Chapter 1: The Message
Summary:
Chapter 1: Dylan G. refines the Cork Island file and receives an unexpected message; Milchick is suspicious of the refiners and under-appreciated by his colleagues; and Desmond has a really bad day. Includes Desmond flashbacks.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Island, 2002
"Oh, and Desmond? If you think you see a message or a sign on the computer? Answer it," the disheveled man said softly. The man's dark eyes conveyed a sincerity with such intensity that, despite himself, Desmond found himself believing him. And then the mysterious interloper blinked out of existence.
PART I
I. Lumon, 2022
The numbers scared him.
They joked about how some numbers were "scary" but it went unspoken that they also knew that there was great power in the numbers.
These were especially bad, though.
He typed "1" and watched the last group of numbers—4815162342—fly into the first bin at the bottom of the screen. 100 motherfucking percent, bitch. The Cork Island file had taken long enough, but he was finally free of it. He couldn't wait for the perks. Maybe he'd be refiner of the quarter again, even. He leaned forward in anticipation and pushed the glasses up his nose. The others gathered around to watch, summoned by the triumphant music coming out of his monitor.
A giant "100%" on screen dissolved into a color image that took him flying over the mountaintops, before reaching Kier on a rocky ledge overlooking the land, his dress coat's tails flapping in the wind. "100%" hovered over Kier's hand before turning into birds that flew away. He never really understood why birds, but Irving probably knew their meaning. Kier turned back to look at him; even with 8-bit graphics, his blue eyes seemed piercing.
I knew you could do it, Dylan G.
Kier's hands came together in appreciation.
Dylan loved this part. He loved hearing Kier say his name; even if it was clearly just a down on his luck work actor who had recorded it years after Kier's death, it still gave him a rush.
Even in your darkest moments, I could see you arriving here.
In refining your macrodata file, you have brought glory to this company, and to me, Kier Eagan.
I...
The animation of Kier paused, and he blinked, seemingly overcome with emotion.
I love you.
And he said it with such feeling, that for a moment, Dylan did believe that he was loved by Kier.
But now I must away, for there are others who need me around the world. Goodbye, Dylan G.
And then Kier jumped off the cliff. Irving made a little noise, like he always did, afraid that this time, Kier would fall to his death. Instead, Kier flew in widening circles before gliding off towards the horizon.
Dylan turned around to gloat to his fellow refiners, when he heard Mark gasp, "Wait... it's... doing something."
The image distorted for a moment, and then:
Hello?
> ▌
"Maybe... maybe the computer needs to be restarted?" Mark asked.
"We need to tell Mr. Milchick," interjected Irving immediately.
Is anyone there?
> ▌
"Shit," Petey rubbed his forehead as if that could ward off the headache that seemed to be coming. "Shit."
They all looked to Petey for guidance, the moment seeming to stretch on and on.
After some consideration, Petey continued, "Okay, look. It might be a loyalty test. But it might be something we're supposed to see. I don't know. But we aren't going to tell Mr. Milchick. Yet. Not until we know more."
"Let it be known that I'm lodging a complaint with you, Petey. I will not bring it up to Mr. Milchick because you are my supervisor, but I won't lie if Mr. Milchick asks about it."
Dylan couldn’t count the number of times he’d heard Irving lodge complaints with Petey.
"Okay, Irv. Sure. Let's just... let's get back to work," Petey said, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"I'm... still going to get a perk, right?" Dylan asked, calmer than he felt on the inside.
"I'm sure Mr. Milchik and Ms. Cobel know that you completed the file," Petey said wearily, "I wouldn't worry about it. I'll process it soon."
And speak of the devil, Milchik was at the door. "Helloooo, Macrodata Refinement!" He greeted them with a big grin plastered on his face, "Congratulations to Dylan G.! Impressive as usual." Today he wore a turtleneck, his pants up high like they usually were. Dylan briefly wondered if that was a style that was common in the outside world but decided it must not be. His outie didn't dress him in pants like that, and his outie was probably super fucking stylish.
Dylan let out his breath slowly, trying to regulate his breathing even though his heart was pounding. He glanced at the screen quickly to see if he needed to block it with his body. But by the time Milchick had entered the room, the system had already rebooted. "Thanks, Mr. Milchick. You, uh... have any perks for me?"
"Sure do, Dylan." From behind his back, Milchick brought forth a ring toss toy with buttons to propel colorful rings in water where they would eventually fall onto the upraised hands of Kier. "This is just for you." He gently tossed it to Dylan.
"Shiiiiit. I've never seen this before! Shit! Thanks, Mr. Milchick!" Dylan exclaimed, feeling his anxiety melt away in the excitement of the moment.
Milchick chuckled affably at Dylan's swearing. "We'll get a caricature portrait to you tomorrow. We're running a bit late on that. Think about what you want it to be of." Winning a trophy at a muscle show. Definitely. "You all have a good day." And then Milchick walked out.
Dylan immediately began playing with the toy. He realized with dawning horror (but also some pride) that he might be really good at this too, which of course he was, he was fucking amazing at everything he did, but it might be a distraction from work. The work is mysterious and important Petey had once semi-sarcastically quoted from the handbook. Dylan had laughed at the time, but privately he actually agreed. They were probably cleaning the goddamn oceans.
Dylan cracked his knuckles, turning back to the screen. "Okay, time to get back to it."
"You can take a break, you know," Petey suggested. And then lowered his voice to a whisper, "And we still need to figure out what that message was about."
Irving stood abruptly, "I'm sorry, but I can't be here for this." He grabbed his handbook tote and went into the kitchenette. He began loudly humming the Kier hymn to drown out the others.
"Let's go to the supply closet," Petey suggested to Mark and Dylan, forcing himself not to glance up at the camera. "I think we all need some more sticky notes."
The Island, 2004
Desmond was frowning at his computer. He had listened to the softly spoken man who had visited him two years prior. He had answered the message. And nothing had happened. Of course it hadn't. It was ridiculous to believe that anything would happen. He had probably imagined the memory of this man, anyway. He was so tired.
Ever since Kelvin died (he reminded himself that it was an accident), he hadn't been able to have more than about an hour and a half of sleep before having to wake up and enter the numbers. He was so tired. It seemed likely that he had started to have false memories and hallucinations. He had never seen anyone else besides Kelvin on the island before. Sure, he heard strange noises sometimes, like the call of an animal mixed with an air siren, loud enough to be heard within the Swan, but he probably was imagining that too. And it didn't sound like a person anyway.
He was so tired.
He thought back to the strange events of the day. The prompt had changed a few minutes ago, displaying:
CONTACT MDR? (Y/N)
>: ▌
His finger had hovered over the "Y" button before hitting it.
>: Y▌
He had hesitated longer this time. And then he had pressed "RETURN" and let out a shuddering breath.
ESTABLISHING CONNECTION
PROGRESS: [##########] 100.00%
CONNECTION ESTABLISHEDSEND MESSAGE TO MDR
>: Hello?▌
Nothing.
>: Is anyone there?▌
He had waited.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
The text on screen had disappeared as the monitor slowly updated pixel by pixel, line by line, and was replaced by the usual prompt.
>: ▌
Fuck.
He pushed his palms against his eyes and let out a brief scream while the series of strange events once again began replaying itself in his mind.
He was going to go back to sleep again. Fuck this shit.
He tried to remember what Penny smelled like as he drifted off into a restless sleep.
II. Glasgow, 1988
Prior to meeting Penny, Desmond Hume had been a man of conviction but not of constants. He knew what he wanted in life and then something shifted in him and he was off to the next thing or person that captured his heart.
He had met Ruth on a BBS[1]. He wasn't particularly tech-savvy, but he had a friend, Wyatt, who kept talking up the magic of this new technology. Wyatt was one of the few friends Desmond kept in touch with from school, after it became clear that he'd have to work instead of continue on to uni. Wyatt was getting his degree in computer science and loved all things technology. His family was well-off enough that he lived in the residences at the University of Glasgow even though they lived nearby.
Desmond would often meet up with Wyatt in the evenings and they'd get on Wyatt's brand new Apple IIc Plus; Wyatt would plug-in the modem (which he was ever so proud of), and they’d explore BBSes on topics that interested them, mostly sports but sometimes music, and in rare occasions, religion (when they got in a philosophical mood after having more than a few at the pub). In one particularly drunken night, Desmond had dared Wyatt to go on a dating BBS. They sat together, giggling like schoolchildren at the abject horniness of the people who used the BBS, taking turns at the keyboard and goading each other into writing filthier and filthier things. But the novelty started to wear off around the time the drink started to wear off.
"Alright, it's time for me to go home, I think," Desmond said, getting up to grab his coat. It was late and he had work in the morning.
"Wait," Wyatt said with a bit of wonderment, "There's a lady on here—at least I assume she's actually a lady" (no one would lie on a BBS, surely?) "and she says she's in Scotland."
"Okay, and... what, I should meet her?"
"What if she's hot?"
"What if there's something wrong with her? Why is she looking for dates on a BBS?"
"I don't know. Why are we on a BBS, Desmond? You should message her."
"That's different. It's easier for women to get dates. They shouldn't have to go on a computer to find someone." Looking back on it, at that age he had a lot of strange opinions. "I'm not going to message her."
"Well, too late, while you were busy objecting, I already sent her a message."
She responded to the message immediately.
III. Lumon, 2022
Petey, Mark, and Dylan gathered in the close quarters of the closet. Petey called it a "macrodat huddle" and had even came up with a little jingle about it. Dylan thought the huddle felt a little empty without Irving. He could still hear him humming. The walls were a little thin.
"Okay, so..." Petey usually was decisive yet laid back. But now he seemed to be struggling with deciding what to do.
"Like you said, this is clearly another loyalty test. Right?" Dylan asked.
"I'll never forget the spicy candy as long as I live," Petey said sardonically. "I think Dylan might be right. But if he's wrong and someone is trying to contact us from the outside... I think we should hear them out."
"It could be someone within Lumon and not the outside world," Mark offered. "Maybe it's Ms. Cobel or Mr. Milchick or Mr. Graner or..." he trailed off, "Okay, well I don't know much about who else works here—or how many people work here—but it could be one of them!"
"It could be a trick from those fuckers at O&D," Dylan said with a small grimace.
"Sure," Petey conceded, "But it could be someone trying to help us."
"Help us... with what?" Mark said, a fake smile gracing his face, "Lumon treats us well." Dylan wasn't sure if Mark realized it, but he was parroting a line that Irving said on occasion.
Petey just stared at Mark. The silence grew a bit uncomfortable. Petey finally said, "Mark, there's no cameras in here, you don't have to—"
"—Yeah, well, I stand by what I said."
"Yeah, I kinda have to side with Mark here," Dylan interjected. He was pretty sure that they had forgotten he was here in this heated exchange, "My work probably gives my outie the work/life balance he needs to be totally fucking awesome," and then added, "And I'm awesome at the work too."
"Can we please just..." Dylan noted that Petey avoided looking directly into Mark's eyes, "Let's just... let's answer them next time. But give vague responses to questions in case it's a test."
"You're assuming there is a next time!" Mark was getting agitated. Dylan hated it. He didn't need this drama.
"I don't care what we do. I'm going back to work," Dylan said and started to push his way out, walking between them. Privately, he did care. It seemed risky, with little benefit. But he also didn't like pushing Petey. They joked a lot in the office and so when Petey was serious about something, everyone knew it was important shit.
Dylan headed out of the closet and shut the door. There was no point in leaving it open. He couldn't stop them from bickering like what old married couples probably did. (He, on the other hand, was clearly a ladies' man on the outside and didn't have to deal with all of that.)
They always made up and their friendship came out stronger for it, so Dylan wasn't too worried. (Yet.) He fully expected them to come out in 5 minutes laughing about something absurd. Only Petey really "got" Mark. Dylan wasn't sure if Mark fully got Petey, though. And he wasn't sure that Mark was aware of that gap in understanding either.
Nonetheless, he was worried that one day, they wouldn't make up. He had seen how Mark looked at Petey sometimes, and it worried him. Unresolved tension could create long-term issues, but if they... well, it could change the team dynamic. Which could impact his productivity. On the other hand, maybe if they just got it out of their systems, they'd bicker less. He'd cautiously support whatever they chose.
He settled back into his chair. Irving looked up from his seat in the kitchenette. "Are you done?" Irving asked hopefully.
"I'm done. I don't know about Mark and Petey." He jerked his head towards the closet.
Irving nodded and with a gentle smile, he walked over to Dylan and squeezed his shoulder before sitting down.
Dylan opened up the new file, The Swan. Weird name, but okay. "Hey, I bet you a caricature portrait that I can finish my new file before you can." Irving had been working on his current file for five weeks already, but he worked much slower than Dylan. And Dylan liked a challenge. And he felt like maybe Irving needed a distraction from the odd goings-on.
He opened the desk drawer and took out the portraits, his gaze lingering lovingly upon them.
"Dylan, why would I want a caricature portrait of you?" Irving didn't sound like he was trying to insult Dylan—he was more confused than anything else.
"I don't know. Because I'm sexy as hell and you like staring at my muscles?"
"This is not appropriate workplace badinage."
"Your mom isn't appropriate workplace badinage," Dylan mumbled.
Milchick strode through the endless hallways and into Cobel's office. "MDR is up to something."
Cobel practically rolled her eyes, "Shut it," she said, nodding her head towards the door. Milchick complied before he noticed that Graner was silently standing in the room. Creepy fucker.
"Seth, I'm already on it," she said dismissively before he could even open his mouth to explain what he meant. She turned back to her computer, which briefly displayed a screensaver that read "Hello Ms. Cobel". Milchick had always privately thought that such a screensaver was a bit too self-important and tacky. But being in a position of power changed a person, he supposed. He suspected he'd never really get to find out for himself. He was intensely ambitious and beyond excellent at his job, but he had to admit that Lumon's leadership wasn't exactly diverse.
Sometimes he wondered what Harmony had been like before this job. He couldn't really imagine it.
She woke up the computer and motioned him to stand behind her. Over her shoulder, he could see a recording taken from the camera in MDR. He could barely make out that Dylan's screen displayed the usual Kier animation. "I replayed the footage. Nothing usual, but I couldn't clearly make out what was on his screen." She sighed, "I don't know what could have possibly have gotten them in such a tizzy." She didn't take her eyes off the screen, but Milchick knew that she was addressing him and not Graner in this moment, "Keep an eye on them. And send Dylan to Wellness."
She paused. "Also, wait a few days and then send Mark to Wellness too," her ambiguously transatlantic accent drew out the sound of his name. Milchick got the distinct impression that she was trying to sound light and breezy. She usually did when she talked about Mark. Sometimes he wondered if she thought he didn't notice. Of course he had noted her strange tone whenever Mark came up.
"And Petey?" Milchick asked.
"Send him to the Break Room", her voice dripped with distain.
Graner finally spoke up, "You didn't find any evidence of wrongdoing, Harmony. Are you sure you want to do this?" It frustrated him that Doug seemed to be the only one who could openly challenge Harmony.
"Fine, fine. Do what you think is best." She switched to viewing the live footage of the MDR office and tapped her manicured nails on her desk in a rhythmic pattern. He found himself staring at it as well. Just what were they doing in that little closet? They really ought to bug that room.
"But wait until they've all come out of there," she added, "Let them think we don't know that they're up to something."
At Wellness, Dylan settled into the chair. "Hey, Ms. Casey. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He looked at her hopefully, wondering if she would finally admit her feelings for him.
Ms. Casey emotionlessly adjusted the volume on the calming music and then proceeded to explain: "You were observed to be under some stress after Cork Island was completed. While file completion should feel satisfying, even jubilating, it is not uncommon to feel some sadness after such a momentous event."
"Who said I was stre—"
She began to read from her sheet, cutting off his question, her face oddly placid, "—What I'd like to do is share with you some facts about your outie. Because your outie is an exemplary person, these facts should be very pleasing. Just relax your body and be open to the facts. Try to enjoy each equally. These facts are not to be shared outside this room. But for now, they're yours to enjoy."
Your outie loves doors.
Your outie reads about driving.
Your outie has donned a snorkel on occasion.
Your outie once partook in an Old West reenactment.
Your outie has supportive people in his life.
Your outie watches cartoons on a television.
Your outie enjoys fermenting grains.
Your outie is photogenic and has many photos of himself.
Your outie has a large closet to store his clothing.
Your outie makes people feel proud.
Your outie owns a vehicle that he uses to come to work.
Your outie is willing to try new things.
Your outie is a hero to children.
She smiled gently at him once she had finished. "That was very good, Dylan. You enjoyed each fact equally and have full marks." Dylan felt his heart soar. He had done good. She continued, "It is now 4:52pm, and you must go back to MDR. I trust you know the way?"
