long can she cope in this weather?
She’s out. She’s out of there. How does she stay that way?
Someone walks out of the building while she’s still trying to think of a plan, and Gemma tenses up. Are they coming for her after all?
But it’s the man she was in the elevator with. He’s severed; he asked if she was a colleague. So he’s just an ordinary person, right? He shouldn’t be tied up in... whatever Lumon was doing to her.
The man heads over to a car, one parked not too far from Gemma’s hiding place, and Gemma makes a decision. It’s a risk. But she doesn’t know what else to do.
She hurries in his direction, staying low.
He glances up with his keys in his hand, catches sight of her. “Oh, f—”
He cuts himself off. It’s the second time he’s almost sworn around her. Does he have kids?
There’s a small pang somewhere inside her at the thought. But she has so many bigger problems right now.
“Hey,” she says, quietly. “I need your help.”
“Uh,” the man says. His eyes dart towards the Lumon building. That doesn’t feel encouraging, but she’s committed to this now.
“I really need someone to drive me home,” she says.
“I’m married, you know?” he asks. “I don’t know what things are like down there, but—”
“What?” Gemma asks, cutting him off. “I’m not – that’s not what I’m asking. I’m married too.”
“Oh,” the man says. “I just – we were hugging in the elevator, right? I don’t really know what’s going on.”
Hugging. It reframes things in Gemma’s mind. Who is this man; who is he to some other version of her?
She’ll never know. She’s leaving that place behind.
“I just need to get home,” she says. “It’s only about thirty minutes, and then I swear I’ll never bother you again.”
“Who are you?” he asks. “I just got asked so many questions about you. Are you, like, a terrorist?”
She hasn’t made a good first impression, apparently. To be fair, that wasn’t really her primary concern.
“You can just take me ten minutes away,” she says. “I can find my own way from there. I just need to get out of here.”
“Can you maybe answer my terrorism question first?”
“I’m just a person,” she says. “Lumon was keeping me prisoner down there. This is the first time I’ve seen the sun in two years.”
“Wait, what?” the man asks. “Are you serious? That’s f— that’s messed up.”
What about the version of yourself you send down there every day? When did he last see the sun?
She doesn’t say anything. It’s something she’s thought about a lot, what the other versions of herself might be going through. But, for a regular severed worker, she guesses it might not be as intensely on their mind.
“Okay,” the man says. “This sounds crazy, and I don’t know if I believe you.” He hesitates. “But I know you seemed really scared. I guess...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He just unlocks his car and gestures at it.
This could still be a Lumon trap, somehow. But Gemma gets into the car anyway, before he can change his mind.
The man is called Dylan, apparently. Three children. Gemma spends a lot of the car ride asking about his family, building up a picture of their interests and quirks and personalities.
It hurts, a little. But it feels good to hear about someone’s ordinary life, to remind herself that there’s a whole world out here. People loving each other, people living together, people doing more than just walking into rooms and walking out with pain they don’t remember the cause of.
Her hand still hurts.
He says at first that he’s just going to bring her into town. He ends up driving her all the way home, though.
“Thanks,” Gemma says, when he asks her for the exact address. “I’m sorry for taking you out of your way.”
“I’ve got time,” Dylan says. “This is like an hour earlier than I normally leave work. They said I might as well go home. You don’t know how we ended up in that elevator, do you?”
Gemma shakes her head. “I don’t keep my memories from that floor. Maybe you were trying to help me escape. Or trying to stop me from escaping.”
“You don’t think I was trying to escape as well, right?” Dylan asks. “I kind of need this job.”
Gemma looks at him for a moment, really taking him in. It’s a strange experience. When did she last see anyone new?
“I get it,” she says. “But I really don’t think you should go back. You don’t know what they’re doing to you down there.”
“Fuck,” Dylan mutters.
It’s the first time she’s actually heard him swear. But it feels like there’s a comfortable familiarity to it, somehow.
“This it?” Dylan asks, pulling up outside her house. It simultaneously feels so familiar and so alien, being here after all this time.
She swallows. Now that they’re here, she finds herself terrified of what she might learn.
“Could you... could you wait here?” she asks. “Until I’m inside?”
He nods. “Yeah, okay. Hey, good luck with not getting locked up by my crazy employer again.”
“Thanks.” She gives him a smile. It feels like something her face has almost forgotten how to do. “Good luck with your kids.”
She gets out of the car, approaches the house. Braces herself before she rings the doorbell. There might not be an answer, he’s probably at work, she might just have to—
A woman answers the door.
Gemma goes cold. They said he’d remarried. What if there’s no room left for her in her own life; where does she go?
“Is—” She swallows. “Is Mark here?”
“The guy who used to live here?” the woman asks. “He moved about two years ago.”
This isn’t my home. Gemma feels nauseous. When she pictured escaping, she always pictured coming back here, walking through her front door, sleeping in her own bed. This isn’t my home any more. “Do you, uh, do you know where...?”
“He got a job with Lumon, I think,” the woman says. “He’s probably in Lumon housing.” She shakes her head. “He didn’t give me a forwarding address. I’m sorry.”
He got a job with Lumon?
She’s terrified, suddenly, that Mark is back in the place she just escaped from. Down there somewhere, imprisoned and missing her, being sent into rooms of his own.
Or maybe they were in the same rooms; maybe she’s been seeing Mark all this time. How would she know?
She walks away numbly, without another word.
Dylan winds down the window as she approaches his car. “You okay?”
