Chapter Text
His first thought, on laying eyes upon his new assistant, was God, but he’s young. He quickly revised his judgement; after all, people could and did look younger than their years. But still. In his line of work, it was rare to encounter someone quite so – fresh-faced.
“Marty, this is Doctor Emmett B,” said Strickland, motioning at him. “He’s the head of your department. Emmett, this is your new assistant, Marty M.”
They were standing in the hallway outside Manufacturing and Development. It was a little after ten thirty in the morning. Marty was flanked by Strickland on one side and a security guard on the other; he had on a wide-eyed, dumbstruck look that Emmett recognised from his previous, rare encounters with new hires.
Clearing his throat he stepped forward and offered up a friendly handshake. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Doctor B. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The kid – it was difficult not to think of him as a kid – had his hands balled into fists at his sides. He made no move to return the handshake. He looked at Emmett’s outstretched hand. His eyes went to his face; they tracked, slowly, up and down his body, taking all of him in.
Then he turned and bolted like a frightened animal.
“Oh, my,” said Emmett as the kid vanished around the corner with a squeak of shoes on hard floor. The security guard was laughing.
“Mr Murphy!” barked Strickland.
“On it,” said the security guard. “I’ll get him – don’t worry.” He jogged away in pursuit.
For a long and uncomfortable moment Emmett stood in the doorway of M&D, trying not to meet Strickland’s unfalteringly stern gaze. “Uh,” he said, looking somewhere in the direction of his left ear. “How’s the orientation going?”
“He’s been trying to give us the slip all morning,” said Strickland.
“Ah,” said Emmett.
“I’ve had worse,” Strickland added. He didn’t elaborate.
There was a yell, nearby; and the security guard rounded the corner, half-carrying half-dragging Marty M, arms firmly around his waist. “Let me go!” the kid was hollering. “Let go – let go of me –” His feet fully left the ground, kicking out at the air, his hands grasping at nothing, and at the look on his face Emmett’s guts twisted.
“Feistiest new hire we’ve had in a while, huh?” said the security guard. Strickland did a polite huff that wasn’t a laugh.
The security guard dumped Marty M unceremoniously on the floor in front of Emmett, a firm hand between his shoulder blades acting as a silent warning not to try any more shit.
“Shall we try this again?” said Strickland. “Would you say good morning to Doctor B, Marty?”
Marty looked from one of them to the other, and said, his voice swimming in desperation, “What is with you people?”
Strickland gave up and gestured at the door. “Shall we?”
As the TV unit was set up, Marty sat rigid-backed in his chair, the security guard’s big, square hands resting heavily on his shoulders all that was keeping him from making another attempt to run.
With a click the video began to play; and there, on the screen, was Marty.
“Is it running?” he said.
“Yeah, you can go ahead and read the statement now,” said a voice off screen.
“What the shit,” Marty said, softly, as his on-screen self fiddled with his cue cards. “What the shit.”
“Okay.” The video played on. “Here we go. My name is Marty M. I’m making this video roughly two hours before it’ll be shown to, uh, me –”
“What the hell is this?” said Marty to Strickland.
The security guard forced his head back around to face the TV. “Watch the video, please.”
“What did you do to me –”
“Watch the video,” said Strickland. “I don’t want to have to do this a second time.”
“– henceforce my access to my memories will be space – uh, spatially? Spatially dictated,” said the Marty on the video. “I will be unable to access outside recollections while on Lumon’s severed basement floor.”
Emmett studied him, intrigued by the rare glimpse of the world upstairs. He was even more bright-eyed and fresh-faced than the present iteration of Marty. Upbeat, and unfazed by the strange nature of what he was reading. A trace of puppy face still clinging to his features. He couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. His first job out of high school, most likely.
“I’m aware that this alteration is comprehensive and permanent,” the video concluded. “I make these statements freely.” The cue cards splayed out on the nondescript desk in front of him, as he turned to speak once again to another occupant of the room. “Is that it?”
“Yes – all done.”
The video dissolved into static.
For a moment, Marty sat staring at the now-dark screen, drawing in deep, shaky breaths. Then he turned to Strickland. “I changed my mind.”
“You can’t –”
“I changed my mind,” the kid gabbled. “Okay? I don’t wanna do this. I wanna leave –”
“You signed a binding contract of employment and a waiver indicating that you accepted the consequences of the severance procedure,” said Strickland. “Do you understand the contents of the video, or do we need to play it again?”
Marty’s shoulder sagged, slipping out of the security guard’s grip. “Sir, please,” he said weakly. “This place makes me feel like I’m gonna puke.”
“If you don’t have any further questions about the video then this concludes your orientation,” said Strickland. “I’m going to leave you in the very capable hands of Doctor B to begin your training.”
Rising from his chair, Marty M turned to Emmett. His eyes swept once again up and down his body with a look of utter dismay; and Emmett didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone, in his entire short life, look quite so miserable.
The TV was wheeled back out, and the department doors closed. For a long, heavy moment the two of them stood there in the blue-carpeted office, not looking at each other, not speaking.
Emmett cleared his throat. “You know, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot just now.” Marty looked at him, and said nothing. “How about we just start over?” He offered his hand. “I’m Doctor Emmett B. How do you do.”
Marty went on staring at him. Then very slowly, he unfolded his arms and accepted then handshake. “Hi?”
“You can call me Doctor, or Emmett – I, I don’t really mind,” said Emmett. “And you’re Marty.”
“Apparently,” said Marty.
Well, he’d progressed to single word responses. That was something. “Welcome to M&D – would you like me to give you the tour?”
Marty looked around himself, at the office at the closed doors that led to the hallway. “Not really.”
“Would you like some coffee?” Emmett suggested. “We could talk over coffee.”
Marty shrugged.
“Here – let me show you to the kitchen.”
The shock of seeing himself on the video seemed to have knocked all the fight out of the kid. He let himself be ushered over into Emmett’s little kitchen. It was cramped in there, with two people. “Alright, now,” he said. “Here we have – the sink – the vending machine – the microwave – the coffee machine. Want me to show you how to use it?”
“No,” said Marty.
He turned on the coffee machine. “How do you like your coffee?”
Marty’s mouth worked for a moment, and losing his patience he snapped, “How the hell should I know?”
“Well, we can find out what your coffee order is,” Emmett persisted. “It’ll be fun. Do you want to do that?”
“I want to go home, sir!” Marty pleaded.
“Marty.” He set a cup in the machine. “Be reasonable – you don’t even know where home is. For all you know you came here to get away from it.”
“It cannot be worse than this,” said Marty helplessly. “Sir, please. I don’t understand what’s happening. What did you people do to me?”
“I certainly didn’t do anything to you,” said Emmett. “How about we talk about this over coffee?”
Marty shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t even know if I like coffee.”
“Well – let’s find out.” Emmett thrust a warm mug at him and kept it there till at last he relented and let it be pressed into his hands. “Here we go. Black coffee – see how you like it.”