Dylan George sat in his car. He often felt fulfilled or excited after work ended. He wished he knew why. And he wished he felt like that in the life that he lived. He wondered if his innie ate up all of his dopamine and that's why he never felt any.
He sat in his car for awhile even though it had warmed up. His phone lit up, and he didn't need to look at it to know that it was Gretchen asking if he would be back soon because she needed to leave for her shift. He put the car into drive and made the long way out of the Lumon parking lot.
IV. Glasgow, 1988
Desmond found that there had, in fact, been very little wrong with Ruth.
He realized much later that perhaps he had been hoping something would be wrong. In the end, what was wrong was just that she wasn't his soulmate. Of course, he didn't believe in soulmates at the time. But he would, after he met Penny.
That said, before Ruth, Desmond had never realized just how easy it was to fall in love with someone just with words. Wyatt had taken to signing into the computer and walking away, grabbing drinks with other friends or catching up on homework, while Desmond sent messages with Ruth well into the night.
She lived about an hour train ride away, and yet they had found it difficult to find a time to meet up because one or the other was working during most hours of the day. And meeting in the late hours of the night meant probably staying the night. Ruth's family, whom she lived with, would never have approved. She said that she was also a bit hesitant to talk on the phone because the walls were thin at her house.
So, for that winter of 1988, they stuck to the BBS.
[Subject] important
[Date] 19.12.1988 21:03hey i think i love you. is that weird? don't tell me if it is weird. just tell me that you love me back.
-d
[Subject] re: important
[Date] 19.12.1988 23:49I do. Desperately. Let's finally meet. Tomorrow?
-r
When Desmond met Ruth at the train station, he felt his stomach drop when she seemed a bit standoffish. They went to a coffee shop, and while they sipped their too hot coffee, she explained the whole situation.
It had had been her best friend that he'd been messaging with. (A male friend, at that. Desmond didn't even begin unpack his feelings about that until 30 years later, when society had become more open-minded.) Callum had had good intentions—he was trying to set Ruth up with someone nice and wanted to vet the person first. But it all got out of hand.
She swore that she had been unaware of what was going on until the night prior, when Callum had explained everything and shoved a train ticket into her hands before running off in embarrassment.
Even though she was furious and didn't speak to Callum for a couple of years after, she had decided to go ahead and meet Desmond anyway. It was an odd thing; she knew next to nothing about him and Desmond knew so much about her from what Callum had told him. Callum had done a good job of approximating what she would have said, although there were times when Desmond referenced something that "Ruth" had said, and she had to explain how Callum had gotten it wrong. She patiently explained what she would have said if Desmond had actually been talking to her.
He was already in love. She fell for him quickly.
Glasgow, 1994
In the end, it was a message of sorts that pushed Desmond to break off his engagement with Ruth and seek solace in a remote monastery.
It was more complicated than what he would later tell Ruth, which was not a lie, but not the full truth either. He told her that had been wondering if getting married to her was the right decision while having a drink at the pub. He had blacked out, ended up on the street, and met a man who asked, "Can I help you, brother?" And he knew he was supposed to go with this man.
All true. His lack of any deep feelings about religion had often gotten him into trouble with Ruth (to a lesser extent) and her family (to a greater extent), and so he had hoped that she might be somewhat relieved or understanding about this new calling. She had not, which was, in retrospect, completely understandable. It stupid to imagine it might have been any other way.
But what he had not said was that before blacking out, he had felt unanchored in time. It sounded even more implausible than the rest of his story. It was years before he'd be able to understand what had happened and put words to the experience.
He had briefly been in a jungle, standing outside a concrete structure. He had been pointing a gun at the quiet man who asked him to answer the message.
And then he woke up.
V. The Island, 2004
Desmond lay in bed, half awake. He was replaying old conversations in his mind, wishing he had done right by Ruth, analyzing what the quiet man had said outside of the Swan door, wondering how his life with Penny could have been different, playing out conversations that he would have if he could just talk to someone, anyone.
He knew the time was running out, and lately he had been playing it a bit loose with the timing—getting up from bed at the last moment, almost as if he were playing a game with himself. But there was more to it than that. He hadn't trusted Kelvin—not really—and so Desmond had never counted on him for reminders to enter the numbers, or for Kelvin to wake him up for his shift. Over the years, he had developed his own systems for keeping his body in-check. But they were failing him as the days without Kelvin wore on.
Kelvin. He felt hope jolt him fully awake. He knew with a certainty what was happening; if he hadn't hallucinated all of this, then MDR must be the initials of Kelvin's replacement. Fuck. He probably didn't say the right thing when he sent the messages in the computer terminal. Maybe there was some codeword. Or maybe he should have just explicitly asked the person on the other end to come meet him at the Swan.
He got up, and he rushed to the computer. He excitedly typed the numbers again. He was determined to say the right thing this time so that he would get a response. As usual, the terminal and the counter reset after the numbers had been entered.
>: ▌
There were no special prompts this time.
He knew then that no one was coming. He saw his life playing out in his mind's eye.
All he had in his future was rinse and repeat. Again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and
In the Flame station, Mikhail radioed Ben. "It's finally happened. They've made contact."
The walkie crackled in response almost instantaneously. "What do you mean, Mikhail? Stop speaking in riddles," Ben snapped.
"Ben... the DHARMA Initiative..." His accent grew thicker under intense stress.
"Yes? What about it? Spit it out."
"The DHARMA Initiative still lives."
Notes:
Footnotes
[1] BBS stands for bulletin board service. BBSes were run on servers that allowed people to chat and exchange files. They were arguably a precursor to the modern World Wide Web. If you're like me and you're fascinated by histories of the Internet, I highly recommend checking out the game Digital: A Love Story by Christine Love, which simulates what it was like to use a BBS back in the 80's. (Note: The game is free. I do not know Christine Love personally, I just really like her games.) ^
Chapter 2: I and Mind
Summary:
Chapter 2: Ben thinks back to his childhood as he tries to remember how he's heard of Kier, PE; Irving B. has a foreboding dream; and Graner gets more questions than answers from Petey. Includes Ben flashbacks.
Notes:
I am truly sorry for using a quote from a real philosopher and... a quote from Ricken in the epigraph.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"Light, lighting, shadows, reflections, color, all these objects of [a painter’s] quest are not altogether real objects; like ghosts, they have only visual existence. [...] Everyone with eyes has at some time or other witnessed this play of shadows, or something like it, and has been made by it to see things and a space. But it worked in them without them; it hid to make the object visible. To see the object, it was necessary not to see the play of shadows and light around it. The visible in the profane sense forgets its premises; it rests upon a total visibility which is to be recreated and which liberates the phantoms captive in it."
—Eye and Mind by Maurice Merleau-Ponty, 1961.
"[...] your relationship to this work is far more intimate and profound. You are its subject."
—The You You Are: A Spiritual Biography of You by Dr. Ricken Lazlo Hale, PhD, 2022.
I. The Island, 2004
After a long pause, the crackle of the radio came again. "Ben, did you hear me? The DHARMA Initiative still lives."
"Yes... Mikhail, I did hear you, but what you're saying doesn't make sense. The two men working in the warehouse in Guam—who, I'll remind you, are the last members of the Initiative—are trying to send us a message?" It went unsaid that his statement was not entirely accurate. But it was close enough to the truth.
"It's not them. Someone sent the numbers to the Swan computer. The message originated from someplace called Kier."
Kier. Something tickled the back of his mind. He had heard of Kier before, although at first he couldn't quite place it. Then the memories came flooding back.
"I'll radio you later, Mikhail. I need to make preparations."
Not unlike a few weeks prior when Flight 815 broke apart in the sky, Ben was in the position of making the hard calls about how to mobilize his people. And even worse, the last few hard calls he had had to make created even more complications, particularly with the people in the tail section of Flight 815, who had killed Goodwin. Although, he mused, that was not entirely unintentional. Goodwin was a sacrifice; Juliet needed to understand that he was a man that could not be denied.
But for this mission, he couldn't send just anyone. There was only one person he could truly trust to do it right: he was going to send Richard to Kier in his capacity as a representative of Mittelos Bioscience.
II. The Island, 1977
The portion of Ben's life spent with the DHARMA Initiative was a lonely one. As a child, he was not particularly well liked—he rarely spoke and seemed strangely somber; his peers assumed that there was something was wrong with him. He not so secretly felt like he connected with adults better than children his age, but even they found him a bit off-putting. The other children could be cruel, and so he usually kept to himself. With his father often drunk, he was left alone with books as his main company. He read the same ones over and over again—he suspected had probably read all of the books on the island at least once. Even the ones that really weren't for kids.
But he did have two friends: Annie and Richard (although perhaps "friend" was too strong of a word for Richard). However, Annie had recently moved off the island, and his meetings with Richard were brief and infrequent, focused on planning his eventual revenge and emancipation. So, when Annie moved away, he turned to a boy who moved to the island a few months prior. He was three years younger than Ben, and at 12 years old, that age gap felt very significant to Ben. But the boy was unusually serious for someone his age and intellectually curious, two qualities that Ben admired. Ben would later learn that the boy's home life was dysfunctional in similar ways to his, and he would wonder if that was why they had gotten along so well.
The boy, Irv, loved painting and had a real skill for it. He'd spend hours in the classroom painting after school, and Ben would sit with him, often in silence. Sometimes Irv would just talk at Ben, and he was content to listen. It seemed like Irv actually had smart things to say, unlike the rest of the children.
Over the course of those evenings, Ben learned that a few years prior, Irv's father came home from the Vietnam War. His position in the military had something to do with science, but Irv was never really sure what that meant. Classified. He told Ben that his father had found the DHARMA Initiative through an ad in the newspaper. The subtext that Ben picked up on (although he thought perhaps Irv was a little too little to understand) was that his father likely had PTSD and had been all too eager to start anew, hoping that he would benefit from a change in scenery. And so they came to the island and his father worked alongside Horace as a mathematician. (Ben was secretly a bit jealous. Maybe if his father had gotten a better job when they had arrived at the island, instead of "work man", he would be nicer. Ben decided he would not end up like him. He was determined to do something respectable until his plans came to fruition.)
Sometimes they'd talk about what they thought the DHARMA Initiative might be trying to do. Why were they all here? (Both of their fathers probably having mental health issues, notwithstanding.) They both felt like the island was special somehow; Dr. Chang had said as much in the welcome video. Irv's leading theory was that they were making a super weapon to end all wars. Ben said he thought they were creating teleporters, like on that show from when they were really little kids, Star Trek.
But that was a lie. Ever since he had seen his mother's ghost outside his window and followed her to the fence protecting the Barracks, he suspected that it had to do with bringing spirits back to life.
III. Kier, PE, 2022
Like every morning, Irving Bailiff hoped today Irving B. would get the message. He was sick of the bottomless pots of coffee, the endless painting. But the paintings helped him remember, and in turn, he hoped that Irving B. would understand what needed to be done. He left paint under his fingernails because nothing else would make it through the code detectors. He wished there was a way of knowing whether the message had been passed on or not. Sleep deprivation was getting to him. But he had sunk so much time and energy into this place. He had even practiced lucid dreaming for a year leading up to this, in the hopes that the skill would transfer to his innie. No, it was too late to turn back now.
Sometimes he wondered what kind of man he was in the inside.
Some days, like this one, he felt his innie haunting him like a specter. Was he similar? Curious? Artistic? Fearless? Anti-authority? He wondered what his innie might think of him for severing. Was he angry about it or grateful for existing? When all was done, would his innie understand why it had to be done? Why it could only have ever been him?
He—or Irving B., but ideally his own consciousness—had to get back to that dark hallway with the elevator and red light. He needed to know what had happened to the Initiative and how it was related to Lumon.
He took one last sip of coffee and scratched Radar's neck one last time, before leaving for work.
From across the street and around the corner, Doug Graner ceased his vigil. Once he was sure Irving was gone, he turned the ignition on and drove his nondescript vehicle away from the Leonora Lake housing development.
IV. Lumon, 2022
Irving B. primly adjusted the paper in his drawer so that all of the edges were perfectly aligned. He felt so tired and needed to do anything he could to stay awake.
"I'm gonna take a walk. Don't burn down the place while I'm gone," Petey said. He had been increasingly not been acting like himself. Whenever he left MDR to "take a walk", the other three refiners speculated about whether Petey was having some problems at home which had caused excessive nervous energy to stay in his body.
"I think we should do something nice for Petey," Mark suggested. "It seems like he's under a lot of stress."
"Something nice like finishing our files before they expire, you mean?" Dylan retorted before pushing up his glasses for the twentieth time today.
"Sure... yeah. That would be nice. But I was more thinking of a gift or a new Mr. Sticky Head skit or something like that," Mark suggested. It was obvious to Irving that he was just flattering Dylan by suggesting a Mr. Sticky Head skit.
He felt he had to speak up, "The handbook has more than a few things to say about gift giving, Mark."
"Yeah, Mark, fuck. Do you want to get us all in trouble?" Dylan did not actually sound particularly upset, and Irving knew that he liked the chance to gang up on Mark sometimes. It was too just easy. "I will, however, put together a skit." Irving noted that he sounded pleased. If Petey ever retired, Mark would make a fine department head.
Mark looked back and forth between Irving and Dylan before appearing to realize that neither would budge on this. "Okay, okay. Objection noted. Thank you, I guess...?" Mark's voice rose a little the end of the sentence.
The two continued bickering while Irving felt exhaustion hit him again like a blow to the side of the head.
He saw the black viscous fluid dripping slowly from the ceiling, pouring out of the vents in thick globs, starting to pool on the floor. He looked at his hands and realized with horror it was slowly seeping out from under his fingernails. His hands were resting on legs, and the liquid was starting to drench his pants.
Irving looked around wildly, hoping to see something that would give a sense of normalcy. Anything.
Everything was still. His fellow refiners were frozen in time. Time had stopped for everyone and everything but Irving and the fluid.
But then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was the clock on the wall. Except, when he looked at it, he realized that it had been replaced with a mechanical black and white five digit countdown timer. It beeped every second, which hurt Irving's head and filled him with a deep sense of foreboding. He knew that something catastrophic was going to happen when it reached zero.
He felt certain that his computer console could stop it. When he looked at the screen, he saw that the blue interface had been replaced with a green command line prompt.
>: ▌
He couldn't remember what needed to be done.
When the timer reached 000 00, the numbers disappeared. Now the timer flashed red and black hieroglyphs.
Translation: The Underworld
He felt a breath on his ear as someone whispered, "Save yourself from the Underworld".
And then he woke up.
He blinked rapidly, trying to reorient himself. It had felt so real. "Oh dear, it happened again. How long was I out this time?"
"Like 3 minutes?" Mark estimated.
He rubbed his head. It still hurt from the beeping. "And Petey isn't back yet?"
"Nope," Mark said in a funny voice, such that it sounded more like "neuwp." He normally reserved that voice for Petey.
"I'm sure he'll be back soon," Irving said in the most comforting tone he could manage while being groggy. "I wouldn't worry."
"The only thing we're worrying about is if you're going to drop dead from sleep deprivation, Irv." Dylan was oh so reassuring. Thank goodness Mr. Milchick had told them that death was impossible on the severed floor. "You should see if Mr. Milchick will talk to your outie about it," Dylan suggested.
"Yes, I think you're right, Dylan. Not about the death, but about the sleep. I'm sure Lumon has some salves that could help with that. Maybe Mr. Milchick can suggest that my outie use one of them."
After the other two resumed work, Irving pulled up his dividers before discreetly opening his tote and pulling out his copy of the handbook. He began to look through it to see if Kier ever said anything about the "Underworld". It seemed familiar somehow. Irving quietly gasped when he saw a passage he had never taken much notice of before. He found what he was looking for in section 4, page 8, lines 15-16, two-thirds of the way down the page. He read it silently:
15 And travel not ye, children of industry, unto the true Underworld, the eye and mind below.
16 Strike it from your memory; be content with your station: The cygnet can only turn into the swan if it does not stray from the herd.
Those 42 words seemed oddly familiar. He faintly remembered that he had heard the word "swan" recently, but he couldn't quite place the context.
Doug sighed and rolled his chair away from the monitors. Yet another refiner to wrangle. They were such trouble; Harmony and Seth really ought to tighten the leash. He left the Security Office and started off down the endless white hallways to find Petey, who was moving fast.