“My...” What does she do now? She can’t phone Mark; she doesn’t know his number, she always just relied on her phone’s address book. “My husband doesn’t live here any more. This isn’t my house.”
Does she have a home at all, now?
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Dylan says. “So, uh... is there anywhere else I can take you?”
“Uh...” She can’t focus; she can’t think. “Do you know anyone called Mark?”
Dylan looks bewildered. “I have a cousin called Mark, I guess.”
Right. Even if they’re colleagues, Dylan wouldn’t remember him.
Where can she go? This guy isn’t her personal chauffeur; he won’t drive her states away to see her family. Who lives nearby?
She draws in an unsteady breath. “Uh, can you – I’m really sorry, I don’t want to keep – can you drive me to my sister-in-law’s house, maybe?”
She asks Dylan to come with her to the door. If it’s answered by a stranger again... well, she doesn’t want to face that alone.
She rings Devon’s doorbell and closes her eyes. Breathes, slowly, in and out.
The door opens, and she braces herself. Opens her eyes.
Ricken is staring at her.
Ricken is here. Someone she knows, someone she recognises. A part of her old life. Ricken.
There are tears in his eyes. There are tears in hers. She throws herself into his arms.
After a long, long moment, Dylan clears his throat behind her. “Uh, so are you cool now?”
She pulls away from Ricken and gives Dylan a hug as well. Tries to thank him in three different ways at once; the words get tangled up in her mouth, but hopefully the intention gets across.
“Don’t go back to Lumon,” she says, pulling away. “I don’t know what they’re doing to you down there, but I know it’s not worth it.”
Ricken leads her into the house, asking her thirty different questions. There’s no possible way to start answering, but the act of asking itself seems to be enough for him right now, so Gemma takes the opportunity to look around. Taking note of what’s the same, what’s changed. God, she’s been absent from her own life for so long.
There’s a crib. There is a baby in the crib.
“Ah,” Ricken says, “I see you’ve noticed Eleanor.”
Eleanor is sleeping. Gemma stands there for a long moment, just looking at her. Reaches down to touch the back of her tiny hand.
“Is she Mark’s?” she asks. It feels like something is blocking the words in her throat. He’s remarried. He has a daughter.
“Mark’s?” Ricken asks. “With whom? Eleanor is my own achievement. And Devon’s, of course. She’s a collaboration.”
With whom? “He hasn’t remarried, then?”
“Gemma,” Ricken says, “Mark is devoted to you. He’ll be ecstatic to see you.”
Gemma closes her eyes. Breathes out, slowly. He hasn’t left her behind.
“Where is he?” she asks, opening her eyes. “And Devon?”
Something in Ricken’s expression changes in a way that terrifies her, suddenly.
“Mark is... unwell,” he says, carefully. “Devon is at his home with him.”
Unwell? What does that mean?
At his home. Not at the hospital. Does that mean it’s not that serious?
But why would Ricken look like that?
“Take me there,” Gemma begs.
Devon throws herself on Gemma and cries messily into her shoulder. She has a lot of questions, and Gemma can’t blame her, but Gemma has a question she really needs answered first.
“What’s wrong with Mark?”
Devon shows her to him, in this unknown house Mark apparently lives in. For a moment, stepping through an unfamiliar door, Gemma expects to become someone else.
Mark is lying on the couch. He’s real, he’s here. He looks like he’s sleeping.
“He’s unconscious,” Devon says, shattering Gemma’s thoughts into pieces. “I’ve been told he’ll be okay, but...”
Whatever was coming after that but, she doesn’t say it.
“Who said that?” Gemma asks, kneeling next to Mark. “A doctor?”
When Devon doesn’t answer, Gemma looks back at her. She really doesn’t know how to interpret Devon’s expression.
“I don’t—” Devon scrubs her hands over her face. “I don’t really know what’s going on. But she said he’ll be okay. He’ll be okay, right?”
Gemma looks at Mark again. Puts her hand on his head, strokes his hair. She’s never seen it this long before.
He looks different. Older. She guesses she probably does too.
He’ll be okay, she tells herself.
“Congratulations on Eleanor,” she says, without looking up from him. “She’s beautiful.”
Eleanor makes an indistinct noise from where Ricken is sitting with her, which Gemma chooses to take as a thank-you.
“She is, isn’t she?” Devon asks. “Now that you’re back from the dead, you’re getting pressed straight into babysitting duties.”
Gemma laughs, quietly. “I would love that.”
Mark’s expression shifts, just slightly, and Gemma is instantly alert.
He breathes something out. A word, two words? It’s not clear; it sounds like okay, see?
“He’s trying to talk,” Gemma says, urgently. She takes hold of his hand, leans closer to him. “Mark? Can you hear me?”
“Mark?” Devon asks. “Gemma’s here. I know you don’t want to miss this.”
“Wake up,” Gemma says. “I broke out of hell to come here and see you. It’s honestly very rude of you to sleep through it.”
His fingers stir in her hand, his eyelids flicker. Flicker again. Open, slowly, and his eyes find hers.
They look at each other, in silence, for what feels like a solid minute.
“Are you real?” Mark whispers. His voice is faded and unstable, only half there.
Gemma strokes her hand through his hair and kisses him.
She doesn’t know what comes next. Things have changed; she’s afraid of learning just how much things have changed. Lumon might still come after her. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with Mark, whether it’s something they need to be scared of.
But right now—
She closes her eyes, trying to rein in the tears.
Right now, she has this. She’s with her family. She’s free.
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I like how you captured Mrs. Casey's way of thinking and talking in the narration. It really felt like her.
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