With an air of reluctance Marty took a sip. He screwed up his face. “Mm,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”
“More of a cream and sugar guy, huh?” Emmett opened a cabinet. “Let me show you where we keep the creamer –”
“Oh my God,” Marty said. “Will you please shut up about coffee and tell me what’s happening to me?”
“Let’s just take this one step at a time –”
Marty threw the coffee mug at the wall. It shattered, hot liquid spattering across the floor and speckling Emmett’s trousers. He jolted back into the counter. “Careful! You –”
“I don’t understand what’s going on here!” Marty raked his fingers desperately through his hair. “I, I don’t understand why no-one in this place will just give me a straight answer.”
Holding up his hands, Emmett breathed carefully through his nose. “Did they not explain this to you in orientation?”
“They said a bunch of stuff in orientation,” said Marty. “They kept talking about brain surgery and work life balance and I don’t even know where I am –”
“Marty.” Emmett unwound a handful of paper towels from the roll. “Here,” he said, placing it gently into Marty’s hands. “Why don’t you clean up that mess you made – and I’ll make us some coffee – and then once you’ve calmed down we can have a talk. Okay?”
Marty looked ready to protest. But then he looked down at the paper towels, and said, weakly, “Okay.”
At the tiny kitchen table, Emmett sorted through his manuals while Marty inspected a packet of sweetener. “Does everything here say Lumon on it?”
“Yes – that’s the name of the company we work for,” said Emmett, leafing through the departmental manual. “Alright. Hm.” He slid the manual across the table. “You’ll need to familiarise yourself with this in due time, but for now how about you tell me any questions you have and I’ll see if I can answer them?”
Marty tipped the sweetener into his coffee, and stirred it. He said, “What is going on?”
“It’s your first day at your new job,” said Emmett.
“But I don’t remember how I got here,” Marty protested. “They did something to my brain?”
“Yes – with your free and informed consent.” Emmett nodded at the manual. “There’s a section in there with more information about the procedure.”
Marty nudged the manual away from himself with an expression of distaste. “When can I go home?”
“Your working hours are nine till five, Thursdays and Fridays,” Emmett told him. “It’s currently – ah.” He checked his watch. “Just before eleven AM. And it’s Friday,” he added before Marty could ask. “Though I’m afraid you’ll find the days of the week have very little meaning here.”
“But I get to go home?” said Marty.
“Of course.” Emmett sipped his coffee. “This is a place of business, not a prison.” Marty breathed out a perceptible sigh of relief. “Although – due to the spatially separated nature of your memories, the current iteration of yourself won’t be able to perceive any of the time between your work shifts.”
“Huh?” Marty said. “You mean – what?”
Emmett waved him away. “I don’t know how else to explain it – you’ll find out at the end of the day. It’s probably one of those things you need to experience for yourself.”
Marty nodded. He drank some coffee, and winced. “God, that’s sweet.” He set down the mug. “So, uh. Do you have the – memory thing?”
“Everyone on this floor is severed,” said Emmett. “With the exception of upper management.”
“You mean those guys who brought me in –”
“Have intact memories, yes.” Emmett nodded. “However, you’ll find they aren’t forthcoming when it comes to questions about the world upstairs.”
“But you came here the way I did,” Marty persisted. “You woke up on a table with a creepy voice asking you a bunch of questions?”
“Naturally – everyone undergoes the same orientation,” said Emmett brightly. “Would you like a snack? Are you hungry?”
Marty looked down at himself as if considering his stomach. “Uh – no. I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then. Would you like the tour?” Marty made an uncertain noise. “Now, look. It’s eleven AM now. We break for lunch at one. You can stick it out for two hours, can’t you? How about that tour?”
It wasn’t a particularly long tour. M&D was a small department. “Alright, here we have the office – which you’ve already seen.” He let Marty across the room. “Here are the desks – this one is yours – these are the Design Consoles – we aren’t at a design stage just now so it’ll be a little while before you need to learn anything about those.”
“Uh-huh,” said Marty absently.
“Over here we have the supply room.” Emmett ushered him over and opened up the door. “It’s pretty self-explanatory – just make sure to keep it tidy and let me know if we run out of anything. Restrooms are just outside and down the hall.”
“Wait – I’m allowed out there?” Marty nodded at the doors.
“Of course,” said Emmett. “That’s what your keycard is for.”
Marty inspected his keycard. “Huh.”
“Alright, now.” Emmett tugged at his own keycard absently. “Want to see where the magic happens?”
“Is it,” Marty said, “optional?”
As the doors opened, the lights on the manufacturing floor flicked on, one by one, a soft whoomph of fluorescent bulbs. It was a bigger space by far than the office – white walled and floored, like the hallways – an angular cluster of machinery sitting alone in its centre.
Marty let out a soft, “Whoa.” It was probably the largest space he’d ever seen, in the short few hours he’d been conscious.
“Alright.” Emmett urged him inside. “This is the manufacturing floor. Over here is the specification wall – and this is the tool wall.” His spread his arms, gesturing expansively at the wall of tools and other equipment. “Now, all of this stuff is security tagged so don’t try and take it outside – and you’ll notice it’s all numbered. Make sure it goes back on the correct hook when you’re done. Do you understand?”
“Uh – yeah,” said Marty. “Sounds straightforward.”
“If you’re ever the last one in, it’s very important that you check nothing is missing,” Emmett went on. “Though of course, you’re unlikely to be the last one in. Now – this,” he beckoned Marty over to the machine. “This is our current work in progress.”
“Right.” Marty studied it, his head tilted to one side. He sipped his coffee. He turned to Emmett, and said, “Am I supposed to understand what this thing is?”
“Oh – no, absolutely not.” Emmett shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. Even I don’t understand what it is.”
“What?” said Marty. “But you’re building it?”
“They send through the specifications, I put them through a refinement process and generate the blueprints,” said Emmett. “They send the parts – I build the machine.” He gestured at it with his coffee mug. “Every few months I finish one and they send a couple of guys to take it away. And then – you want to know what happens then?”
Marty shrugged. “What happens then?”
“Then.” Emmett wagged a finger at him. “We get cake.”
Marty didn’t look thrilled at the prospect. His eyes went back to the sharp, blocky hunk of grey machinery in the middle of the room. At length, he said, “This cannot be normal.”
“How would you know?” said Emmett. “You don’t remember anything before this morning.”
Sipping his lukewarm coffee, Marty considered the machine. He looked up at Emmett. “Can you fire me?”
Emmett sighed. “Alright, now,” he said, counting off on his fingers. “One – I don’t have hiring and firing powers, so you can forget about that. And, two you promised me you’d stick it out until lunchtime.”
“Hey, man, I never made any promises,” said Marty. At Emmett’s continuing look of disapproval, he scoffed. “What time is it now?”
Emmett pointed. “You are wearing a watch.”
Marty checked the time. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned. It wasn’t even ten minutes past eleven. “You seriously don’t even know what you’re building?” Emmett shrugged. “Why not?”