They had all been in charge of monitoring 1-2 refiners each; he had been allocated Irving Bailiff and Dylan George. Irving Bailiff was an weird guy to be sure, but he seemed nice enough. Kept to himself and hung out with his dog while suffering from insomnia. Admittedly, Doug wasn't as thorough as he could be; he didn't go into Irving's place to perform a full check. It didn't seem necessary, and it was risky, especially because he lived in a row house and his neighbors might notice Doug's actions.
Sometimes he wondered if they made a mistake with allocating Peter Kilmer to Milchick. The guy's innie was becoming stranger and stranger, and Harmony suspected something, although she wouldn't tell him, which annoyed Doug greatly. Regardless, Seth was too lenient with Petey/Peter—he was too soft on all of them.
This work was such a downgrade from his previous employment in the private military sector.
As he walked by the Perpetuity Wing he nearly ran into Burt and Felicia, who were pushing a cart of paintings. He brusquely acknowledged them and was prepared to move on before Burt turned to speak to him, which immediately put him on guard. Were they buying time for Petey to get away?
"Oh, hello Mr. Graner." Burt's old man warble strangely annoyed him. "We just finished switching out the paintings in the Perpetuity Wing. I do hope you'll come enjoy them sometime before we bring in the next cycle of paintings."
Doug nodded curtly. "Have you seen anyone from MDR?"
"Oh, yes, we saw a fellow in the Perpetuity Wing a few minutes ago, enjoying the new paintings," Felicia chimed in.
"We assumed he had permission. He's not in trouble, is he, Mr. Graner?" Burt asked.
Graner ignored the question and continued on into the depths of the Perpetuity Wing.
This whole situation made little sense to Doug—Petey K. was hardly a true believer in Kier; that had become clear when he sarcastically quoted the handbook at Harmony one day. And thus he would forever be on Harmony's shit list. So, why was he in the Perpetuity Wing?
He quickly passed by the Lumon Legacy of Joy—it always struck him as so odd to have a wall of black and white photos of mouths—and onto the hall of Eagans, which weirded him out even more. Sometimes he felt like the statues were watching him. Once, he even thought he saw one move, which was ridiculous, and yet...
Eventually he made it the Replica House.
It was dark inside. He could hear a noise a few rooms over and someone whispering in an alarmingly frenetic manner. He slowly made his way towards that voice, trying to keep his footsteps quiet even though it was impossible to stop the floorboards from creaking.
But he needn't have worried.
He found Petey in Kier's second bedroom, the door mostly open. His hair was wild and his eyes hollow. He was sitting on the floor, rummaging through a chest of drawers, muttering, "It has to be here... it has to be here..." All around him the floor was littered with items from the drawers.
Doug watched him for a minute from just inside the doorway. When it became clear that Petey was not going to notice him, he decided to use the voice he had once reserved for the beginning of interrogations in his prior work, before he would have to resort to stronger measures. He rarely used this voice with the innies; they usually weren't worth the effort of trying to put on a false front. But this was hardly a usual situation.
"Hey, Petey." He crouched down so he was closer to Petey. "What has to be here? Can I help you look?"
Petey barely acknowledged him and continued looking. His muttering changed and now he was repeating, "We're here because we're not all there..." But eventually Petey looked up and made eye contact with Doug. He noticed that Petey's nose was bleeding. With a blank expression, he said, "The key."
"What key, Petey?" Try as he might, he was unable to stop his voice from gaining a slight edge from frustration and anticipation.
"The one that unlocks the mind of the eye."
V. The Island, 1977
Ben and Irv trampled through the jungle towards the Swan station. Ever since what they referred to as The Incident had happened, people were nervous about going anywhere near the station. Radzinsky and his partner (whom Ben couldn't remember the name of—Clive maybe?) entered the numbers, and everyone else steered clear of it. The Incident had forever tainted it in their minds.
But Ben was not deterred. He eventually convinced Irv that they should see what really happened there. It might give them the answers they sought as to the purpose of the DHARMA Initiative.
"Hey, Ben, can we stop walking for a sec?" Irv asked hesitantly.
Irv seemed nervous. He briefly wondered if Irv knew his secret about Richard and the hostiles—but then dismissed the thought. There was no way he could know. Ben was so careful about covering his tracks.
Irv finally said, "My dad, he says... he says the work isn't what he thought it'd be." Ben nodded, his dad had said the same, except in angrier terms, when he had learned he was going to be a "work man".
"And he said it's not safe here," Irv continued, "Ever since you got shot by that hostile and The Incident happened, he's been looking for a way out. So... he wants to move. We're going to do it real soon."
"Oh," Ben croaked out after a moment. "Where are you going?"
"Someplace called Kier. It sounds pretty boring, way worse than here, but there's a company there that he says he thinks he could work at. I guess the DHARMA Initiative has some connections."
"Oh," Ben said again, numbly. And then: "If that's the case, then let's make this outing count. It might be our last. Let's get some answers." He hoped he didn't sound too dejected. He should've known this friendship wouldn't last.
Eventually, they came to the main entrance door to the Swan and knocked on it until Radzinsky came out with a rifle. "Oh, it's you two," he said, almost sounding disappointed, "What do you want?"
"Um, well... we got lost and it's kinda wet outside. Can we come inside to dry off? We won't stay long," Ben said.
Radzinsky sighed. "Come on in, kids. Just don't touch anything. This isn't a playground." He let them through the door and then closed it behind them. And then he walked them to the living area, where he plopped down in a chair, picked up a book that was splayed open on a side table, and started reading, ignoring Ben and Irv entirely.
The station was so much bigger than Ben expected. They wandered around for awhile, feeling intrigued but no closer to answers than they had been before.
Eventually Radzinsky seemed bored of his book. "Hey, wanna see something really bitchen?" He triggered the lockdown sequence before they could respond. The blast doors came down suddenly and loudly. They were trapped in here. Ben tried not to panic. Black lights switched on and Ben was shocked to see that there was writing on one of the blast doors. It looked like Radzinsky (or the other one—Clive?) had covered the door in a bunch of Latin written in cursive and a partial map of the DHARMA stations.
"We trigger lockdown for fun sometimes," Radzinsky said with a shrug, "It's something to pass the time." Ben wondered what being in isolation in the Swan did to a person.
"What... what does it say?" Irv asked.
"Well, this one," Radzinsky pointed to the quote Liberate te ex inferis, "means 'Save yourself from the Underworld'." And then added, "It's kind of an inside joke." His explanation sounded like a lie, but Ben didn't push him on it. He was starting to feel alarmed by Radzinsky's erratic countenance.
He moved around to point to other quotes and translated them in turn before finishing with, "Aegrescit medendo means 'The disease worsens with the treatment'."
"Let me guess, another inside joke?" Ben asked drolly—by this time the panic had started to fade.
"No. This one references another station. A secret station."
Ben was disquieted by those words. Radzinsky had been getting worked up throughout this whole conversation but now looked utterly deranged.
"It's in Kier," Radzinsky explained. Ben felt a shiver go through him and a fear that he could not quite name for Irv and his family.
And then the blast doors came up as startlingly as they had come down a few moments ago. Ben flinched at the noise.
Shaken by this strange exchange, they excused themselves and ran back towards the Barracks as quickly as their legs could carry them, eager to get away from the Swan.
Ben vowed he would never go back.
The next day, Ben stood near the dock to the submarine and tried not to cry as Irv left the island forever with his parents. His dad would be so mad if he saw Ben cry. As Irv approached the dock, Ben pulled a letter out of his back pocket, and shoved it in Irv's hands.
The letter had gone through a few drafts; Ben had struggled to decide what he could and should say to Irv. He ended up crossing out sentence after sentence before coming to a version he was happy with. Ben had grabbed some more paper to write his very final version (without anything crossed out), but before he could start writing, his dad had told him (not unkindly, for once) that he had to leave immediately if he wanted to say goodbye to his friend. So, Ben brought Irv one of his earlier attempts at writing the letter, scribbles and all. "Don't open it until you're at your new home," he whispered.
![A handwritten letter on lined paper, which reads: Dear Irv, Thank you for being the best friend I've [crossed out text] ever had. I will miss you. [crossed out text]](https://images.squidge.org/images/2025/03/02/IMG_3936.png)
![The other side of the paper: [crossed out text] I just felt you should know how special you are. Your friend, Ben](https://images.squidge.org/images/2025/03/02/IMG_3939.png)
Ben's letter to Irv.
Dear Irv,
Thank you for being the best friend I've
had hereever had. I will miss you.But it's good you left. One day, something bad is going to happen here. I didn't want to warn you because I was scared you'd stop me. But I would've let you live.I just felt you should know how special you are.
Your friend,
Ben
Notes:
Many thanks to the Severance Wiki and Lostpedia translations and general information. And thank you to the wikis for the images of the maps that I linked in the text.
The images of Ben's letter and the hieroglyphs are my own. I generated the image of the hieroglyphs by modifying this code.
Chapter 3: The Doorway Part 1: ...and the temporal seas shattered against the threshold of memory
Summary:
Chapter 3: Not long after the shipwreck of the Black Rock, Richard is given an impossible task; as Petey's reintegration sickness worsens, spacetime ceases to have meaning; and Milchick has to perform reconnaissance by way of basket delivery.
Notes:
I had hoped I wouldn't need to mess with the timeline for either show, but I had to slightly fudge the date of the Black Rock shipwreck for reasons that will become clear next chapter.
Song credits are in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Editor's note on historical accuracy
In the end, only Richard Alpert (also referred to as Ricardo and Richardus), Jacob, and the Man in Black would know that the archives had it wrong: the Black Rock had left the Canary Islands in 1864, not 1867. The "4" in the ledger had looked too similar to a 7 written with a strikethrough ("
7"). This mistake partially accounts for why Richard's role in Lumon's history is largely left out of the lore of Kier that was recorded in the handbook appendices. But also, its omission was strategic. It was better for almost everyone involved if that part of history was buried and forgotten.
I. The Island, 1864
Just a week after Ricardo had been rescued from the bowels of the Black Rock, his life had quickly fallen into a pattern. In the early mornings, he had taken to asking Jacob if anything needed to be done. Each day, Jacob would tell him "not yet", seemingly disinterested in speaking more. Afterward, he and Jacob would sometimes sit in silence together, but more often than not, Ricardo would return to the clearing where he had buried Isabella's cross and there he would pray. It was a tranquil place—this place that was just for him and Isabella. But he hated that her memory had to be buried far away from home, under the shade of unfamiliar trees.
It was disorienting, being in this foreign land with only one person to speak with, using a language that was not his own. Sometimes he would talk to Isabella, and he hoped that she could hear him. Hearing his mother tongue, even if just from his open lips, helped make him feel like he had some continuity in his life.
He carried his hurt in his body. So much grief and rage had burrowed holes into his marrow during his voyage on the Black Rock. Now that he had no distractions, he risked being devoured by them from the inside. He needed to begin to close them, but he was afraid of what could be put in the place of the emotions that had been hollowed out. (No, wait, that wasn't right. Not close them—he needed to reshape the geometry of his soul. That felt right to him.) But some days all he could do was cry and scream until his throat was raw.
At night, under the gaze of unimaginably vast stars—the night sky at the Canary Islands had seemed boundless, but this felt like it was approaching infinity—he would sleep on the ground near the exquisitely timeworn bench in the glade. But he knew he would soon need to make a shelter. After all, he had arrived during a storm, and he suspected it only was a matter of time before another battered the Island. And he needed to start eating. He needed to be drinking more water. He needed to do a lot of things, but it was so difficult to care when he had lost everything and everyone he had ever loved. Although, he reminded himself, his physical body didn't actually have needs anymore, did it? Eating, drinking, and sleep were more instinctual and comforting than anything else. But perhaps in time he would forget what it was like to have mortal hungers.
On this particular day, the eighth after his rescue, he woke up wondering if he had made a mistake by asking for the boon of immortality. The decision had made sense at the time; he had requested it as a loophole to avoid going to Hell—assuming this wasn't Hell already. But he wondered if this had been the only solution. If he ever was able to find a way to redeem himself—if he was repentant enough, and he was rescued or if a priest washed up on shore, maybe he could be absolved. And then he would have been able to join Isabella in Heaven. These scenarios were improbable, but not impossible.
So, had immortality been worth it? He would ask himself this question many times over the years, until one day, decades later, he just stopped wondering how things could have been different. It was too exhausting to keep wondering.
This morning he found Jacob sitting on a cliffside, his legs dangling over the ledge. He was throwing dark rocks into the waves below, seemingly entranced by their descent into the depths of the ocean. He watched the stones as though he needed to know that they would sink. Ricardo didn't want to be so close to the ledge, but he made himself sit down next to the man anyway. Jacob threw another rock before plainly stating, "Ricardo, I know you had wanted to go to the New World."
"Yes. I did." He was afraid of seeming ungrateful about his current circumstances and quickly added, "But I will be happy here. You have given me so mu—"
Jacob waved his hand slightly, which silenced Ricardo. "I need you to go there. To the United States. And you must leave today."
Ricardo started to protest—this was too much to ask of him after his horrific ordeal, both emotionally and physically—he feared he would not survive another multi-month voyage in his current state—although, he reminded himself that he was immortal… but then he started to think about what would happen if he was thrown overboard. Would he sink to the bottom of the sea and live there forever in the endless black, constantly feeling as though he were drowning?
Setting that horrible image aside, he also knew that there were logistical reasons that Jacob's command (perhaps request was a better word, but he intuited that command was the right word) didn't make sense—he could hardly captain or navigate a ship by himself. (He did not even know where this island was located.) If there even was a ship? The only one he knew of here was the Black Rock, which had been utterly broken apart.
It was impossible.
As if he could read Ricardo's thoughts, Jacob finally looked over at him and Ricardo tried not to shiver. It might be blasphemous to wonder, but he did wonder if Jacob was a god.
"Don't worry. It won't be such a long journey. There are... ways of shortening it."
Ricardo desperately wanted to understand what that meant, but he stayed silent and only let his eyes plead with Jacob, asking him silently not to make him do it.
"Once there, you'll travel to the wilderness, to a medium-sized waterfall near a cave," Jacob continued, "I'll draw up a map for you. There is a civil war, but you should be safe enough if you use common sense." He looked back to the water below, "You do know that your immortality doesn't prevent people from killing you, yes? It just prevents you from getting sick or dying."
Ricardo had actually not realized the conditions of his immortality until now. He now felt foolish for not asking Jacob at the time.
Jacob ignored Ricardo's surprise. Whether it was because he was gazing at the water or because he simply didn't care, Ricardo couldn't say. "Once there, you'll meet a man with the family name Eagan. You must convince him to come back with you no matter the cost. And if you are unable, then you must kill him. You must not fail."
He shook his head violently. "No, I cannot kill another man! I will not take a life on purpose." He suddenly felt very aware that Jacob was able to take his immortal life away from him at any moment. He still did not think he could do it, even if it damned him.
Any loyalty he did have towards this man was out of fear, not of love.
Jacob smiled grimly, "Tell me, would you kill a man if you knew it would prevent untold suffering? If his death would save the lives of countless others—possibly even the life of the world?"
When it became clear that Ricardo had no answer to his question, Jacob said, not without compassion, "I know what I am asking of you is difficult. I believe that in this man is the capacity for great good—he is even a candidate to take my place one day as protector. But he will only be committed to beneficence if he is removed from his current circumstances. People are capable of so much good when given the chance."
Ricardo nodded.
Jacob continued, as if he was giving a Socratic lecture, "But do you remember my allegory, about the wine and the cork? If this man continues on his path, he will try to remove the cork. What do you think will happen if he is successful?"
He could not pretend that he had not been willing to kill Jacob when he had believed that the man was the Devil. And so, he knew that he was not above killing a great evil. A thought then occurred to him: what if this Eagan man was possessed by a demon? And what if he had a chance of being exorcised if he was brought to the Island? Jacob was not a priest, true, but he seemed to possess numinous powers stemming from some long-forgotten mythology.
Still uneasy about this proposition, he tried a different tactic: "If this is so important... I do not know that I should go. Besides, I am still learning English. If this man does not speak Spanish then I will not have the right words to convince him."
"Your English will do well enough, and besides, I must stay here; I have to be here to protect the Island from him." Ricardo knew of whom he spoke of without clarification. "To keep him here, I have also had to imprison myself. There may come a time when I can leave, when I have people I trust to protect the Island in my absence. Maybe even you. But right now you are too susceptible to his influence. I cannot leave you alone on this island with him."
A moment later, as if on cue, Ricardo heard the now-familiar howling noise. The Man in Black walked out from the treeline and, to be heard over the noises of the breeze and the surf, he yelled, "You don't have to do what he says, you know."