“Security reasons,” said Emmett. “I surmise that I’m part of a chain of personnel working on sections of a large project, or, or projects, with only a handful of individuals having the clearance to know the full picture.” Marty looked dubious. “It’s important and prestigious work, and you should be honoured to be a part of it.”
“Right,” said Marty, still dubious. “So, that’s your job. And my job is…?”
“To assist me,” Emmett said.
Marty looked over his shoulder at the office. “Is it just the two of us down here?”
“This is a two person department, yes.” Emmett waggled his coffee mug at the door. “There’s other departments, of course.”
“Do I get to meet them?” For the first time he thought he detected a twinge of hope in Marty’s voice.
“Some of them – when it’s relevant.” He downed the last of his coffee. “Now, how about we go back through to the office and finish going over departmental procedures – and then maybe we can get some real work done before lunch?”
“Yeah,” Marty sighed. “Whatever.”
*
Come eleven forty-five, they were back on the manufacturing floor and Emmett was hard at work. “Now, you see,” he said, on his back, halfway under the raised base of the machine. “This particular project is at about ninety-three per cent completion – at this stage I’m mainly wiring everything together.”
“Uh-huh.” He heard a clinking of metal as beside him Marty toyed with the tools in their tray.
“Which means you’ll hit your first cake day sooner rather than later,” Emmett added cheerfully. “Sound good?”
There was no answer. Marty’s shoes squeaked against the floor.
“Could you, uh.” Emmett flapped a hand out from under the machine. “Hand me the number three pliers?”
“Sure.” Marty sorted through the tray. “Hey, how come I know what pliers are when I don’t even remember my name?”
“It has to do with how the brain processes memory.” Emmett waggled his hand. “Pliers?”
Marty smacked them a little too hard into his palm. “Here.”
“You see,” he said as he made some adjustments to the wiring. “There’s a couple of different types of memory. You have your episodic memories, which are the memories of your own life – and your semantic memories, which are the memories of information that you’ve learned. The severance procedure primarily impacts your episodic memory. Do you follow?”
“Not really,” said Marty.
“Say, for example, you lived in France for a year and learned fluent French,” Emmett proposed. “You’d have no memory of your time in France, but you’d still be able to speak French. See what I mean?”
“And you’d still know where France is?”
“Quite.”
There was a thud overhead as Marty leaned heavily against the machine. “I feel like I’d know if I spoke French.”
“Areas like procedural memory and muscle memory are also largely unaffected,” Emmett went on, twisting wires together. “It’s all very interesting.”
“If you say so,” said Marty. “How the hell are you so calm about this?”
“Well, I’ve worked here for almost two decades – one gets accustomed to things,” said Emmett.
There was a scuffling as Marty shifted around. “Wait, what?” he said. “Twenty years? You’ve been down here twenty years?”
“Strictly speaking, no,” said Emmett. “I’m conscious for forty hours a week, so adjusting roughly for vacation I’ve been down here –”
“How have you not gone crazy?”
“What makes you think I haven’t?” Emmett passed him the pliers. “Wire cutters. Number fifteen.”
He waited as Marty rooted about for them. “These things?”
“That’s right.” He began to cut through some stray wires. “You, however, will only be down here for sixteen hours a week.
“Oh – yeah,” said Marty. “Cause I work Thursday-Friday. What do I do the rest of the time?”
“Based on your age and the part time nature of your contract, I’d say there’s a good chance you’re a college student,” said Emmett. “But really, it’s impossible to say.”
“I can’t find out?”
“You cannot.” He tugged at some finicky wires.
“Huh.” Another squeaking of shoe on floor. “Hey, so, if I’m working through college I might only be here till I graduate?”
“It’s possible,” said Emmett. “Although it’s also possible you’re planning on pivoting to a full time contract at some point – ah, number eight screwdriver, please.”
Marty hunted for it. “God, I hope not,” he said. “I don’t wanna be down here for the rest of my life.”
The wires slipped from Emmett’s hands. He breathed out, and wondered if he should explain. Well, he supposed, the kid was gonna have to figure it out eventually. They might as well get it over with.
He eased himself out from beneath the machine and sat up next to Marty. “Now, kid,” he said, as gently as he could. “I hate to be the one to have to break this to you – really and truly – but I’m afraid you’re gonna be down here for the rest of your life no matter what happens.”
Marty stared at him. “What’d you mean?”
“You – that is, the iteration of you that’s currently talking to me,” said Emmett. “You’re only conscious when your severance implant is active, and the implant is spatially tied to this location. As soon as you leave here your outside self will wake up and your consciousness will cease till he comes back.”
“Meaning?” said Marty with a shrug.
“Meaning – to all intents and purposes, it’s physically impossible for you to leave the severed floor,” Emmett explained. “When your outside self ends his employment at Lumon, your consciousness will cease permanently and your life will come to an end. Do you follow?”
Marty was still staring at him. His eyes were big, and Emmett thought he detected a hint of madness behind them. “Huh,” he said. “I guess I didn’t think of it like that.”
“Most people don’t, at first.” Emmett patted his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Uh-huh.” Marty’s gaze wandered away towards the specification wall. “Yep. I’m good.”
“As I said.” Emmett hauled himself back into place under the machine. “There’s every chance you’re a lifer – you might not have to worry about this till you’re – close to my age – did you find that screwdriver?”
Marty handed it to him. “I’m, uh,” he said. “You said the restrooms were down the hall? Is it okay if I go –”
“Of course – of course,” said Emmett. “Go whenever you need to.”
“Uh-huh.”
He heard Marty get up, and the squeak of his shoes as he crossed the manufacturing floor. The hum of the doors that led out into the office. The sound of the office doors opening and closing.
Then – more distantly, but still distinct – the sound of running feet.
“Shit.” He almost brained himself on the underbelly of the machine in his haste to get out.
Racing out into the hallway, he paused for a moment, listening, trying to gage which direction the kid had gone. Left, back towards the orientation centre. Well, of course he didn’t know where the exit was. Idiot kid.
Emmett took off after him, shoes squeaking and sliding on the hard floor. “Marty!” he called out. “Marty, get back here!” The kid had a head start on him and he was a spry eighteen or nineteen to Emmett’s fifty-nine, but he was disoriented – he didn’t know where he was going – with any luck –
He turned a corner, and almost, and there was Marty dithering at an intersection. He shot Emmett a furious look over his shoulder and pelted off to the right.
He didn’t make it far. Rounding the corner Emmett dove at him and managed to get a good grip on his arm, hauling him back. “Let go!” Marty hollered. “Get your hands off me, old man –”
“Marty” said Emmett, trying vainly to wrestle him back down the hallway. He was kicking and hissing like an angry alley cat. His elbow came back to strike Emmett in the guts and grimacing he tried not lose his grip. “Marty – stop –”
“Let me outta here,” Marty was saying, his voice echoing off the blank white walls. “Let me outta here –”
“Marty!” Emmett hissed. “Will you shut up?” He fumbled open the nearest door and wrestled Marty into the closet beyond.
Spinning the kid’s resisting body around he showed him up against the wall, ignoring his squawk of protest, and said, “Listen to me –”
“Stop it!” Marty struggled desperately against his grip. “Hey,” he called out. “Hey! Somebody help me –”
“For God’s sake!” Emmett smacked a hand over his mouth, silencing him. “Will you shut your trap and listen to me for five seconds?”
The door slid closed, plunging them into blueish semi-darkness. Marty stared up at him, breathing hard, his eyes narrow and utterly furious. It was about the angriest look Emmett had ever been on the receiving end of and at the intensity of it his hand slackened, falling away from Marty’s mouth.
He was acutely aware, in that moment, of his own height. He towered over the kid.
“I’m – I’m not your jailer, kid,” he said, taking Marty by his shoulders. “I’m not the enemy here. I’m your co-worker. Do you understand?”
“Go fuck yourself,” said Marty.
Emmett heaved a sigh. “Alright, listen,” he said. “Management let you have your tantrum earlier –”
“My tantrum?”
“Because you’d just woken up and new hires are treated with a degree of leniency,” Emmett spoke over him. “But now that you’ve been brought up to speed they’ll expect you to follow company protocols and that means no running about and screaming in the halls. Do you understand?”
“Protocols,” Marty spat. “I don’t give a shit about your protocols –”
“Marty!” Emmett tightened his grip on his shoulders. “Kid. You do not want to find out what the disciplinary process is like in this place.”
That, for the first time, gave Marty pause. He wet his lips, studying Emmett’s face; a cloud of unease passed across his expression as it registered just how serious he was. Then he made another attempt to wiggle out of Emmett’s grip. “What are they gonna do, fire me? I already wanna –”
Emmett pressed him back against the wall. “Worse.”
Marty sucked in a breath, stunned, momentarily, into silence. “Worse?” he said, weakly. “What do you mean, worse?”
“Trust me, kid,” said Emmett. “I’ve been down here a long time. I know all the rules. If I tell you not to do something then for God’s sake you listen.”
“They can’t – do anything to me, though, right?” said Marty. “That’s gotta be illegal, or – it can’t be –”
He breathed out, hands falling from Marty’s shoulders. “In all honesty, Marty, I have no idea how much of what goes on down here is legal,” he confessed.
“But –”
“Think of it like this,” he said as gently as he could. “If they were to do something illegal, it would be physically impossible for you to tell anyone. Do you understand?”
Marty’s face dropped as he processed the idea. “Oh, God.” He leaned against the closet wall. “Jesus Christ.” He pressed his hands over his mouth, his voice starting to shake. “I gotta get out of here,” he said, his voice starting to shake. “Please. Please, sir, I can’t stand it down here. I just wanna go home.”
“Even after what I just told you?” said Emmett. “You’d rather end your life, than spend it down here?”
“I’ve been awake for what, like three hours?” said Marty. “I don’t give a shit. Let me out.”
He heaved another sigh. “Okay,” he said. “If you want to try and leave, you can –”
“I can leave?” Marty’s eyes widened, face brightening with sudden hope.
“You can try,” said Emmett firmly. “But we are going to do this calmly, and via the proper channels. Do you understand?”
“Uh-huh.” Marty nodded, breathless. “Sure. Whatever you say. Just let me out.”
Emmett studied his face for a moment. “Okay,” he said, clapping his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
He opened the door. Marty stumbled out into the hallway, blinking in the sudden light; and he stood, dazed, looking up and down the stark white corridor that stretched identically in both directions. “I don’t,” he said. “I don’t, uh.” He raked an anxious hand up through his hair. “How does anyone find their way around this place?”
“That.” Emmett put a steadying hand on his back and turned him to face the correct direction. “Is why you don’t go tearing off on your own on your first day. C’mon. I’ll show you to the exit.”
He walked Marty through the hallways, a hand upon his shoulder, acutely aware all the while of the kid’s palpable anxiety. He’d never had anyone be afraid of him before; it was an alien experience, and he didn’t care for it.
As they neared the elevators, they were abruptly met by the security guard. He stepped out into the hallway, a solid presence blocking their way, and said nothing. Emmett felt Marty tense beneath his hand.
“Ah – Mr Murphy,” he said, squeezing Marty’s shoulder in an attempt to reassure him. “Marty M has intimated that he isn’t happy with his employment and would like to leave. I was just escorting him to the elevators.”
Mr Murphy studied Marty for a long, grim-faced moment. Then to Emmett’s relief he stepped to the side. “Okay.”
“C’mon, Marty.” Emmett ushered him forward, on around the corner. There were footsteps at their backs; Mr Murphy, following along to supervise. “Now – here’s the elevator,” he said, guiding Marty to a halt. “You can operate it with your keycard. It’ll take you above ground.”
Marty stepped away from him, gazing at the elevator. Then he turned away. “You’re just gonna let me walk out of here,” he said slowly. Emmett nodded. “I’ve been able to just – walk out of here this whole time?”
“Of course,” said Emmett. “I told you – this isn’t a prison.”
Marty looked over his shoulder at the elevator, evidently in no rush to board it. He was savvy enough, Emmett presumed, to sense a trap when one was placed before him. “Alright, what’s the trick?” he said, swinging back around.
“No trick,” said Emmett. “You want to leave, just leave. Once you’re off the severed floor your outside self will re-assert himself and decide whether or not he wants to come back to work.
He watched Marty’s face drop as he processed that concept. He wasn’t sure the kid had fully grasped, as yet, the mechanics of his situation.
“But,” he said. “I’ll know I wanna leave, right?” He turned helplessly to Mr Murphy. “Someone’ll tell me I’m trying to leave?”
“Of course,” said Mr Murphy.
Marty nodded, the tension seeming, at last, to be leaving him. Emmett watched, hands shoved in his pockets, as the kid fumbled with his keycard; as he waited breathlessly for the chime of the elevator.
The doors opened, and he breathed out.
“Okay,” he said. “Uh. Okay. I guess this is my stop, then?” He slipped his keycard back on, backing up into the elevator.
“Looks like,” said Emmett.
Marty reached for the button. His hand faltered. “Uh – thanks for your help,” he said. “You don’t seem like such a bad guy. I hope your next assistant is okay with this.”
“Yeah – me too.” The doors began to slide closed. “Good luck, kid.”
Emmett listened to the hum of the elevator, and waited, counting the seconds, running a quick calculation. Approximately a minute, if all he were to do was make a trip up and down. Factoring in time for chit-chat, maybe ninety seconds.
One hundred and one seconds later, the elevator chimed. The doors opened to reveal Marty M, looking around himself in confusion. “Hey – what?”
“Good morning,” said Emmett.
“No way,” said Marty, hitting the button a second time.
The second time it took a breezy eight-eight seconds. The doors opened and Marty stared out at him, his face tight. Without a word, he mashed the button.