Jacob stoically gazed at the man, seemingly unconcerned about stopping his advance. As he continued his approach, his black linen shirt rippled in the wind that roared near the cliff. When he got closer, Ricardo noticed that he had been restlessly moving a wine cork from hand to hand.
The Man in Black sat next to Ricardo, so that Ricardo was now in-between the two brothers. Sitting there on the cliff with the pair of them felt vulnerable and strangely intimate. Perhaps, in part, because it would be so easy to push him off the ledge. But also because he was caught in the middle of a war that had been raging for millennia.
"He's lying to you, you know. You're not safe. If you're captured, you'll be a prisoner forever. You really will be in eternal Hell then. And these people", the Man in Black practically spat the word out, "they're savages. The men in charge, they enslave and murder and steal land. They're just like the people who put you on the Black Rock. Who left you to die in the ship's hold. You can't trust them."
"And I suppose he can trust you, is that right?" Jacob asked calmly. "He knows what you are."
"He knows what I am?! You made me this way. " The Man in Black was seething now, but Jacob barely showed any acknowledgment of his twin's anger. Ricardo understood that this was a bit of theater that they didn't even know they were performing, both following a familiar script.
"And yet, brother, you choose time and time again to try to corrupt the people on this island. Richardus will prove you wrong. I know he will not be corrupted." He put a hand on Ricardo's shoulder. Ricardo didn't particularly care for being called Richardus, but it was not the time to say so. He wondered how many others Jacob had claimed were irreproachable.
His sanctimonious expression melted away as a thought seemed to occur to him. "Why would you want to prevent Richardus from bringing this man to the Island?" Jacob asked, although it was unclear whether he was expecting to Man in Black to answer.
"Perhaps I have his best interests at heart," the Man in Black said. Ricardo wondered if "he" referred to himself.
"Perhaps you are afraid that he will be my successor."
Ricardo felt increasingly uncomfortable as these men argued on either side of him. It seemed as though he was invisible to them. He imagined just walking away.
The Man in Black ignored Jacob's jab. He drew his lips into a frown and stared at Ricardo, "Well, what will it be Ricardo?" Apparently, he had not been forgotten, but now he wanted very much not to be seen.
Ricardo considered the two men. The man who had saved his life when he was about to die on the ship, and the man who had given him immortality. One was El Diablo, and the other was... he wasn't sure what manner of being Jacob was, but when faced with the choice between the Devil and any other option, one should always pick the other option.
"I... I will go to the New World."
He made the sign of the cross. God help him. He prayed that this man, Eagan, would come back to the Island with him. He did not know if he could bring himself to murder him.
The Man in Black stood up; he was either not willing to or, perhaps, unable to argue with Ricardo's decision. He looked down at Jacob, "I just want to leave. That's all. Why is that so unforgivable?" He threw the cork into the ocean. And with a deafening roar, he turned into a thick column of black smoke and disappeared into the forest.
II. Kier, PE, 2022
His memories were strewn out on the shore of a distant land—endlessly, slowly being washed away with each wave. The harder he tried to hold onto them, the deeper he had to wade into that turbulent ocean.
His head felt like it was coming apart. Perhaps shouldn't have taken his mood stabilizers while going through reintegration sickness. His skull felt strange. He imagined his cranial sutures tearing open. It was a level of pain Petey didn't know he could experience.
He pushed down the pain-induced nausea and made his eyes focus on the digital clock on his bedside table. 5:26 PM. June should be done with band practice by now. She'd be home soon.
He closed his eyes—and marveled at the stars behind his eyelids—and rubbed his forehead and then immediately stopped when he realized that was making the pain worse.
When he opened them, the glowing red numbers of the clock had morphed into a series of triangles pointing down, which didn't even make sense on a seven-segment LED display.
▼︎▼︎ : ▼︎▼︎
He closed his eyes again; the afterimage of the clock remained—it would not let him go so easily. After a few seconds (minutes? hours? no, hours were impossible) he warily opened his eyes.
▼︎▼︎▼︎ ▼︎▼︎
The red light and the elevator and the endless black
The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go [1]
D
O
W
N
T
O
W
N
Down goes the elevator
All seems well
But the car will never reach its destination true
'Cause that's when Mark S starts to say Achoo!
[2]
Oh no. He was becoming untethered in time again. He had always been afloat in the temporal seas.
He knew he would be caught one day. He would miss Mark when this was all over. He'd find Mark's outie, but it wouldn't be the same. He'd tell Mark about his "elevator allergy". How Petey knew Mark had been crying before work, even if Mark didn't know it himself. How Petey tried to relieve the hurt by making jokes with Mark, hoping that it helped his outie somehow.
As he sat on his creaky bed, he looked down at the floor, expecting to see the orange rug that he had purchased and put in their old living room, much to Nina's dismay. She wasn't wrong when she called it hideous. It was ugly, but he kind of liked it. (He got to keep it in the divorce. It was not contested.) Instead, he saw a wood floor that was covered in old-fashioned clothes and items with purposes that he could only guess at.
He heard a kind, low voice. "Can I help you look?"
The voice was a trick. Ignore Mr. Graner. Keep looking.
Look again.
The floor was now empty, sans his ugly rug and some discarded boxers and old socks.
No, not that. Look for the key.
He knelt and started rifling through his dresser drawers, taking everything out, removing the drawers from the dresser entirely and shaking them upside down, inspecting their joints to see if anything was hidden there, feeling the inside and outside of the back wall of the dresser. The feel of the slightly rough wood made his teeth hurt. But he persevered—he must find the key.
Who am I?
"Dad...?" He faintly heard June say through his phone, which was on top of a tangle of sheets on the bed. "Is this a butt dial again? I'm going to hang up if you don't say anything in the next five seconds. One... two..."
Where was June?
Who was June?
June—he remembered June. His daughter, his best friend.
Where are we?
He realized he must have called her. How strange he didn't remember actually doing it. He dove for his phone. "No, honey. I'm sorry, I'm here. It wasn't a butt dial, I just..." He rubbed his forehead and he tasted iron and he felt something wet in his stubble and oh god it was happening again. He put his fingers to his upper lip and felt that now familiar trickle of blood from his nose again.
(C4) Beets - Dried and Sliced
He removed the beets from the vending machine. They tasted sweet, but his throat soon became irritated. He didn't want to stop eating. He coughed some up.
Mark was sitting in his MDR chair in Petey's bedroom. He asked, "Petey, are you okay?"
He looked down at the bloody tissue he had coughed into.
"Okay. Um, why did you call me? Is everything okay?" She—June sounded so worried. It broke his heart a little to lie to her. If he died because of the reintegration, would she understand why he had to do it?
What was your mother's name?
What was her eye color?
Did you love her?
He couldn't remember his mother's eye color. How could he not remember the eye color of someone he had loved?
You're taking too long. Make an excuse.
"Yeah... everything's okay." He stumbled into the bathroom and gazed in the mirror. He looked like shit. "I was wondering if you'd be willing to stay at your mom's tonight? I'm not feeling too well, and I don't want to get you sick."
He held eye contact with himself. There were some truths he could only see in the mirror. He wanted to look away, but he forced himself to continue. Eventually, visual patterns emerged that hadn't been there a moment before. The woodgrain of the wall behind him was writhing ("whoosh"). His eyes fluttered, momentarily too overwhelmed, and when he opened them again, his face had distorted slightly ("ding"). He felt so sick to his stomach. He felt euphoric and scared and transcendent at the same time (the elevator doors opened).
The white walls of the lobby hurt his head. But he kept looking at them until he saw myodesopsias—floaters—which shone and flickered like fireflies. He didn't leave the elevator. The floodgates were open, but he was still trapped.
We used to wonder what kind of men we were on the outside, what choices we had made and why.
"Sure, I'll ask if I can stay with her. Are you alright though? You sound really off." Her words vibrated sound waves, light waves, orange. "Did they do something to you at work? They always send you home with those weird notes. What did the note say this time?"
Name a dam.
He remembered traveling to the Hoover Dam as a small child.
He remembered singing with his parents in the car.
He remembered singing with June.
He remembered naming her June.
What does MDR stand for?
He couldn’t remember. Next question, please.
What is something for which you feel shame?
He wished he had been a better father to June. He wished he'd spent more time with her. He wished he hadn’t gotten severed.
"All I can be is sorry, and that is all I am."
Still carrying the bloody blue washcloth he'd used to clean his face, he stumbled towards his bed. The blood had dried quickly; the washcloth crinkled in his hand.
He was holding a hand-drawn Eagan bingo sheet photocopied on azure paper. He had won.
Wax tears
Monocle
Monogrammed pen
Picture of child with rickets
A wall of black and white photos of rictus
The outline of his bed moved ever so slightly, like a line drawing in an animation that isn't quite smooth.
The bed had a rope around it and a sign: "Do not lie in Kier Eagan's bed".
He did it anyway.
Where were you born?
He was in every home he had ever lived in, simultaneously. He was in the home where his mother gave birth. He was in his crib, his childhood twin bed, his cramped dorm room bed, his bed with Nina, his bed here.
He was in all of those realities at once. And he was in the nexus where they collapsed—here, in this house, this room. Nothing might exist beyond this bed.
It was the only house he'd ever known
It was maybe the only house that existed
Maybe he should set the Replica House on fire
Maybe he had set it on fire
(He hadn't, but he wished he had.)
Some people might live here
Some people might love there
He was treading water, and tiring out quickly.
What month is it?
June, Gemini, Castor and Pollux
Prior to reintegration, he had been thinking of his innie like a ghost—his ghost. One that he could not quite ever see despite trying to catch it out of the corner of his eye. The corner of his mind. But that was all wrong. He was him and he was him. Not cut from the same cloth, they were the cloth, two sides separated by a thin, porous fabric. The stitches were coming undone, and the textile was unraveling.
What is your first memory?
It was his 5th birthday. He remembered going to work.
He has been haunted from the beginning. His father is playing catch with him. Milchick is rolling a ball towards him. "One thing about me..." he starts. But he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He was just born.
One thing about him is that he’s losing his fucking mind.
I used to think it would take a monster to put someone in a place like that office. Especially if the person was himself.
"Dad? Are you okay?" June's worried voice grounded him back to this reality.
The doorbell rang. It split his skull. Its urgency sobered him further. The world breathed and expanded beyond this sphere, beyond this bed and room.
The file was going to expire soon.
The fire was going to extinguish soon.
He wouldn't be in the running for a waffle party if he didn't finish what he had started.
"I have to go, honey. I need to finish this file. I'll call you later."
"What file? Dad, talk to m—"
He hung up and cleaned up the blood that was already crusting on his lip and stuffing up his nose. Birthing blood, lochia. It was horrifying and magnificent; through reintegration he had been reborn.
He walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
"I am thankful to have been caught, my fall cut short by those with wizened hands."
Milchick in the Break Room
Milchick at the door
Milchick in the Break Room
Milchick at the door
Milchick in the Break Room
Milchick
But we're not monsters. Not real ones.
Milchick took one hand off the basket of pineapples in order to adjust his tie. He waited a moment and then rang the doorbell again. Finally Petey opened the door. He tried not to look shocked at Petey's appearance. Graner had told him that Petey wasn't doing well, but he had thought Doug had been exaggerating. This man barely resembled the person he saw on the severed floor every workday or the man he had met during Petey's intake, before the severance procedure.
"Hi, Petey. May I come in?" With a smile, he gently thrust the basket into Petey's hands and stepped forward before Petey could respond.
"Um. Sure, Mr. Milch—... Seth." After some hesitation, Petey stepped aside only slightly to let Seth come through. Milchick had to shoulder his way in.
"Your innie told me he wasn't feeling well. He sounded so distraught to leave work early. He asked me if I would check up on you this evening. I hope you don't mind the intrusion in your domicile."
"Oh," Petey sounded slightly confused. "It's really not necessary."
"Nonsense. I'm sure your innie wouldn't mind me saying that he's my best friend at work, so it's especially important to me that you're okay."
Petey looked at him slightly quizzically, as if he was assessing whether Milchick was lying.
Petey eventually smiled weakly, "Thank you. I'm sure my innie appreciates it. But really, I'll be okay."
He wasn't sure where to take the conversation from here. Might as well lean into Petey's neuroses.
"Petey, if I may ask, what prompted you to become severed?" He knew all about his reasons—Petey had shared them during his intake, but he needed an excuse to stay, and he knew Petey would probably start ranting. It would give him time to look around.
Petey sighed, "Things were really rough after my ex... she was... my ex wife Nina left me. She got to have our daughter most of the time and she got the house, and I just got saddled with grief, debt, and child support. To be honest, I needed an escape." He noted that Petey seemed surprisingly lucid when talking about his family.
Milchick nodded, showing him some genuine sympathy. "That must have been very hard. I'm sure your daughter is proud of you for doing what needed to be done. Getting severed was brave." What he was saying didn't fully make sense, but he didn't need it to. He just needed Petey to keep talking.
"I don't think she really gets it. And I do kind of regret it sometimes. Getting severed as a way of coping, I mean—I don't regret getting divorced. Getting divorced was a great choice. A+. But I feel like I'm ready to deal with my grief, y'know?"
Milchick nodded, a little surprised that Petey would admit such a thing, and from the looks of it, Petey had surprised himself too. He continued to casually scan the room for the cassette that had gone missing from the Break Room recorder. Graner had led the session with Petey today, until he realized that Petey was too sick to continue, so if anyone had fucked up and lost it, it was probably Graner. But it could've been missing for a while and they hadn't noticed until now. Doug didn't usually run the sessions and he didn't fully have the procedure down, so there was hope that he had just misplaced the tape. But if it had been smuggled out, both he and Graner would be absolutely fucked: it contained a recording of Mark S. reading the Compunction Statement.
The place was trashed—empty pizza and take out boxes everywhere, some cans of beer and soda on the coffee table, and dirty clothes on the floor. He'd done checks of Petey's place while Petey was at work, and it'd always been messy, but this was some real bachelor pad shit. It was hard to tell where a cassette might be hiding. He might have to return here while Petey was out of the house in order to look.
Fuck it. He might as well just ask.
"I'm so glad you're feeling like you want to tackle that grief. That seems very healthy. I think your innie would agree. He's been..." he paused, trying to appear as though he was looking for the right words, "especially at ease recently, so I think whatever you're doing to process your grief is working."
He stood up, "I'll leave you to rest, but please don't hesitate to call if you need to take more time off of work. We at Lumon care so very much about your well-being." He started for the door before pretending to remember that he needed to ask a question, "Oh! Before I go, I wanted to ask: you didn't happen to bring a tape home, did you?"
"Did I?" Petey seemed confused by the question. It appeared Petey was also having trouble focusing his eyes on Milchick. The poor guy really was quite sick.
Petey eventually said, "No." He finally made eye contact. "But I hope you find what you're looking for."
Once Milchick left, Petey managed to make his brain work well enough to make the call to Reghabi. She picked up almost immediately.
"Hey, it's me. The reintegration sickness is getting much, much worse." His hand holding the phone was shaking a little.
"Are you alone right now?" came Reghabi's terse voice on the other end.
"I think so." Was he?
"You think so?"
"No. I mean, yes, I am alone. I asked June to stay with her mom tonight."
"Good. I'm coming over."
There was no room for argument with Reghabi—there never was—and yet he tried anyway. "Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe this was a mistake."
"No, no. We just need to tweak the procedure a little. It'll be fine. I know what to do." Not for the first time, he wondered how she could possibly know that to be true.
"I think I stole a tape. I don't know where I put it. But Mr. Milchick was here."
"Stop. Stop. Stop talking." He flinched. It was the tone Nina used with him sometimes while they were still together.
And then she said a bit more gently, "We shouldn't be talking about this on the phone. I'll see you soon."
He started to reply to tell her to come another day—he needed to think it over—before realizing that she had already ended the call.
He had started bleeding again.
Notes:
Song lyric credits:
[1] Downtown by Petula Clark ^
[2] Elevator allergy song by Dan Erickson (official lyrics!) ^
Chapter 4: The Doorway Part 2: Jouissance
Summary:
Chapter 4: Richard has met Eagans twice in his life. Neither experience ended well.
Notes:
Major spoilers for Severance S02E04 - Woe's Hollow.
Content notice for drug use (ether), non-consensual exhibitionism (not described graphically or at length), and disturbing implications about Kier's eventual marriage to Imogene.
Credit for various fan theories that inspired aspects of this chapter are in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"We like to smoke pot
We like it a lot
Our small eyes are tearing for what we have not
The nice pipe is here
A lighter is near
I won't become freaked out, fear not, sister dear
We miss the blue sky
It is cold, we will cry
Our being mind is waning and we now know why
We want to feel warm
Yet outside the norm
We want to be a cradle: held and then to be reborn"
—Sister Sleep by Rasputina on Thanks for the Ether, 1996.