Emmett counted to a hundred, and gave up. He leaned back against the wall, settling in to make himself comfortable. Around the two minute mark Mr Murphy left him to it. “Emmett.”
“Mr Murphy,” said Emmett.
He listened to the security guard’s retreating footsteps, and checked his watch. He clucked his tongue thoughtfully. Wouldn’t be much longer. Eventually, there came the hum of the elevator approaching. The chime dinged.
Marty stumbled out. “What the hell is this?” he said, stabbing a hand at the elevator. “You said I could leave –”
“That was a good three and a half minutes,” Emmett told him. “You must have had a conversation at the top.”
“Whoa, no, that was not three minutes –” Eyes tracking around the room, Marty registered Mr Murphy’s absence. He let out a shaky breath. “What –” Still breathing hard, he rubbed at his head. “I’m losing my mind.”
“You’re just fine.” Emmett took his elbow, ignoring the way he flinched at the tough. “It’s like I told you. We don’t perceive time passing when we leave. Five minutes, an hour, a week – it all feels the same.”
Marty snatched his arm out of Emmett’s grip. “You knew this was going to happen. Didn’t you?”
“It’s what usually happens,” Emmett admitted. “It’s, ah – one of those things that’s best experienced firsthand.”
Marty nodded bitterly. “Yeah, well,” he said. “You sure taught me a lesson, huh?”
“Let’s go back to work.” Emmett gestured at the hallway. “Shall we? After lunch if you like I’ll take you to Mr Strickland and you can fill out a written resignation request.”
The kid gave him a dismal look. “Will that help?”
“It might,” said Emmett, trying to sound upbeat about it.
Still giving him that look, Marty shook his head. “You’re a sick bastard. You know that, right?”
*
Come lunch time, they sat on opposite sides of the tiny kitchen table. Emmett ate, thoughtfully, studying Marty was he picked at his sandwich.
He considered his next move and cleared his throat. “After we go and see Mr Strickland, how about we go for a little walkabout?” he said. “This place won’t feel so strange once you know your way around.”
“Yeah – whatever,” said Marty miserably.
Emmett waited a polite moment for him to go on. “You know – Marty,” he said. “As your department head I’m here if there’s anything you want to talk about.”
Marty heaved a breath and straightened up. “How does the resignation thing work?”
“You fill out the form and your request will be passed on to your outside self,” said Emmett. “The turnaround is usually two to five business days.”
“And then I get to leave?” said Marty.
“If your outside self approves the request, sure,” said Emmett. He eyed Marty’s sandwich. “You really should eat that, you know – keep your energy up.”
Marty shoved the packet away and slumped once again over the table. “This is messed up,” he said. “You know that, right?” Emmett looked down at his food. “Please tell me you know how messed up this is.”
He set aside his sandwich. He breathed in, and out. “Now – it really isn’t so bad here –”
“Oh my God.” Marty looked away.
“This place has its quirks, but you’ll get used to them quickly,” said Emmett. “And you should be proud to work for Lumon – it, it’s a venerable and benevolent company – we’re doing important work –”
“You don’t know it’s important!” Marty shot back. “You don’t even know what it is you’re building in there!”
“You have a couple of hours a day during your training period set aside to familiarise yourself with the employee handbook,” Emmett told him. “Once you get to know more about the job, you’ll understand. “And you’ll feel better if you eat something.” He nudged Marty’s dessert across the table. “How about just the pudding cup? Hm?”
Marty considered the pudding cup. He picked it up and threw it at the wall.
“Great Kier.” Emmett almost dropped his coffee. He looked incredulously at the pudding spattered across the wall. “Marty, I – I’m trying to keep this friendly but I’m going to have to ask you to stop throwing things in the kitchen.”
Marty reached for his still-sealed container of salad. Emmett shifted it out of reach. “Are you planning on eating that or throwing it at me?”
The kid drew back his hand, looking slightly wounded. “I might’ve been gonna eat it.”
Emmett sighed. “How about you see if you can get through the rest of the day without throwing anything,” he said. “Hm? Do you think you can do that?”
Shoving his lunch things aside, Marty thumped his head down against the table and groaned.
Come five o’clock, he escorted Marty to the elevator. “One day down,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll get into the rhythm in no time.”
Marty shrugged on his jacket. “Right, Doctor B.”
“It’s – let’s see.” He checked the clock. “Five past five, Friday evening. I’ll see you Thursday morning.”
“Unless I see sense and get the hell out of here, huh?” said Marty.
“Ah – yes,” said Emmett. “Excepting that eventuality.”
The elevator chimed. Marty stepped inside.
“Good night!” Emmett gave him his cheeriest wave. “See you soon!”
He watched the elevator doors close. Then, with a sigh, he went back to M&D to close up shop.
*
Thursday morning, he waited outside the elevator for the chime. It sounded, and the doors slid open to reveal Marty M looking around himself with an expression of mounting horror. “No way.”
“Good morning!” said Emmett, beckoning him on out. “Come on – come out.”
Stumbling out into the hallway Marty pointed vaguely at the elevator. “Did I –”
“It’s –” His gaze was wandering. Emmett took him by the shoulders, making sure he had his full attention. “Welcome back. It’s nine o’clock Thursday morning. You’ve been gone five days, and –”
“I’m wearing a different shirt.” Marty looked down at himself, plucking at his fresh button-down.
“Yes – it’s blue,” said Emmett. “Suits you. Matches your eyes. If your outside self has any sense of personal hygiene you’ll find you’re also wearing fresh underwear and socks.”
Marty touched the waistband of his pants.
“As I was saying,” Emmett said. “It’s Thursday morning. Time to start your second day of training. Your resignation request was denied.”
Marty was still inspecting his pants. He looked sharply up at Emmett. “Wait, what?”
“I thought it was best not to leave you in suspense,” said Emmett. “I’m sorry.”
Marty’s mouth worked in mute horror. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Emmett squeezed his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get to work.”
He headed off towards M&D. Marty hastened after him. “Can I try again?” he said at Emmett’s heels.
“Well, you can.”
“But you don’t think I should?”
“Ahh.” They rounded a corner. “It’s your decision, obviously. It’s just that I think you’ll find it’s a waste of your emotional energy – a waste of Mr Strickland’s valuable time – and to be frank, a waste of paper.”
“You don’t think it’ll work.” Marty caught up with him.
“I think your outside self has made his preferences with regards to your continued employment clear,” said Emmett. “And you’d be better off expending your emotional energy elsewhere.” They came upon the doors of M&D. “Here we are, now.”
As the doors opened, Marty caught his wrist. “Hey,” he said. “Did you ever try to resign?”
Emmett sighed and turned his eyes to the ceiling. This was starting to try his patience and he considered pointing out to Marty just what a personal question that was. Well, he thought, it was probably best to indulge him or he wouldn’t shut up about it. “Once,” he said. “Yes.”
“Yeah?” said Marty. “What happened?”
Meeting his eyes, Emmett said, “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He motioned for Marty to go ahead. “Shall we?”