"I dreamt I was a beautiful boy
Sleeping in a womb of an animal
Clutching the umbilical cord
My body was the map of America
They blessed me with these beautiful hands and fingers
But my belly was a bag full of chemicals
So they decorated all of the walls with mirrors
Now everybody waits for the miracle"
—Jonah by Major Parkinson on A Night at the Library, 2020.
I. The forest that will eventually be known as Woe's Hollow, 1864
He emerged next to a pool that was fed by the medium-sized waterfall that Jacob had mentioned. The East wind roared and pelted specks of ice and snow onto his face. Leaving his hands exposed to the elements, he did his best to shield his eyes. This forest might have been beautiful if he could properly see it. The sunset cast what little he could see in golden light.
It would seem that he had arrived.
He walked as softly through the forest as possible. Although the snow crunched beneath his feet, it could barely be heard through the cacophony of the wind. He concentrated on his every movement, trying not to slip on icy patches, as walking on ice and snow was something he had never experienced before. At first, he had not even been positive that it was snow, but he'd read about snow in books and had some idea of what to expect. However, he hadn't anticipated that it would have a texture or that it would be so dazzling. The experience would have been exhilarating under any other circumstance. But as his feet began to tire and his muscles ached from trying to keep him upright, the novelty wore off and the forest that had once seemed (probably) beautiful began to look unending. When would he come across Eagan? Biting cold burned his face and he began to shiver uncontrollably, despite wearing a rabbit fur coat that Jacob had given him (and perhaps made himself).
Now that the sun was down and twilight was upon him, Ricardo could see the light of a fire peeking through the trees. As he came closer, he noticed a pale man in his early twenties who was sitting on a long log overgrown with moss. He had something around his neck and shoulders, a scarf perhaps, and he was roasting a small animal, possibly a hare. Beyond him was the entrance to a cave with a narrow opening that beckoned Ricardo towards its endless void.
Before entering the clearing, he called out, "Hello?"
The man looked up. He could see now that the brown scarf was actually a mustache and magnificent beard, which was heavily styled with wax to stretch almost to his shoulders. He had a sharp nose and piercing icy eyes. Despite Ricardo calling out in advance, he seemed startled by Ricardo's approach, and he drew a hunting knife that had been stabbed into the log beside him and stood.
Artistic rendering of Kier, later hung by Optics & Design.
"Who are you?"
Later, when Richard tried to remember the man's voice, he visualized crinkled paper and felt chalky residue on his hands. There was something about it that was as menacingly ancient as the waking rumble of an old god that was better left sleeping.
Ricardo held up his hands, "My name is Ricardo. I am a traveler in these parts, and I seem to be lost. Would you tell me your name, sir?"
"Dieter Eagan. Did my father send you? Do you work for one of the ether mills?"
Upon hearing the man's family name, Ricardo tried to hide the flicker of recognition that he knew wanted to grace his face. "I'm afraid not."
Nonetheless, Dieter looked at him a long while before asking, "Would you do me the honor of joining me, Ricardo?"
"Yes, of course. The honor is mine." Ricardo sat down on the log about a meter away from Dieter. The fire illuminated the lines of the other man's face, its shape appearing to shift ever so slightly with the flickering light.
"It is curious that you came across me in all of these woods."
"I was attracted by the light of your fire."
"Perhaps." It was clear that start of this conversation was tense. It was not ideal. Dieter asked, "Where did you hail from?"
"I came from an island. It is a strange and lonely place, only inhabited by myself and two men, twins." And then he almost added, "One of them sent me here to find you" but decided that he would wait until he built rapport. Within moments of meeting Dieter, he had already shared much more information than he had planned on doing. But something about the man's gaze made him feel compelled to tell the truth in its entirety.
Dieter looked him over for a long time before asking, "Would you like some ether?" Ricardo had expected that the man would ask him follow-up questions about the Island; this was a strange non sequitur.
"In truth, I do not even know what ether is."
"It's a miracle."
As the wind started to let up, they talked long into the night. After awhile, Dieter returned to the subject of ether, which seemed to be his favorite topic of conversation. He told Ricardo all about the benefits of ether and about how it was best as a communal experience, how people held ether parties, in which one would sometimes imbibe or inhale ether. "But it could be used for so much more. I think we could use it to help people forget. It could help men who come back from war with irritable hearts.
"I was a doctor in the war. It was horrific. I saw the suffering that battle had wrought on an unimaginable scale, and it damaged my vigors to see such destruction and feel so powerless to do much more than staunch bleeding or amputate limbs. My father paid a commutation fee so that I could leave after the Battle of Cold Harbor, and since then I journeyed deep into the woods where you have somehow found me. My father was not pleased that I wanted to live like a pauper. But I needed to clear my head. I want to develop something that will help alleviate the suffering of the world, but I am just so tired. However, I think the ether has helped."
Ricardo nodded. The man was didactic and abstruse, but at its core, what he said made sense. Before Isabella had fallen ill and this nightmare had begun, he didn't know it was possible to be this exhausted on every level and still be alive. Granted, with his immortality he could push himself past the point of exhaustion. But he didn't want to. He desperately wanted to just give up. To go back to the bench and mourn. It was strange to think that the Island was somewhere he wanted to return to, but home was wherever Isabella was.
And yet, he had to continue on.
"And your father makes this ether?"
"Yes, it is manufactured for the purposes of anesthesia, and I used it during the war during surgeries. But I think my father's vision for its uses is too limited. During my time in the woods, I have had much time to think. And I have come to realize that we could use it to do work that is truly important without having to remember the pain. For all work that is important involves pain."
"I don't understand."
Dieter explained, "A few men could make ether to sell, and the other workers in the mill could inhale its sweet fumes while they work on things that are much more important. And when they leave the mill, they'll never remember the work that they did."
That sounded awful. He suppressed a shiver. "What kind of work would they do?"
Dieter waved off his question and provided a non-answer, "I believe that in every man's soul there are four components that I call the Four Tempers. They both reside within all of us and are real constructs walking around in the world. Few are lucky—or perhaps unlucky enough—to meet the Tempers' avatars. I am such an individual."
Ricardo didn't understand, nor did he want to.
The man contorted his face into a boyish grin—it looked unnatural on his face—and Ricardo realized that this was the first time he had seen the man smile. Dieter asked, "Would you like to meet Frolic?"
"What do you mean?"
"The parties I spoke of earlier are called "frolics". You are unlikely to actually meet the avatar of Frolic tonight. But you can partake of ether. And who knows, you may see Frolic yet. If you see a man in a jester's garb, Frolic will have judged you worthy."
He wanted to say "no", but he had to gain this man's trust.
He agreed.
"First, you must take cold water and use it to wash your mouth and then swallow more water—I have some cold water here in my canteen. It will prepare your mouth and stomach, for the ether will burn. After you consume the ether, you must drink yet more cold water. When you become experienced enough, you may be able to consume it without water, such as I." Ricardo didn't like the implication that he might do this more than once. "But for now, you must be very careful." Dieter's face grew stern again, "And you cannot get close to the fire or you may burn."
After that increasingly alarming description of the process and its risks, Ricardo really did not want to do it.
But he did anyway. Dieter did so as well.
At first it was like being drunk, but then he felt an intense euphoria beyond any he had ever felt. And before he knew it, the stars were sparkling brighter and the fire was mesmerizingly beautiful. And soon words were tumbling out of his mouth, mostly in English but sometimes in Spanish. Words even more outlandish than what he had said earlier about the occupants of the Island. Dieter was the first person he had ever spoken to about the Island, and his words sounded so absurd aloud, but he knew in his bones that this all was not just a terrible dream.
"I thought... I thought I saw my wife when the ship wrecked. But there was a man, possibly El Diablo, who could take the form of ghosts. He tricked me. The other man on the Island, his twin, told me of the great malice in the heart of the Man in Black and how he cannot be trusted." He smiled a little sheepishly, "I know this must sound strange."
After what felt like an impossibly long silence, the other man shook his head. "It does sound strange and yet, I find that I am compelled to believe you. I too have a twin, and our relationship is... complicated. He thinks I am foolish, but I know he is too cruel. And when my twin is present, I too have seen the spirits of the dead—the spirit of Dread, a skeletal crone who haunts me. Of the Four Tempers, I have only seen Dread and Frolic, but I know that I will encounter Woe and Malice one day. I believe that this man you speak of who can turn into the dead, he must be the avatar of Malice."
Ricardo asked hopefully, "Does that mean you want to come to the Island? If you want to meet him, you must come back with me. He is not permitted to leave."
Dieter shook his head. "No." It left no room for discussion, and Ricardo decided he would approach the topic again in the morning when sober.
"Tell me more of this island. Where is it?"
"I know not where the Island is. It has a statue of an Egyptian god, and yet I do not think it lies anywhere near Egypt. And this is the strangest thing: the Island can move through space. Maybe even time."
He was revealing too much, far too much, but perhaps, he hoped, this explanation would make the man intrigued enough to come with him.
Another pause.
"I see."
"You must think me a liar. I know this is very strange indeed."
"No, I am merely contemplating your words."
They sat like that for a long time, just staring together at the embers fading like dying stars.
"You should go to bed," Dieter eventually said, looking at Ricardo's exhausted features. "It must have been a long day to get here, even if your island can move through space. You should rest. I have a spare bedroll. I will stay here and keep watch for now."
Ricardo uneasily lay down. The fog of sleep enveloped him immediately.
He woke up briefly. The full moon shone on the snow, and the sweet fragrance of ether permeated the air. He heard Dieter talking (to himself?) and chuckling.
His eyes were drawn to movement near him. He found that he could not move, which happened to him sometimes upon waking. It was always alarming, and yet, unfortunately he had grown familiar with the feeling. He saw a figure move behind the trees. The shadow resolved into a bedraggled man wearing a necktie and a white shirt.
Ricardo blinked and the man was gone.
He groggily went back to sleep, sure that he had seen the demon that plagued his waking dreams. It looked different this time, but he was sure it could assume many forms.
He woke up again to see that the vial was discarded, now completely devoid of ether, and Dieter was in the bushes. At first he thought the man was urinating, but then he realized he was touching himself.
Ricardo sat up immediately. "Stop! What are you doing?" He averted his eyes.
Dieter did not respond, he simply unsteadily walked deeper into the forest.
Heart pounding, Ricardo did not know what to do. Was the man sleepwalking? But after a moment, it became clear that Dieter was awake; he was screaming as though he had been attacked. He saw Dieter emerge from wherever he had been, one eye bleeding, twigs and leaves in his hair. He ran in the direction of the waterfall while loudly weeping.
It was then that Ricardo knew he would not be able to convince Dieter to come with him. Nor did he want to. He refused to be stuck on the Island with this man. He took Dieter's hunting knife and quietly started walking in the direction that the man had run, uncertain whether he could make himself do what Jacob required of him. His behavior had been unseemly, but in this moment of fragility, he did not seem like a person who could be the great evil that Jacob had said he would become.
When the man was finally in view again, Ricardo hid behind a tree. Seemingly out of nowhere, a girl walked up to Dieter. She was perhaps eight years old and looked half frozen. Her white cloak and dress seemed woefully inadequate for the weather. "Are you Doctor Kier Eagan?" she asked. The man nodded. Kier? Who was Kier? She continued, "Your father has told me that you must come back. It is not safe for you out here. He said that you must abandon this childish folly in the woods. You must return."
He knew Jacob would be furious and might even revoke his immortality, but Ricardo could not live with the stain on his soul if he killed the man in front of a little girl.
"Yes. I will grow in the ways that Father requires." He looked up and made eye contact with Ricardo, who belatedly realized that he should have hid better. "And I know what I need to do it."
Ricardo ran.
Jacob did not talk to him for a year after he returned to the Island.
II. Lumon, 2004
And so, when Ben asked Richard to go to Kier, PE, it brought back the memories of the strange night so long ago.
Memory was a strange thing for Richard. When he really tried, he could access felt sense memories of times long passed, even though he couldn't remember the details. But, of all the strange things Jacob had asked him to do over the years, going to find Dieter—no, Kier?—was unforgettably the strangest. Over time, he had come to suspect that the man he had spoken to was indeed named Kier and not Dieter. But he could not figure out why the man would have lied about his name.
Jacob had told Richard never to tell another soul about his visit with Kier, and so he said nothing to Ben about his experience or knowledge of the man the place was named after.
He remembered Kier telling him about an ether mill that was roughly in the spot where he presently was. Now there was an absurdly huge parking lot, littered with a small fraction of cars given the number of spaces, next to an even more outrageously titanic office building. It was surprisingly beautiful. For a moment, he was, in a strange way, grateful to Ben for sending him here.
He entered the lobby. A giant front desk sat in a slightly recessed part of the floor, reminding him of the "conversation pits" that were a popular architectural feature in the 1960s and 1970s. He walked to the desk upon a beautiful green and yellow rug. A receptionist looked up when he approached, "Hello. Can I help you, sir?"
He shot her his most disarming smile. He knew what effect he could have on people, and he was not above using it to his advantage. Over the years he had become so very different from the broken man on the Black Rock. More jaded, yes, but also more confident.
He repeated the line that Ben had told him to say, "Yes, my name is Richard Alpert. I'm from Mittelos Bioscience. I believe Mr. Drummond is expecting me?"
Her eyes flickered to the calendar application pulled up on her computer. A few clicks. "Yes, I see you in his schedule. Please wait a moment while I call Mr. Drummond. He'll be down shortly."
While he waited, he continued to admire the decor. It was simple, but elegant. Mid-century.
Eventually, a bearded light-skinned man in an elegant dark suit greeted him. He was in his mid-thirties and tall, with a large frame. He immediately gave the impression that he was utterly humorless. And dangerous.
"Hello, Mr. Alpert," he said in a pleasant Icelandic accent. His voice was deep and sonorous.
"Please, call me Richard." They shook hands, his grip much more gentle than Richard had expected, given his impression of the man. He adjusted his to be the same.
The man did not offer his first name in exchange.
"Come, let us ascend."
Richard nodded and followed him to the stairs.
As they walked, he saw a giant stone relief of Kier. The man they had carved was much older than when Richard had met him and was portrayed with more conventionally styled facial hair, but he was still recognizable. He had never forgotten Kier's face. What did Kier mean to these people? What had happened after Richard ran from Kier in 1864?
They came to a conference room and sat down at a colossal table. There were floor to ceiling windows that gave a fantastic view of Kier, PE (which admittedly was not that exciting to look at, although the snow was beautiful. He noted that he could see that waterfall he had once visited off in the distance.) "Thank you so much for having me here. As you may know, Mittelos is interested in branching out into neuroscience, and we would like to partner with Lumon on—"
"Mr. Alpert, please." Mr. Drummond raised a hand. "We know why you are really here. And we've been waiting for this day for a long time, as we suspect you have as well. Please indulge us and wait a moment longer." Mr. Drummond got up and walked out of the room.
Lumon had been waiting for a long time? Richard had no idea what he was referring to. While he waited for Mr. Drummond to return, he racked his brain, trying to remember everything Kier had said to him. Around the time he was beginning to become slightly bored and started wondering if this was all an elaborate ruse, Mr. Drummond returned with a pallid man whose age Richard couldn't quite determine, but he was maybe in his early fifties. He carried himself like someone much older, someone dour and world-weary. However, when Richard stood up and offered his hand, the man shook it with surprising enthusiasm from someone with his countenance.
All three men sat down. In a slightly reedy voice, the new man said, "My name is Jame Eagan. I am the eighth CEO of this company." Everything about this man's affect was just a little off-putting in a way that Richard couldn't quite articulate to himself.
From the way that Mr. Drummond looked at Jame, he almost felt he was in the presence of a god. Or a man revered as one, to the point that he might as well be one. He reminded Richard a little of Jacob.
"I'll get down to business. After my sister Lenora died last year, I became CEO."
"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," Richard said.
Jame nodded slightly in thanks. "Before she died, she gave me access to all of Lumon's secrets, the things we don't put in our handbooks."
Richard had a sinking feeling.
Jame continued, "In the Fourth Appendix, the Grandfather wrote of a man with piercing dark eyes and lashes so thick he seemed preternaturally beautiful. He drew a picture of the man because he so wanted to commemorate their connection." Jame motioned for Mr. Drummond to take an old drawing out of a folder. He pushed it across the table towards Richard, his eyes never leaving Richard's face. "He looked just like you."
Kier's drawing of Richard.
It was undeniably a charcoal drawing of Richard in profile. It was a gorgeous drawing, and Jame was right, it did highlight his eyes and lashes. Kier was, it seemed, an accomplished artist in addition to a successful businessman. It was amazing that he had created this drawing after only meeting Richard briefly. "I concede that it does look like me, Mr. Eagan. It's a strange coincidence, yes, but I don't know anyth—"
Jame cut him off. "His name was Ricardo. Perhaps you are related. Or perhaps..." Jame trailed off, his intense gaze burrowing into Richard.
Richard tried not to panic. He had to get out of here. Something wasn't right with these people, with this meeting. He stood up, "I don't know if this is some kind of corporate mind game that you're playing, but I'm sorry, Mr. Eagan—it seems there was a misunderstanding about the purpose of this meeting. I apologize for wasting your time." He quickly gathered his notebook and printouts that were sitting on the table and placed them back in his briefcase. He started for the door, turning his back to the two men.
He paused once Jame spoke.
"Before you leave, Ricardo, you must tell us what you know of The Doorway." It was not a suggestion.
Somehow he could hear the capitalization in the man's question. "The Doorway?" He turned back slightly.
It almost sounded like the name of a station, but there was none by that name. And yet, he had heard rumors of a secret station that even he did not know the name of. Was it where the message to the Swan had come from? But if that was true, what had they been doing all of these years with The Doorway? What was its function?
Jame was clearly expecting some specific response, but Richard couldn't tell what it might be. As the moment stretched on, Jame's face grew red. When he didn't get whatever he was expecting, Jame snarled, "Insolent charlatan." Spittle hit Richard, and he resisted the urge to flinch.
He briefly considered explaining that "The Doorway" was a terribly vague phrase and he had no way of telling what Jame had been talking about. He resisted the impulse. Showing anger would do no good in this situation.
"I don't know what you're talking about, but I won't just stand here and be insulted. We are done here," Richard said with more confidence than he actually felt. He resumed walking towards the door, quicker this time, but not so quickly that he would appear afraid. The room was so very long—why had they made the room so damn long?
From behind him, he heard Mr. Drummond whispering to Jame, although he could not make out the words.
Even though Mr. Drummond had been speaking quietly, Jame spoke at a regular volume, possibly for Richard's benefit or possibly because he just didn't care if Richard overheard, "It's alright, Mr. Drummond. There is no harm in him knowing. He'll see soon enough. And perhaps he'll stay awhile."
He heard a chair move and Mr. Drummond's footsteps behind him, and Richard quickened his pace again. The Man in Black's warning from so long ago rose unbidden to the surface of his mind: "You are not safe. If you're captured, you'll be a prisoner forever."
And for the second time in his long life, Richard began to run from an Eagan.
Notes:
A major thank you to the Severance fan community. Much of this chapter was inspired by fan theories that were shared on Tumblr and Reddit, in particular, thanks to this post about the potential function of ether factories in Severance and this post about the whole Dieter and Kier situation. And thank you to various folks who pointed out that Cold Harbor was a battle!
I used a number of resources, primarily Strickland (1996), for information on drinking ether.
And lastly, many thanks to EvilReceptionistOfDoom for information, advice, and encouragement.
The "artistic rendering" of Kier was my edit of this portrait of Col. Percy Wyndham. And the "drawing" of Ricardo/Richard is my edit of a screenshot from Lost S06E09 - Ab Aeterno.
Chapter 5: Geometry of a Haunting
Summary:
Chapter 5: Juliet’s past is unearthed, Mark S. and Petey have a chat, and Mark Scout has a bad phone call and an unexpected visitor.
Notes:
Contains major spoilers for Severance S02E07 Chikhai Bardo and S02E08 Sweet Vitriol.
Content notice for gaslighting and verbal abuse (Juliet's flashback), a brief mention of past intimate partner violence (in reference to Juliet's ex-husband), and irresponsible drinking/alcoholism (Mark Scout's scene at the end of the chapter).
This chapter also includes mentions of research on fertility and on postpartum PTSD, as well as references to pregnancy (Devon's) and difficulties with fertility (Mark & Gemma).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"The severing of the connection between the spirit and the flesh begets ghosts—but what comes about when that connection is not quietly severed by death, but is instead shaped and consumed by desire and monstrosity?"
—Hauntings of Bodies, Selves, and Houses: A Comparative Reading of Three of Emily Carroll’s Short Horror Comic Stories by Eliza O’Donnell, 2020.
"I never shiver at the thought of a ghost, which is after all just like a person, just a little beyond a person, with thoughts and motives that are all too personal for my tastes."
—David Ward, I Am In Eskew episode 1.
I: Kier, PE, 2022
Harmony's every step clicked against the floor with purpose. She swept through the house with an efficiency of someone who was intimately familiar with its contents. Picture frames were straightened, a pen moved slightly to the left so it was next to some sticky notes, the wrinkles in work clothes were smoothed out, Gemma's crafts box was moved slightly closer to the stairs leading to the main floor where it would be more noticeable.
When she moved items in Mark's house, it wasn't that she was trying to fuck with him. (Well, it mostly wasn't that. She had to get her kicks where she could.) And it primarily wasn't out of kindness, although some part of her did want to help him. She loathed and loved him, which were always one and the same for her. No, these micro-adjustments to his abode were some of the subliminal signals that she had been sending him long before he even began at Lumon—it was this kind of messaging (but on a grander scale) that helped convince him that joining the company after Gemma's "death" was a good idea. And now, all this exhausting attention to detail and vigilance was ultimately in service of proving that reintegration was possible.
Fuck Jame for his sheer fucking hubris.
And Kier be thanked that when he stole her schematics, he didn't notice the backdoor she had left.
Lumon, 2022
The clack of the keyboard hurt his head, and the way the lights reflected off the white walls made everything far too bright. But Petey looked even worse than Mark S. felt, and he felt a pang of worry about whatever Petey's outie had been going through lately and how it was impacting his friend. Petey looked anemic, which only made the dark bags under his eyes even more obvious, and he was unshaved and disheveled in a way that reminded Mark of what he imagined a sad street dog might look like. He wished he could meet a dog—ideally one that was not sad. (Although if it was sad, maybe he could cheer it up?)
Mark never failed to make Petey laugh when he tried, and laughter was the best medicine, right? He felt like that was a thing people said, although he suspected that Lumon would frown upon such adages. Salves were the best medicine, according to Lumon.
He slid his chair away from the desk and strode into the closet, gathered some items, and then walked into the kitchenette. And after a few minutes, Mark emerged with a plate upon which rested something crudely made from food from the vending machine, parts of his lunch, and office supplies.
Like a child showing off the worst, most inappropriate arts and crafts project ever, he presented the plate to Petey. When Petey didn't look up right away, he said, "It's for you." He tried to stifle a laugh before the dam broke and boyish chortling spilled forth.
When Petey didn't respond, Mark stopped laughing and started to think he needed to explain what it was. But finally, Petey cracked a smile. "What? Are you calling me a dick?" he asked, deadpan. Mark stopped laughing, uncertain whether Petey was serious, but when he winked at Mark, he sent a relieved grin back.
"Hi kids, what's for dinner?" Irving strode in and hung up his coat before noticing what Mark was holding. "A phallus? Oh, for shame, Mark. That is so juvenile and inappropriate for the workplace."
Mark started to giggle again, "Yes, Dad." He shot a glance at Petey. Something about making eye contact made him laugher harder.
"And you shouldn't waste food or office supplies. You're an adult. Act like one," Irving admonished sharply.
"Technically, I'm only a couple of years old."
Irving sighed loudly and felt behind his monitor to flip the on switch before sinking into his seat.
When Petey took the ridiculous plate from Mark, the serious expression returned to sweep all signs of mirth from his face. He gently set the plate down on his desk and stood. "Hey, Mark. Let's take a walk together."
II: The Island, 2004
She refused to be defined by the men in her life, but oh how they tried, even after death.
She had recently become haunted. Sometimes it was by her own ex-husband, sometimes it was by her father, other times it was by Goodwin. She hadn't cried the first time Goodwin had visited her, but she had desperately wanted to.
She was also a skeptic. She rationalized that she had been mistaking her dreams for reality, but she couldn't deny that so many improbable things were true on this impossible island.
Tonight her ex-husband came to her. He was standing outside the window in her bedroom, wearing the same clothes he had on the day he died, but thankfully he was unbloodied and unbroken. The sight of him being hit by a bus always lingered in the back of her mind. Sometimes it bubbled up to her consciousness at the most inopportune times—when she was trying to sleep, in the shower, or walking around the Barracks—whenever her brain was too quiet.
She tried to ignore his specter and go back to sleep, pulling the white cotton covers over her head as if it could truly shield her from his stare, but somehow, she could feel his presence lingering. Eventually she lowered the sheet. At first, she had been scared of these visitations, but now she was mostly just annoyed. She looked at him. "Well, what do you want?"
She didn't think ghosts could speak, but she wasn't sure.
He merely smiled and pointed towards a point in the distance. His smug weasel face pissed her off; for the most part, she couldn't remember what she had ever seen in him. Her gaze followed the finger he pointed at the two people talking animatedly in front of Ben's house. Not her monkeys, not her circus. She angrily closed the drapes, but she didn't go back to bed. She needed to know he was gone. After a few minutes, fingers surprisingly steady, she opened the drapes an inch and looked through the small gap. In the interim, the ghost had stepped forward, and his face now so much closer to hers, his nose almost to the glass, and she was so grateful that there was a thin layer of glass separating them. His blue eyes fixed on the one eye that she had peeking through the crack in the curtains.
"Oh, fine!" She walked out of her bedroom and exasperatedly threw on a thin coat over her cotton pajamas and slipped into some worn sandals. She practically tiptoed her way out into the night and quietly shut her door behind her, every creak and moan of the hinges causing her some anxiety about whether one of the people conversing would look towards the noise and spot her. As far as she could tell from this distance, she was unnoticed.
The moisture in the air made the porch lights in the Barracks distort into brilliant halos. Feeling like she was in a Scooby-Doo cartoon, she cautiously crept towards the two men, trying to stay in shadow, avoiding the most exposed parts of the path weaving through the grass. This whole thing was ridiculous. The dew on the ground made her feet damp, and she was tired, and she just wanted a good night's sleep. But here she was: Juliet Burke, woman of medicine and science, following the directions of what may have been the ghost of a man she didn't even like.
She stopped walking once she could make out the words spoken in tense whispers, flattening herself against the side of Ben's house. As she had suspected, the two people talking were Ben and Richard.
"Do you understand what they might have done to me if they had caught me?" Richard hissed.
Ben ignored him. "Tell me more about The Doorway. What exactly did they say?"
"You're not listening. You never should have sent me there." She couldn't recall if she had ever heard Richard angry or scared before. He always seemed so collected, and it was alarming to see a more vulnerable side of him. The man was human after all. She didn't like it.
"Yes. Now, tell me about The Doorway."
Richard let out a sigh of frustration. "Lumon expected me to know about it. When I didn't, Jame got angry. But I think it must be the secret station on the blast door map." He paused and then added, "And I have reason to think that they may have been trying to capture me for a long time."
"Care to explain?"
"No. I don't."
"Suit yourself," Ben said resignedly.
"I'm going to go talk to Jacob. He should hear about it."
"Now?" Ben asked. Juliet didn't have her watch on, but it was probably about 2 AM.
"Yes. Goodnight."
She waited for the crunch of Richard's steps to recede and then she started to gingerly walk back towards her house.
"Juliet, I'm surprised to see you up at this hour," came Ben's wry voice behind her.
Well, fuck.
Miami, FL, 2000
During her residency, Juliet fell in love. She hadn't wanted to. After her MD/PhD program, she was burned out and was too busy for romance (somehow her schedule during her residency was even worse than it had been during her MD and PhD). But he was charming and made her feel like she was the center of his world, even though she was really a nobody back then. She was brilliant, maybe, but all of the residents were. She suspected that she was utterly forgettable, a quiet and mousey thing. But even though he was exceptionally busy, the established, hotshot doctor made time for her, as though she was someone special. He challenged her intellectually, debating her on topics in ways that felt stimulating (in more than one way), like he knew the latent potential in her that the others couldn't see. When she would think back later, a part of her still missed how he made her feel in those early days of the relationship.
She had known that he could be an extremely unpleasant person. She had heard rumors that didn't seem to match the man she had met, but eventually she began to understand why people had that perception of him. On occasion, he would blow up at people or make cruel jokes. But for a while, he never turned that side of his personality towards her. And on some level, even though she knew it was toxic, knowing that he was capable of such brutality made his attentiveness towards her feel even more endearing and romantic. Sure, the mask would slip sometimes, but she could always rationalize it.
Their romance had been frowned upon, but he was not her direct attending, and so no one publicly objected too much. Besides, his reputation also made people afraid to voice their opinions. She just felt their stares sometimes in the hallways. As their relationship progressed from hookups to dating to engagement to marriage, it became harder and harder for her to make friends at work or find research collaborators.
She had been so busy during her residency and wedding planning that she hadn't noticed that he was cheating on her. A lot.
Eventually, she started to suspect. But even that could be explained away. She was too jealous. Too insecure. It was a problem with her.
No, what broke the camel's back was his view on severance.
After a very long, very emotionally trying shift at the hospital, she came home in the wee hours of the morning and practically collapsed into bed. Still asleep, Edmund wrapped himself around her and sighed contently against her neck. She quickly joined him in slumber.
She was alarmed when she was awoken a few hours later by the noise of Edmund rummaging around in the room. "Is everything okay?" she asked groggily.
Edmund was partially dressed in a button down shirt and boxers. He didn't apologize for waking her. "You know the big grant I submitted? I just got the notification: they're going to fund me."
She blinked rapidly. "You mean... our research?" The grant hadn't been on her main research interest, but it didn't mean she didn't have any ownership over the project. They had written the grant together.
"Yes, our research. That's what I meant. The Eagan Foundation just offered me—us—a ton of money. We'll have to spend time on their research, of course, but think of what we could do with the rest of our time."
Could she use some of these funds for her fertility research and help her sister conceive? She sat all the way up. "Edmund, that's fantastic! What are their terms?"
"They're asking us to spend some of our time researching a new procedure. It's passed most clinical trials. Now they need to see how it impacts pregnancy."
"What is the procedure?"
"It's called splitting or something like that. It's a surgical method of segmenting consciousness, so a parent doesn't have to remember the trauma of giving birth. I think it could be a real game changer for postpartum PTSD." She had a faint memory of hearing something about this procedure in the news, but the way it had been discussed was not at all like how Edmund was describing it. The technology had some alarming implications.
Still, she didn't feel like she could say any of that outright. She tried a different tact that she hoped would let him come to the same conclusions she had already formed. Better to let him think it was his own idea. "So, it's like being knocked out? We can do that without the risks associated with brain surgery. It sounds extreme."
"The risks are minimal. Do you want to prevent postpartum PTSD or not? Do you know how many lives this could change?"
"Yes, but surely—"
"Then I don't understand why you're not getting this. I don't know how much clearer I need to be."
"You don't need to be an ass about it." Normally she would never be so bold, and that certainly wasn't the tact that she had planned on taking, but she felt sleep deprivation always brought out the worst in her. She'd probably be embarrassed about this conversation the next day.
"Why can't you just be happy for me?"
"For us?"
"Yeah. That's what I said."
Had he? "But this isn't the research we proposed."
"Actually, I reworked parts of the grant application," he said nonchalantly, as if it didn't have major implications for her career.
"What parts? I wish you had talked to me first."
"I'm the PI. I make the decisions." It was true, but she thought that it was mostly in name only. She regretted not insisting on being co-PIs.
He continued, "Changing the framing was the only way we could make our research competitive for funding. And I'll ask again, do you want to prevent postpartum PTSD or not?"
So, the mask was slipping now.
"But from everything I've heard about this procedure, it sounds like you could risk creating..." She gestured in frustration at not being as articulate as she would have liked in this moment. "I don't know... creating slaves." She had hoped to eventually lead him to this conclusion, but fuck it. It was too important to dance around.
"That's hyperbolic and unscientific. You're just parroting what you've heard in the bleeding-heart liberal news. It's not like the segmented consciousness is a real person. If there's a difficult birth, why subject a real person to it?" He angrily put on his pants. She hadn't thought it was possible to convey fury through the act of putting on pants, but Edmund made it work. He continued, "So, I really don't care what you think. I'm going to accept their money. Are you going to work on it with me or not?"
But what did it mean to be a "real" person? Edmund refused to acknowledge that this technology raised ethical, spiritual, and ontological questions that required care and nuance to answer. "I just think—"
He stopped midway through putting on pants. "You 'just think'. No, you don't think. You wouldn't have your job if it wasn't for me, but sure, just fuck me over like this. Jump ship. I'm sure you'll be able to join some other research group. You've had so many collaborators already," he said sarcastically.