He followed Marty on into M&D. “I’m going to go and get set up on the manufacturing floor,” he said. “Would you mind making the coffee? Do you remember my coffee order?”
Marty looked, for a moment, like he was going to protest. Then giving up he turned and slouched into the kitchen.
He was laying out his tools when there was a squeak of shoes on the hard floor behind him and he turned to see Marty, conspicuously empty-handed. “Coffee?” he said hopefully.
“So – let me know if I’ve got this right.” Marty held up his hands. “My job is to do whatever you tell me to do – until I die?”
Emmett fumbled with the number ten pliers. “Ah – yes,” he said. “Yeah, that’s a reasonable summary of your job role.”
Marty nodded slowly. He said, “Cool. Thanks. Just wanted to be clear.” He squeaked away.
He was done with the tool tray when Marty at last came back in with two mugs. “Here,” he said, thrusting one at Emmett.
“Ah – thank you.” He opted not to comment on how long it had taken, nor on the patently lukewarm nature of the coffee, nor, for that matter, on the drips of coffee on the floor. He took a sip and winced. “Oh, praise Kier, that’s sweet.”
Marty thunked his own mug down on top of the machine. “Shove it up your ass.”
*
The elevator chimed. Marty stared out at him, a baleful look in his eyes. He breathed out, his shoulders sagging, and said, “Again?”
“Again.” Emmett beckoned him out. “Come on, kid. Lots to do.”
Marty trailed behind him all the way to the manufacturing floor. “Now,” said Emmett as he shuffled over to the tool wall. “Can I trust you with the coffee today? Or –”
“Oh, I do not like the sweater vest.” Marty was looking down at himself. He tugged at it, pulling a face.
“Well, you don’t have to wear it all day,” Emmett pointed out. With a sigh, Marty began to strip it off. “So. Coffee?” The balled-up sweater vest hit him in the face. “Oof.”
“Did you hear back from Strickland yet?”
“It’ll be Monday at the earliest,” said Emmett. “Now, you can make the coffee or you can come and help me set up in here. Your choice.”
Marty wavered, for a moment looking like he was considering shooting back another insult. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll get the coffee.”
He came back a lot more promptly than the previous morning, holding two still-hot mugs. He offered one to Emmett. “Coffee?”
Emmett reached for it – and paused. He didn’t care for the look on Marty’s face. He had a very expressive face and right now the look on it was – sneaky. Amused, like he was biting back a smirk.
“Alright – what’d you do?”
“Uh, I made coffee?” said Marty with a shrug.
“You’re up to no good, kid,” said Emmett. “What did you do?”
“I made coffee,” Marty said patiently. “Like you asked.”
Emmett studied both mugs – the one Marty was offering him, and the other one held closer to his body. He made his decision. “Alright, gimme that one,” he said, reaching for the one that Marty was holding back.
“Uh, they’re pretty much the same?” said Marty, resisting his attempt to pry the mug out his hand. “You don’t have to –”
“I’m not taking any chances,” said Emmett. Marty let him take the coffee.
“You do you, man,” he said, and sipped the other mug.
“Okay,” said Emmett. “Now, let’s get started.” He took a drink of coffee – and choked, violently. “Oh, for – did you put salt in this?” He looked at the mug in disbelief. “Did you put salt in your own damn coffee?”
Marty shrugged, his smirk no longer suppressed. “I just put salt in both of ‘em.”
Emmett wiped at his mouth. “Why would you do that?” he said. “What are you trying to achieve here?”
Tilting his head to the side, Marty considered the question. “Anything to make your day a little shittier.”
He breathed out, trying to control his temper. He’s just a kid, he told himself. He’s eighteen years old. He’s going through a tough transition. It’s his third day. Thrusting the mug back at Marty, he said, “Alright. Put the cups in the dishwasher and make some drinkable coffee, okay? Or –”
Marty blinked up at him. “Or what?”
His temper rapidly fraying, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll both go, and review our kitchen procedures.”
Coffee made correctly – and drunk – he finally managed to make an actual start. Mid-morning found him lingering by the specification wall, tracing his finger over the schematics in search of the next problem area.
“Now, this section of wiring is pretty intricate,” he said. “This part of the machine appears to have some form of processing capability – similar to an old-fashioned computer –” He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Marty was leaning against the machine, toying with the wire cutters and patently not paying attention. “Are you listening to me?”
“Uh-huh,” said Marty.
“I’d appreciate if you could at least pay attention.” Marty looked over at him, disinterested. “You’ll enjoy this job a lot more if you actually engage with the work.”
“Uh – no thanks,” Marty said. “You think there’s any chance I’ll hear from management today?”
“I think it’s very unlikely and I think you’re set to receive another rejection,” said Emmett. “Will you stop fidgeting with those? You’ll wear them out.”
“You really don’t care about anything except your weird bullshit, huh?” said Marty.
“I care about this because it’s my job,” Emmett told him sternly. “You’d do well to take this more seriously. It’s important work and you owe Lumon a debt of gratitude for hiring you. Now, can you please try to be a grown up about this?”
Marty threw the wire cutters at him. “Whoa!” said Emmett, ducking. They clattered against the spec wall behind him. “Don’t – oh, don’t you dare,” he said as Marty took a step towards the tool wall. He made a move to follow, only to stop short as Marty selected a hacksaw. “Now – now, Marty,” he said, holding up his hands in an attempt to placate him. “I’m willing to tolerate throwing food around but there’s a lot of sharp, dangerous things on that wall –” Marty raised the saw. “Do not throw that hacksaw at me! Don’t you dare throw that hacksaw at me!”
Marty threw the hacksaw at him. To his relief, it sailed past him to clang off the floor. It would appear Marty wasn’t aiming directly at him. “That’s enough,” he said as Marty reached for a screwdriver. “That’s enough – no –” The screwdriver bounced off the floor on the other side of him. Marty went for a hammer. “Oh, don’t you dare!”
That was a step too far. Lunging forward he grabbed for the hammer. Marty dodged; Emmett got him by the wrist and began a valiant, futile effort to wrestle it out of his hands. “Give it to me,” he said. “Marty! Let go – that is not a toy –”
“Screw you,” Marty spat. “You asshole – you complete asshole –”
“This,” Emmett gritted out as they grappled, the hammer flailing dangerously close to his head, “this is not – appropriate – workplace behaviour –”
A voice ran out across the manufacturing floor. “What’s going on in here?”
Oh, Great Kier – Kier and all his successors, it was Mr Strickland. Emmett let go of Marty’s wrists like they were hot and straightened up, plastering on his best talking-to-management smile. “Mr Strickland!” he said. “Pleasure to have you here!”
Mr Strickland stepped fully onto the manufacturing floor. “What are you doing?” he said. “I heard raised voices.”
His eyes went to Marty. Marty clutched the hammer to his chest, eyes wide and alarmed. “Uhh.”