She felt tears start to well up, and she cursed herself for showing weakness in front of this man. She could see now that he had stripped away all agency from her throughout the entirety of their relationship. And it was too late to start over. But she might have to try anyway. This wasn't sustainable.
It seemed he also had the realization that he had gone too far this time. His voice softened, "Listen, I'm going to forward the acceptance email to you. You'll see, it's really not what you think. And I think they said something about fertility research, so you'll probably get what you want too. Just... keep an open mind."
She silently nodded, knowing that if she spoke she finally would burst out crying. Or she'd start screaming at him. Or both.
Now fully dressed, he grabbed his satchel and pager, which were resting on a chair near the bedroom door. "You really should be grateful that I changed the application." He didn't say it like it was an admonishment, just a statement of fact. "I need to go in, but we'll talk about this later." He made like he was going to kiss her on the forehead and when she shrunk back slightly, it seemed that he thought better of it.
"I thought your shift didn't start for a few more hours," she said, not trying to hide the suspicion in her voice.
"Schedule changed."
Letter sent to Dr. Edmund Burke from the Eagan Foundation at Lumon.
April 4, 2000
Dear Dr. Edmund Burke,
Congratulations. After carefully reviewing your grant application #8401 "Selective Amnesia for Parturition: Novel Techniques for Reducing the Likelihood of Postpartum PTSD", we are jubilant to inform you that we have approved your application for funding.
In addition, we are opening a fertility clinic in Ganz, PE, and we would appreciate the opportunity to consult with your team on its development; however, acceptance of this grant is not contingent on providing this service.
Included with this letter is paperwork with information about the budget and requirements of this grant. Please note that acceptance of this grant requires you to spend 50% of your time on the Severance Project. Documentation of the goals of the Severance Project and your expected outputs are enclosed. If this offer is accepted, schematics and additional details will be shared.
Please respond by April 20, 2000 to accept or decline this offer. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to reach out.
The blade of thought casts the light,
Loren Colt
LOREN COLT
PROGRAM OFFICER
EAGAN FOUNDATION
LUMON INDUSTRIES
The Island, 2004
"How much did you overhear?" Ben asked. His pale eyes were fixed on her, sparkling with an emotion she couldn't name.
"Oh, Ben. Hello," she said in her best attempt to sound breezy. She didn't think denial would work, but she had to try.
"Juliet. I'm disappointed. That's not going to work on me." He continued to stare, inviting her to fess up. When she didn’t, he added, "It's obvious that you were listening in."
"Okay, yes, but... I really didn't understand what I heard, so let's just drop it, okay?"
He smirked. "I don't think that's true. You're a smart woman, brilliant even. And besides, I thought you'd know something about it, given your connections to Lumon and all."
"What?"
"Your connections. You know, that funding you accepted."
She had tried to bury the memories of this grant (and the fight that spanned multiple days afterwards, culminating in her moving out temporarily for the first time), but she could not stop Ben from resurrecting her past. She sighed and found herself smoothing her hair out of nervous habit. "My ex was the PI. I don't know much about Lumon."
He raised his eyebrows. "Your ex who was hit by a bus?"
"That's the one," she said with a tight smile. "Is there a point to the line of questioning?"
"Well, I can't ask him about it, can I?"
"Guess not, unless you can time travel or raise the dead," she said curtly. "Goodnight, Ben."
"It's a pity that he didn't treat you better," Ben said, as though she had not just ended the conversation. "But karma has a way of coming for us all in the end."
"Excuse me?"
"He never should have hit you."
She winced slightly. She really didn't want to remember this either. "How do you know about that?" She had never talked to Ben about the details of her relationship with Edmund. It never even once occurred to her to open up to him. The only people she had ever told were her sister... and Harper. Shit.
"Have you been reading Harper's therapy notes?" She shouldn't have been so surprised. Of course, Harper tried to make her pay for her affair with Goodwin. She would be saddled with that emotional debt for the rest of her life, and it could never be paid off. Karma, indeed.
"Don't sound so surprised. It's my job to know everything about the people here. How else can I be an effective leader?" he asked innocently.
"You're disgusting, Ben."
"Well, be that as it may, I'm glad he got run over by a bus. He mistreated you. You deserve better." Well, she guessed that answered the question of whether the hit and run been a "mistake" or not. The whole thing made her feel sick, but in a way, it was a relief to finally have her suspicions confirmed.
"And I suppose "better" means you, right?"
"It could. If you wanted it to."
"Unless you have any specific questions or information that you'd like to share about this situation, I'm going back to bed."
"I don't yet, but I'll go to the Swan station at some point soon to learn more. I need to know what's going on."
"Okay, great. You should go."
"There is a chance I might not come back. You should have dinner with me before I leave. Just in case."
Was he serious? How did he not get it? She stared into his eyes for an uncomfortably long time, expecting him to show some sort of self-awareness or apology in his expression. He didn't. "Goodnight." She started walking away.
He called after her, "You ought to take this issue seriously. All of us are in danger from Lumon." It was possible he was trying to manipulate her, but on some level, she believed him. Or believed that he believed it. And that scared her too.
As she walked back to her home, this time on the path through the Barracks, she decided she needed to plan for if he did survive and come back. In the meantime, she was going to do some research. First, she needed to find her old laptop, which still had the schematics for the severance chip and the data from her research. And she might also need to arrange the capture of the neurosurgeon from Flight 815 sooner than expected. If she could win him over, he would be able to help her analyze the data.
For her first year on the Island, she had worried that she shouldn't have taken the laptop with her, or she should have wiped it clean first. But eventually she no longer feared being sued or having her medical license revoked. On some level she knew that she would never be allowed to come home.
Edmund's ghost didn't visit again.
III: Lumon, 2022
Petey led Mark down winding hallways that he had never seen before, lined with empty offices. Sometimes on his way to and from the elevator, Mark would make a wrong turn, even after all this time, even though these hallways were the only thing he'd ever known. And he would always wonder if he'd run into another department. He knew of Optics & Design. Although he had never met them, he saw their handiwork in the rotation of the paintings and design of new handbag totes, so he felt quite confident that they existed and weren't just figments of Dylan's imagination. (Although he was skeptical about some of the things Dylan said about the department.) And he knew of Ms. Casey and Wellness. Otherwise, he had no idea.
However, he had developed an above average (he assumed) sense of direction, and he knew that Petey was taking him somewhere he'd never been before. Petey walked swiftly and Mark struggled to keep up. He tried asking where they were going, but he didn't get an answer.
Finally, Petey led him into a room labeled "Team Building". His immediate impression was that the room seemed to be full of boxes—but before he could look around, Petey closed the door and gently pushed him underneath a table before sitting down cross-legged next to Mark.
Mark felt something unnamed stir in him. Had they ever been so close before? "Petey, what's going on?" He felt slightly out of breath. Although they had been walking quickly, he hadn't felt breathless until this moment. Was his face doing anything weird? Oh god, it probably was. He tried to control his facial movements, which just made it worse.
Petey scooted even closer. Petey leaned over to whisper in Mark's ear, and his breath smelled like mint. Mark tried not to shiver. "I think this is my last day. Definitely my last week," Petey stated solemnly.
"What are you talking about? Did Ms. Cobel tell you that your outie is retiring? You're not that old..."
Petey looked at him strangely. Oh shit, maybe that joke was not going to land.
"Gee, thanks." But from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, Mark realized that Petey seemed to understand that he had been teasing. It wasn't a funny situation, but he didn't know what else to do but joke.
"I just mean that you... you could challenge it," he explained more seriously.
"No, it's not that. I'm sick, Mark. Really sick."
"The nosebleeds?" Petey had been getting them more and more often lately.
"Yeah, something like that."
"Maybe your outie will see some doctors and everything will be okay," he suggested hopefully.
Petey shook his head slightly. "I don't think this sickness is like that."
"But how can you know?" He started to feel irritated with Petey's fatalistic attitude. Why was it so easy for him to just give up? Didn't he care about the people he would be leaving behind?
"I just do."
Mark kept his eyes on the ground. He didn't want to hear this. But Petey touched his back gently, and he couldn't help but look back at the man. He tried to memorize every line of his face and the exact color of his eyes. "Listen, that's not why I brought you here. You need to look for a key for me, when I'm no longer here," Petey said.
"A key? You think you're about to die, and instead of worrying about that, you want me to look for a key?" If Petey died, he had no one else. Dylan and Irving were nice enough, but they didn't understand him like Petey. His world was going to feel so much smaller without Petey in it.
"Yeah, actually I do want you to worry about it. Because if you don't, all of this is for nothing."
"What is "this"?"
Petey shrugged in a non-answer.
"Is it a keycard? What does it go to?" Mark asked.
"I don't know, and I don't know. All I know is that it'll be obvious what it is. It has to do with something called the mind of the eye."
"Who told you that?" he asked suspiciously.
"I can't answer that." Petey maneuvered slightly as if he was going to get up but then seemed to think better of it. He sat back down fully again and scooted even closer. "But I also wanted to say... fuck. I don't really know how to explain it. We're so innocent in here. And I see how pure your... no, our emotions are in here. And I wish I could hold onto that a little longer. I wish we had more time together. It might've been different."
"I don't understand." A half-truth. Mark thought he probably did understand, but he didn't want to. Because if it was real... if it was real, then it would be so much the worse when it was taken away.
"I know," Petey said mournfully. "Listen, if I don't find you first, find me on the outside."
"There is no "outside" for us. You know that."
"Just... promise you'll do it."
"I promise."
IV: Kier, 2022
After work, he decided to pour himself a drink. And another. And another. Eventually Mark started to feel like he was losing his mind as he looked around his living room, now only lit by the sickly glow from the TV. The more he looked around, the more he was convinced that things had been moved ever so slightly since this morning. Was it the alcohol? No, it couldn't be; his vision was steady. He stared at the room with suspicion before dialing Devon, the only other person who had a key to his house. But then he looked at the clock on the wall. 10 PM. Shit, he didn't realize how late it was. But the phone was already ringing.
It stopped ringing.
Before Devon could say anything, he asked, "M'Lord, have you been moving things in my house? It's weird and not funny."
"Oh, Mark!" The voice on the other end sounded delighted to hear from him. "This is Ricken, you know, your brother-in-law."
"I know who you are." He sighed and poured another whiskey, a finger higher than the last glass, which was a finger higher than the previous one.
"Okay good, sometimes it seems like you forget. Devon is not able to answer the phone right now." Ricken's voice changed to a stage whisper, "She's in the bathroom. Pregnant women have to urinate a lot, you know."
"My sister peeing is not a mental image that I needed. Okay, well, sorry to bother you. I guess. I'll call back tomorrow."
"Wait, Mark, while I have you on the line, I wanted to talk to you about something."
"Rick, I don't—"
"—It's Ricken. I actually wanted to talk to you because—"
"—oh, this is going to be good—" Mark muttered under his breath.
"—I wanted to know whether you thought that for our non-food dinner party it was more meaningful to reflect on how we're giving up food and what that gets us, or whether it's best to just focus on whatever conversations might arise? Now, I think we should say that we should pause and reflect, but Rebeck says—"
"Who?"
"Rebeck. You know... Rebeck," Ricken said, as if that was sufficient explanation.
"I really don't."
"Well, she says—"
"This is what you wanted to talk to me about Ricken? Really?"
"No, I'm sorry." Wow, an apology for once.
"Listen, I don't want to talk to you." He took a sip. It tasted of vanilla and smoke, and it burned in the most pleasant way. "If I could help it, I would never talk to you again."
And then it all came pouring out, all the things he had been fighting to keep back for the two years since Gemma's death. He wasn't sure why today was the day—nothing had really happened today. But he felt a deep ache of loss that was somehow different in quality to the one that he usually felt. The two senses of loss layered and intersected with each other in ways that created an entirely new sensation that was exquisitely painful. He felt he had been choking on her ghost, but now the geometry of her haunting had changed. He wasn't just choking tonight; he was being garroted by his grief. "I don't know why my sister married you, let alone is having a baby with you; you will only be in my life because of Devon and Eleanor."
"That seems unnecessarily hurtful, Mark."
Good.
Ricken continued, "But I forgive you. I know that things have been difficult after Gemma's death." The sympathy dripping from his voice was nauseating.
"Fuck you. You don't get to say her name." He couldn't stand it when Ricken brought Gemma up.
Ricken seemed to ignore what he had said. "Honestly, I just wanted to know how you're doing. I worry about you, Mark, and when you called, I guess I wanted an excuse to make conversation because—"
"—okay, well we had a conversation—"
"—we used to be so much closer."
"Listen, I don't know how many times and how many ways I have to say this. I don't like you. I never liked you. But Gemma was the glue that made the four of us work."
Ricken continued to ignore him. "But how are you doing, Mark?"
Mark always hated that question and the tone that people asked it in, like they knew what was best for him, knew how he should be grieving. He laughed bitterly at it. "You're not my therapist."
"Do you still have a therapist?"
He didn't.
"I... this is unbelievable. I can't do this right now."
And then Ricken asked literally the worst question he possibly could. Was he being intentionally fucked with? "Do you ever feel jealous of what Devon and I have? With Eleanor coming soon, I mean. I know you and Gemma had difficulties in that area."
"You want to know, Ricken? You really want to know? No. No, I don't feel jealous. I feel pity because she has to grow up with you as a father."
"Mark, I—"
"No. I'm done. I just wanted to know if Devon had come over, and now you're trying to psychoanalyze me. I'm going to bed. Good night."
He wouldn't remember this in the morning, and Ricken would be too tactful, for once, to mention it.
"Oh, Mark. I'm coming over," she murmured, after listening to the wiretap.
She arrived at his doorstep around 11 PM dressed in her pajamas and Mrs. Selvig's flowy purple robe with her hair in braids. She had with her an edible arrangement hastily made from things in her fridge and some skewers. The food was slightly sad at this point, and it did not look terribly appetizing, but she hoped it might jostle Mark's memory of his "craft project" from this morning. (She certainly wasn't going to bring over a penis made of vegetables and office supplies. But she hoped a bouquet of food would do.) She had wine with her as well. It wasn't box wine inexpensive, but it was still cheap. It somehow felt appropriate for Mrs. Selvig.
When Mark answered the door, he didn't open it all the way. His face was in shadow, but she could make out that his eyes were bloodshot and he looked unsteady. "What are you doing here, Mrs. Selvig?" And when he seemed to realize how his tone must come across, he added, "Sorry, I meant, is everything alright?"
"Mark, I just had this feeling that something was wrong. You know, the women in my family are psychics. I felt there was something off in your aura, and when I saw the light from the TV, I assumed you were awake, and I knew I had to come over and check on you."
"Oh. Okay. Well... This has been a hard day. But I really don't want to talk about it. Thanks for your concern."
"I know you don't want to, but would it help? I brought some snacks and a bottle of wine. We could open it and chat. Has work been hard?"
"I'm severed, Mrs. Selvig, remember? I wouldn't know."
"Oh, right. Yes."
She knew he was trying to convey with his body language that she should leave. She stayed put, brightly smiling at him.
Eventually, Mark said, "Come on in, I guess."
As she entered and made her way to the kitchen, she noticed a whiskey bottle on the table. A substantial amount of whiskey had been drunk between when she had been at his house this morning and now. Oh, Mark. She put the wine and food on the kitchen counter.
"How's your family, Mark?"
"My family?"
"Your sister?"
"Oh. Right. She's due any day now."
"What an exciting time. Is this the first time you'll be an uncle?" She knew it was.
"It is."
"Mhm, that's nice."
Mark asked, "Do you have any children?" It surprised her that he wanted to know anything about Mrs. Selvig. It seemed like he usually wanted to just end conversations as quickly as possible.
"Oh, no. I always wanted to, though."
"Oh," he stared down at the glass of wine he had just poured himself. "We did too."
She patted his hand. "You'll be a wonderful uncle, Mark. My husband loved being an uncle. You get to spoil them and not reap any of the consequences." She threw her head back and laughed loudly in the unbridled, musical way that Mrs. Selvig always laughed. It was Mrs. Selvig's most endearing quality, she thought.
"Thanks." He looked slightly less miserable. "Maybe I can be a good influence. Eleanor will need it."
When she looked quizzically at him, he explained, "My brother-in-law is such an asshole." And then he seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Oh, pardon my language. But he pretends like he's so much better than everyone else and he thinks he has sage wisdom to dispense, but he doesn't know shit. She'll need someone to tell her how it is in the real world."