Emmett improvised. “We were just – engaging in some friendly horseplay.” He put an arm around Marty. “You know. A bonding activity. Isn’t that right, kid?”
Marty looked up at him, face frozen. Then he huffed a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Horseplay. Right.”
“Marty here is, uh.” Emmett squeezed his shoulder. “Proving to be more of a physical learner. I thought –”
“I think this level of horseplay might be a bit much for a working environment, Emmett,” said Mr Strickland.
“Oh – of course.” Emmett patted Marty on the back. “Things got a little out of hand. You know how it is – that new hire enthusiasm rubbing off on me.”
Mr Stickland did not look enthused. “As department chief I expect you to maintain discipline, Emmett.”
“Of course – of course,” said Emmett. “We were done, anyway. Weren’t we?” He shot Marty a smile.
Still unamused, Stickland’s eyes went to the tools on the floor. “Pick those up,” he said, and left.
They stood there, Marty’s arm still around Emmett’s shoulders, listening for long and uneasy moments to his retreating footsteps as he crossed the office; listening for the sound of the department doors closing. For a second longer, they waited, listening, just in case he was coming back.
Then Emmett made a grab for the hammer and Marty shoved him forcefully away. “Give me –”
“Don’t touch me!” Marty hissed. “Don’t you touch me!”
“Give me the hammer, kid –”
He made a further attempt to take the hammer. Marty brandished it, his other hand outstretched in a clear keep away.
“Now – Marty,” he said, hands held up in surrender. “I understand you’re upset –”
“Go to hell,” said Marty.
“You can’t do things like this.” Emmett took a slow, tentative pace towards him. “There’s cameras. You see them? There – and there. If anyone’s watching right now you’ll be in big trouble.”
“I don’t give a shit.” Marty adjusted his grip on the hammer – but he was faltering, his arm beginning to droop.
“There we go,” said Emmett softly, feeling rather like he was trying to tame an angry horse. “Why don’t you just set that down? Huh? And we can talk about this.”
“I don’t wanna talk to you.” Absently, Marty lowered the hammer altogether. “Why are you like this?” he said as Emmett took another careful step towards him. “Are you even human?”
He stopped short, momentarily stumped by the question. “Of course I’m human –”
“Are you like a robot or something?” Marty gesticulated furiously with the hammer. “Did they grow you in a lab down here? Or, or are you seriously this much of a monster?”
Emmett sighed. He took a step closer. “I’m not a monster, kid,” he said. “Give me the hammer.”
“Stay away –” Marty jabbed the hammer at him, but it was a weak, vain attempt at intimidation. Emmett shuffled still closer and eased the hammer out of his sweaty and unresisting hand.
“There we go,” he said. “That’s better, huh?”
Marty looked at his empty hands. He looked up at Emmett. “Are they seriously watching us all the time?”
“Maybe,” said Emmett. “Maybe not.” Waggling the hammer at Marty, he added, “Welcome to the panopticon, kid. It never ends.”
*
Behind him, the doors of M&D swished open.
“Good morning,” he said, fiddling with the coffee machine. “You’re in a little early. Raring to go, eh?”
“Yeah, hi, whatever,” said Marty as he came into the kitchen. “Did you hear back from Strickland yet?”
Emmett breathed out. He looked down at the coffee pot – the dark spoonful of grounds in his hand. For a moment, he considered lying. Maybe it would be kinder to lie and let him live in hope for another day.
He dumped the grounds into the machine and turned around. “Kid, I – I’m sorry.”
He watched Marty’s face dropped, as that glimmer of hope began to fade away. “Please,” he said. “C’mon, man, give me some good news here.”
“Decline,” he said; and Marty’s face sank altogether, his whole body sagging, burying his face in his hands. “That’s, ah – three for three, kid,” Emmett said. “I’d recommend you don’t waste any more of your energy on this. Okay?”
Marty took his hands away from his face, and breathed. He nodded in grim agreement. “Uh-huh.”
“Okay.” The tightness in his chest eased as he turned back to the coffee machine. The kid was finally seeing sense. They could put the whole unpleasant business of his repeated attempts to resign behind them and focus on his training. The project was approaching ninety-six per cent completion. The sooner they got to Cake Day the better. He was sure Marty would –
Behind him there was a thud and a muffled grunt of pain and turning, startled, he saw first the blood smeared on the wall; then the blood oozing from Marty’s knuckles.
“Great Kier –” The coffee grounds toppled over as he abandoned them, spilling ignored across the counter. He crossed the kitchen in two swift paces, reaching for Marty’s hand. “What did you do?”
“Hey, you know,” Marty said, his voice unsteady, breathing shaky. “That actually feels a little better.”
Emmett took his hand carefully in both of his own. “Why did you do that?” he breathed. “Why did you have to –” He swallowed down the lump rising in his throat, and resolved to be practical. “Alright, come – come over here – I’ll get the first aid kid.”
Leaning against the counter, Marty didn’t flinch as Emmett cleaned up his knuckles. His face was blank. “There we go.” Emmett set aside the cotton balls and reached for a length of bandage. “Can you move your fingers?”
Marty waggled them. “Uh-huh.”
“Good – you probably haven’t broken anything.” He began to unwind the bandage. “Let’s get that dressed, huh?”
The kid stayed quiet, as Emmett bandaged him up, and as he taped the bandage in place. He said nothing at all as Emmett began to pack up the first aid kid. “Do you want to – talk?”
“Huh?” said Marty absently.
“About anything,” said Emmett. “Anything at all.”
“Hm.” Marty finished with the bandage.
He closed the first aid kit. “Maybe we could take a walk later,” he said. “Would you like that? We could go for a walk around the tech wing – I could show you some of the other departments.” He nudged Marty, very gently. “How about it? Do you good to get out of here.”
Marty’s eyes still had that glazed quality. “No thanks,” he said. Then he heaved a sigh and his expression grew a little more focused; and looking up at Emmett he said, “Hey, so, what do you have to do to get fired around here?”
Emmett blinked. “What?”
“How’d you get fired?” said Marty. “I wanna get fired.”
“Great Kier.” Emmett rubbed his forehead. “I’m not having this conversation.”
“No, you said we could talk about anything.” Marty was growing still more animated, his funk passing. “People must get fired sometimes, right? I’m pretty sure all companies fire people.” He waggled his fingers at his skull. “Semantic memory or whatever. So how about it?”
“I told you.” He put the first aid kid firmly back in the cabinet. “You don’t want to deal with the disciplinary procedure –”
“See, I’m thinking I mess up badly enough that just skip straight to firing me,” said Marty. “How bad do I have to mess up?”
He leaned on the counter and tried to keep his breathing even. “Very badly,” he said. “I’ve only heard of that happening in instances where people have made themselves into a genuine liability. It’s extremely difficult to predict how management will respond to rule breaches – don’t try it.”
“What if I just stop working?” Marty persisted. “If I stop working for long enough they’ll have to fire me, right?”
“I think you’ll find your patience will break long before theirs,” said Emmett. Assuming his attempts didn’t stick him – you know where. “How’s your hand? Does it hurt too badly? I don’t have any –”
“Yeah, I’m just gonna go,” Marty motioned vaguely back into the office. “Go do whatever. See ya.”
He wandered away, leaving Emmett slouched over the counter in mounting despair.
*
Marty’s newfound resolve not to work lasted a solid six days; which was to say, in terms of objective time, something like three weeks. Another Marty went home Friday night and ate dinner and enjoyed his weekend and spent three days at college, or – or at his other job – whatever it was that he did Monday through Wednesday. Then he came back to work, to spend a day spinning himself around in one of the office chairs and drifting between the office and the kitchen and the manufacturing floor.
The project was approaching ninety-nine per cent. He’d given up reminding Marty that it would go faster if he did his job. Currently he was kneeling beside it, wiring the waveform chips into the central unit.
From across the manufacturing floor there was a sigh. Marty, lying on his back on the hard floor, his head pillow on his wadded jacket, tossing his balled-up, reviled sweater vest up and down in the air.
“Bored?” Emmett guessed.
“Whatever,” said Marty.
“You’ll find the hours go a lot faster around here when you do your job.”
“What time is it?” Marty caught the sweater vest. He checked his watch, and groaned. It wasn’t even close to lunch time. “God. Screw this.”
Marty’s failure to contribute had, undoubtedly, been noticed. He’d made no attempt to look busy when Strickland came by on his occasional visits. They would be banking, Emmett was sure, on the kid’s patience giving way. Boredom was a powerful weapon in their arsenal. He’d give up; and if he didn’t, he’d get a warning; and if he didn’t listen to the warning, he’d be disciplined. Rinse, and repeat.
There was a soft thud as the sweater vest fell to the floor and with a further sigh of tedium Marty sprawled out. “This sucks.”
“If you don’t want to work, you could always get on with reading the employee handbook,” said Emmett. Marty made a noise of profound disgust. “Suit yourself.”
He fitted another control chip. Behind him he heard a wet clicking that sounded suspiciously like Marty biting his nails. “Don’t do that, please.”
“Go to hell,” said Marty lightly; then, somewhat to Emmett’s relief, he sat up and heaved himself to his feet. “I think I’m gonna go use the restroom.”
“Hm?” Emmett twisted around to face him.
“What?” said Marty. “Am I allowed to go and use the restroom? Or do you wanna come supervise?”
“You’re allowed to use the restroom,” said Emmett. “I was just wondering if you were actually gonna go use the restroom or if you’re planning another escape attempt.”
Marty spread his arms. “I gotta pee, sir,” he said, and slouched away.
Emmett watched him go. Muttering to himself, he went back to his wiring job.
It was difficult to shake the tension in his shoulders, since Marty had arrived at Lumon. His presence in the M&D department – teeth-grindingly reluctant to be there, moody, bored, infuriating – was a constant source of stress. His absence, whenever he took a bathroom break or went to stretch his legs or generally wandered off, didn’t feel any better.
His other absences – the three-day long breaks between his abbreviated work week – ought to have been a relief, but already, in spite of the brief time they’d known each other, Emmett was finding that he missed him. Coming into work every Monday to find the place silent and empty was something of a shock to his system.
Sometimes, on those long, empty days, he’d entertain himself while he worked by imagining what Marty might be doing. He pictured him on a college campus; in a lecture hall; spending time with his friends. Outside on a street in the sunshine. Watching the clouds scud by.
He wondered where the kid lived. In a dorm on the campus. At home with his family. A house, or an apartment – anywhere that was his own, and not the featureless void of the severed floor.
He twisted a wire too tight. The plastic snapped against his screwdriver. “Ah,” he said, inspecting the broken ends. Well, it was only a ten minute job to fix. There was a kink in his back. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work it out. When that wasn’t enough, he stood, stretching his arms, and headed to the kitchen for a sniff of water.
Lingering in the kitchen, sipping his water, there came a sound on the edge of his hearing and he froze. After a second, the sound came again, faint but unmistakeable; the sound of glass, shattering.
“No.” The cup of water slipped unnoticed from his hand, clattering and splashing to the ground, as he pelted towards the door.
In the hallway he stood for a moment, listening, trying to gage which direction the sound had come from. That way – the tech wing conference room. He took off towards it at a run, his chest humming with anxiety. This was his fault. It was his fault. He’d grown complacent. He’d made the fatal error of thinking Marty had any reason to follow the rules. The kid already wanted out. He wanted out badly enough to obliterate his own consciousness. Why in the world would he follow the rules?
Scrambling around the last corner, he saw broken glass on the floor; the shattered window of the conference room. He saw Marty. The kid was wrestling and yelling in Mr Murphy’s arms, gripping a fire extinguisher he’d somehow got down off the wall. He twisted in Murphy’s grip, swinging the extinguisher up and back as if meaning to smash the other man’s face in –
That was too far. Emmett sprinted over to them, grabbing for the fire extinguisher. Marty swore at him and clutched it tighter, but after a few good wrenches he gave way and Emmett stumbled back, the fire extinguisher smacking firmly against his chest.
Murphy met his eyes. “Thank you, Emmett.”
Disarmed, Marty had gone limp in his captor’s arms. He was giving Emmett a look of utter revulsion and Emmett noticed for the first time blood on the rolled up cuff of his shirt and streaking along his forearm where a stray shard of glass had cut him.
“Alright.” Mr Murphy heaved a sigh that made his moustache bristle. “Marty M, you’re coming with me.”
“I’m not gonna stop,” said Marty. “You’re gonna have to fire me. Come on, just fire me –”
“Mr – Mr Murphy,” Emmett stammered. “This was my fault. Okay? I shouldn’t have left him unsupervised – I’m willing to take full responsibility –”
“Nice try, Emmett.” Murphy relaxed his hold on Marty, taking a firm grip on his shoulder instead.
“Please,” Emmett said. “He’s still learning the ropes around here – he doesn’t –”
“Yeah,” Murphy scoffed. “He’s still learning not to smash shit with the fire-fighting equipment.” He tugged Marty backwards. “This way.”
“Wait.” Marty was looking between the two of them, seeming to register at last that this wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. “Where are we going?” Taking him by the collar, without a word Murphy yanked him backwards. “Hey –”
“Mr Murphy, please,” Emmett begged. “He’s just a kid – show some mercy –”
“Go back to work, Emmett B,” said Murphy.
“Where are we going,” said Marty, heels dragging and squeaking on the polished floor. “Where are you taking me? I don’t –”
“Marty, don’t fight him!” Emmett called out – and for a moment, their eyes met. Marty looked so young, squirming in Murphy’s fierce grip. A lost little boy. “I’m sorry,” said Emmett. “Please don’t resist. I’m sorry.”
Mr Murphy hauled Marty around a corner, and away; and Emmett stood outside the conference room, his heart in his throat, the fire extinguisher a heavy weight in his hands, alone.