And what would Mark know of the "real world" these days? He spent his time either the severed floor or drunk. If she had been there as Harmony Cobel, she would've thrown the wine in his face. But she kept her composure.
"Oh my, he does sound frustrating. But sometimes people are like that because they're insecure. Maybe he wants your approval."
"I guess... I don't know. It doesn't make his behavior okay."
"That's true. It doesn't."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"Children deserve so much more than the world we've created," she said. She knew it better than most.
V. Lumon, 2022
She was born. To her left, the room's floor was hidden by sand and to her right was a jungle of potted plants. A large pool was past the sand; the walls next to it had been painted to resemble the ocean spreading out to the horizon. This room didn't smell like the sea though—it smelled strangely sterile. She spotted some speakers high up on the walls which were playing the roar of waves. The pool was still.
A man wearing swim trunks with a pattern of rubber ducks on them stood near, and when she looked at him, he looked back at her like he knew her. He scared her. He gave the impression of someone pretending to have kind eyes, who didn't know what it was to be truly kind.
She didn't know him. She didn't know anyone. She had never met another person.
"Welcome to the Island, my dear. Let's go for a swim."
Notes:
That wraps up this first arc of the story! I’m excited to return to what’s going on in the Swan. The next arc will take place during season 1 of Severance and season 2 of Lost.
Apologies to any medical researchers or medical practitioners out there reading this. I did my best, but I'm sure there's some glaring inaccuracies in the scene between Juliet and her ex-husband.
Many thanks to the Severance wiki's pages on design for the Lumon teardrop asset and information on the typography that allowed me to create the letter. The letter's header came from a post on Lumon's LinkedIn page.
Chapter 6: Transmission
Summary:
Chapter 6: In which messages are exchanged. (Featuring the return of the Swan/MDR communication!)
Notes:
This chapter takes place slightly before season 2 episode 17 "Lockdown" of Lost and around season 1 episode 6 "Hide and Seek" of Severance.
This chapter heavily uses CSS to render the terminal text. If you would prefer not to see it, you may want to use the "hide creator's style" button.
Content notice: This chapter references Helly's suicidality but does not go into detail.
Chapter Text
"We were finally quiet for a moment, as we looked up and thought about the signal being repeated from somewhere to somewhere across the ocean. [...]
"Specter of hardware. [...] Clear broadcasts on cold nights. Bits and protocols on air and wire. Machines sleeping in the dark. A voice calling CQ through electric snow."
—Life in code: a personal history of technology by Ellen Ullman, 2017.
In the following weeks, Petey K. left Lumon under suspicious circumstances, and Helly R. replaced him in MDR. Mark S. destroyed Petey's map and has since reconsidered his actions and begun to redraw it. Irving has been spending a lot of time with Burt G. Meanwhile, Dylan has been aggressively vetting Burt.
On the Island, the survivors of Flight 815 finally entered the Swan station and subsequently captured a man calling himself "Henry Gale", whom they believe to be lying about his identity. A small team has left the camp to investigate Henry's claims about how he arrived on the Island. Meanwhile, the survivors of Flight 815 have continued to enter the Numbers into the computer.
PART II
I. Santa Rosa, CA, 2001
The two men sat in bathrobes at a small table by themselves. Dave turned to Hurley, and in a hushed, uncharacteristically serious manner, he warned, "They're going to try to get you to do this experimental procedure. Don't do it."
Dave pointed to another table. Hurley didn't look up from the crossword he was attempting to work on (although it was difficult to ignore Dave). "Don't be like that lady over there," he said.
"Whatever, dude. Your advice has been consistently bad. I'm done listening to you," Hurley mumbled. He looked up and glared at Dave. "You're not even real."
"I'm not real? You really gotta stop listening to that 'doctor'. He's fucking with you, man. I'm real."
Hurley pretended not to hear him and went back to the crossword in front of him, and he started rapidly tapping the eraser of his pencil on the table. His anxiety was activated, which made it impossible to stay still.
"Hello?" Dave waved a hand in front of Hurley's face, and Hurley turned away.
"Asshole," Dave grumbled. He started snapping his fingers next to Hurley's ear. "Listen. Listen to me."
"What do you want?" Hurley finally turned back to him, anger blazing. A few people at the other tables looked over at Hurley.
Dave sighed dramatically. "I know I've occasionally given you some advice that didn't turn out so good. That's not my fault, though—Dr. Brooks fucks everything up. He's out to get me. But almost all of the time, I know what's best for you. But... if you believe that quack and decide you don't want to listen to me in the future, fine. I get it, although it's your funeral."
Then Dave leaned forward, showing a sincerity Hurley had never seen before. Dave said, "But listen to me right now. This is serious shit. Do not, I repeat, do not let them sever you."
II. The Island, 2004
CONTACT MDR? (Y/N)
>: ▌
He stared at the message on the screen. What the actual fuck. He pinched his arm.
It hurt.
He rubbed the screen to confirm that the letters were not made out of dust that had somehow been perfectly arranged. Never mind that the letters were green and slightly glowing. Dust could do that, right? Surely? Of course, he knew it couldn't, but he just wanted to believe for a second that this wasn't happening.
He removed his palm from the screen. Nope, the letters were still there. This was definitely happening.
"Hey, is anyone here?" Hurley yelled. "The computer is doing something weird!" He desperately looked around, even though he knew there was no one else in the Swan.
Well, except for one person.
From the armory-turned-jail-cell, Henry Gale weakly called out, "I'm here." His voice was muffled by the armory door, and it sounded as though he was straining to produce the volume needed for Hurley to hear him from where he sat in front of the Swan computer.
Nope, not gonna fall for this.
"No, I meant like... someone not you," Hurley yelled back.
"What's going on, Hurley?" There was now an edge of desperation to the man's voice. "Talk to me. Maybe I can help."
As bad as he felt about holding someone prisoner, Hurley was sick of the mind games that Henry had been playing ever since he had been captured.
"Dude, I'm not going to talk to you! Leave me alone!"
Silence.
He let out a sigh. Now that Henry had, for the moment, quieted down, Hurley considered his options, all of which were kind of bad: (1) he could go for it ("Y"), (2) reject it ("N"), (3) ignore the prompt, or (4) leave the Swan to find someone else to decide for him. Hurley strongly preferred the last option, but he had the inkling that the prompt might disappear if he waited too long. And what if accepting it would put them in touch with someone who could help them get off the Island? He couldn't risk losing this opportunity for rescue. How could he ever look any of the other survivors in the face again if he gave up an opportunity to be rescued?
He hesitantly typed "Y".
ESTABLISHING CONNECTION
PROGRESS: [##########] 100.00%
CONNECTION ESTABLISHEDACCEPT BAILIFF.PRG FILE TRANSFER? (Y/N)
>: ▌
Oh no, not another decision.
Breaking the silence, Henry called out again, "Hurley, what's going on?"
"Don't worry about it, dude," Hurley muttered distractedly while considering the new prompt before him.
Might as well go all-in on this questionable course of action. He closed his eyes and pressed "Y". After a moment, once the computer didn't blow up or whatever (he wasn't sure what he had expected exactly—bombs dropping? The ground opening up beneath him? Maybe he was on a hellmouth, like on Buffy?), he opened his eyes again.
FILE TRANSFER STARTED
PROGRESS: [ ] 00.00%SEND MESSAGE TO MDR
>: ▌
Who was MDR? MD was Michael Dawson, maybe. Although he didn't know what the "R" would stand for. Robot? Replica? Rocketman? No, that wouldn't make sense.
But sometimes he did feel like he was in a sci-fi story. So, robots weren't out of the question.
Raft-builder? Nah.
There were too many questions that couldn't be answered, unless he just said something to the person on the other end.
>: who r u▌
His mouth felt dry as he stared at the screen, waiting for a response. Any response. He was barely breathing. Fuck. How long was it going to take to get a response? Would he even get one?
Who are YOU?
>: u first
Helly R.
Now you.>: hurley
I don't know who you are.
Is this a loyalty test?
If it's a loyalty test you have to tell me.PROGRESS: [# ] 10.00%
>: are you one of the others?
What?
>: dude nvm u wouldnt tell me if u were >_<
>: sawyer is that you
>: r u just fucking with me▌
He couldn't imagine Sawyer was remotely tech-savvy, so it seemed unlikely. But he'd feel so embarrassed if he was being fucked with. Whomever he was speaking to was kinda rude, which did remind him of Sawyer... He quickly scanned the room, half expecting to see Sawyer crouching in the shadows with a laptop, the glow from the screen lighting up his face in a way that looked quite sinister in Hurley's imagination. And as imagination-Sawyer typed, he was giggling to himself like a naughty schoolchild pranking another kid. Imagination-Sawyer's hair fell over his eyes, and when he raised his head to look at Hurley, his DIY glasses shone from the light of the computer screen in a way that reminded Hurley of the shitty dad from Evangelion.
Thankfully, Sawyer was nowhere to be found.
He turned back to the computer. He was comfortable chatting because he had spent a lot of time on AOL chatrooms and made internet friends who he would then talk to over AIM. He even met a few in person. He just didn't tell his mom because she thought all people on the Internet were pedophiles, never mind that he was in his 20s and he was the one who could possibly be perceived as a pedophile.
(He did, however, make age-appropriate friends.)
Who is that?
Are you in management?
Can you LET ME OUT?>: i dont even know how to get out of where i am
Shit.
Are you also an innie?>: maybe
What the fuck does that mean?
>: well idk what u mean by an innie
>: do u mean my bellybuttonYou know, a severed person.
>: what▌
III. Lumon, 2022
When Mark had shown Helly the new map he was creating, he had also told her of the message that Dylan had received when he completed the Cork Island file.
Ever since that conversation, she'd been somewhat impatiently waiting for Dylan to finish his current file, wondering if the same thing would happen again.
This time, she wouldn't let the message go unanswered.
And when Dylan completed The Swan file a few minutes earlier, Helly had been standing behind Dylan (ostensibly to cheer him on, as she had been told they usually did whenever a file was completed) while watching a truly bizarre Kier-themed congratulations video. When she started to feel dizzy partway through the animation, she realized that she was unconsciously holding her breath. And then a message came up on screen, just like Mark had described happening last time.
She immediately leaned over Dylan, almost injuring him in her haste to take control of the keyboard before he had a chance to register what was happening.
After exchanging a few messages with this Hurley guy, she was now staring at the screen in half disbelief and half suspicion. He had claimed he didn't know about severance... which meant... she was making contact with the outside world?
Possibly. But it seemed suspicious. It was too convenient.
"I don't know about this," Dylan said, probably based on the same concerns.
"It might be a trick, but we have to try, right?" she asked.
"Whatever," Dylan grumbled before standing up. She gratefully took his chair; trying to type over his shoulder had been awkward. He stood behind her, reading over her shoulder, not so upset at this turn of events that he would walk away completely.
> Are you fucking with me right now?
dude no
> Bullshit.
> Help me trust you.
> Tell me something about yourself, Hurley.have u heard of oceanic flight 815
> What?
> Nowell shit
i thought itd be all over the news> We don't get news on the severed floor.
> What are you talking about?i still dont know what severed is
but
so long story short our plane crashed and we are stuck on an island
can u help rescue us
tell an authority or smth> Shit. I don't know if I can. I'm kind of isolated here. ▌
Initially, she had started to write something about the risks of telling her manager, but then she deleted it. Hurley didn't need to know about management, and she had no idea if their communication was monitored.
The mention of a flight made her think she truly was talking to someone on the outside. The story was kind of too random to have been made up to fuck with her.
Still didn't mean it wasn't a loyalty test, though. The powers that be could be toying with both of them.
It would be cruel to give both of them hope of a rescue, and cruelty was their specialty.
its ok
i have no idea where we are anywayz
but itd be good for my parents to know im alive> Sorry
> I'll do what I can
> I have to be careful, though.thx
> ▌
So, the guy claimed he had parents. Further evidence that he probably wasn't severed. Unless he was just utterly delusional. Severance had a way of driving a person mad. Helly rubbed the marks on her neck. She had taken to doing so whenever she was alone or feeling stressed, and then stopped when she remembered that Dylan was standing behind her.
It wasn't that Helly felt shame about trying to die by suicide. But she didn't want to draw attention to it either. She somehow knew that most people didn't understand how to talk about suicide. Except for Mark, who, surprisingly, had known exactly what to say during their journey through the hallways.
I know you don't wanna be here. But... I'm glad you are. And I'm sorry that this is the best I can do right now.
Mark was an alright guy.
> I guess we're just two trapped people who can't help each other.
> What is the island like?i dont know how to explain the island
theres like a smoke monster
and some people were trying to steal a pregnant lady
well shes not pregnant anymore
she had the baby i mean
oh and there was a polar bear
and theres a really old ship with explosives
also its tropical> Are you high right now?
no r u
> I'm going to take that as a "maybe". ▌
She crossed her arms on the desk and then faceplanted onto them. "Uuuuuugh," she groaned. She started gently hitting her forehead onto her arms and rocking back and forth slightly.
Dylan patted her upper back. She expected him to say something comforting, but instead he just said, "Yep. He's definitely high."
"They're never going to let me out, are they?"
oh also i have to keep entering numbers into a machine every 108 minutes or we will explode
or something like that
She took a deep breath before lifting her head again very slightly to stare at the screen. When she saw Hurley's messages, she muttered "what the..." and then hunched over the keyboard in excitement, pulse racing.
> What numbers?
4 8 15 16 23 42
> We just refined those numbers.
what do u mean by refined
> I'm a refiner.
> We sit in front of a computer, look at numbers and feel emotions when we see special numbers.
> The work is mysterious and important.
> Oh, that's me being sarcastic if that didn't come through in the writing.that sounds made up
> Yeah, that's what I've been saying! But I do it anyway.
> I wonder if the numbers connected us somehow? ▌
Maybe she was revealing too much, but also... fuck it.
It wasn't that she was too trusting; it was that nothing mattered.
IV. The Island, 2004
He had such a bad feeling about this. And of course, the message had shown up when he had been the one manning the Swan. Of course. The Numbers just wouldn't leave him alone. It was further proof of the curse.
>: idk
>: the numbers are evilEvil?
>: yeah
>: im not kidding
>: srslyUh huh.
Wait, how have you never heard of severance?>: it sounds vaguely familiar but idk
>: dont judge me dude
>: i dont watch a ton of news
>: what is itThey say that a person who's severed has their memory spatially dictated.
>: that's a lot of big words that dont mean anything together
>: who is theyPROGRESS: [##### ] 50.00%
Lumon.
>: oh i think ive heard of them
>: salves or smthYeah.
I just assumed everyone on the outside knew about severance.
Hurley's investment team had actually considered buying a lot of Lumon's shares, but he decided she didn't need to know about it.
Being rich was fucking weird. He hated telling people about it. It changed everything.
But back to the issue at hand. Was it weird that he didn't know about severance? Was this something everyone else knew about but him?
"Hey Henry, have you heard of severance?" he called out. Hurley really didn't want to talk to the man, but maybe he'd have some information. Whomever he was speaking with on the computer was pretty unhelpful and cryptic.
"Like when people get let go from their jobs?"
"Nah. It's... um... memory that is space... spatially... dictated. They don't remember what they did at work."
There was a slightly longer pause. "No, I don't know what that means. It sounds like this one Philip K. Dick story, though. Paycheck, I think."
Heh. Dick.
It really was like being in a sci-fi story. And with that, his brain latched onto an idea—a truly stupid, implausible idea—and refused to let it go. It was better than thinking about the curse, anyway.
>: nope i just asked around and no one here knows
>: it sounds like some scifi thing
>: WAIT
>: duuuuuuude
>: waitI'm waiting...
>: this is a weird question but
>: what year is it?I think it's the 2020s, but I don't know when exactly.
>: u think
Yeah, I'm not positive?
>: why
Because I'm severed... we went over this.
>: ok but
>: its def not 2004?No, it's definitely not.
Well, okay, they could be lying to me about the year, but I am pretty confident.PROGRESS: [###### ] 60.00%
>: DUUUUUUUUUDE I KNEW IT
>: I TIME TRAVELED FUCK YEAAAAAH :D▌
V. Lumon, 2022
She blinked in confusion. Was this guy for real? Surely, he was joking.
Right?
It was becoming clear that Hurley couldn't help them; they were going to have to save themselves.
> I don't think that could possibly be true...
> But you think it's 2004?yeah
> Huh.
i kinda suspected that i had time traveled but i thought it was into the past tho
like maybe we went to the 70s
because were in this weird hatch thing with a bunch of furniture and stuff from the 70s> What.
> I wouldn't assume it's definitely time traveling, though; there's probably a different explanation.dude don't shit on my parade
> Rain on your parade?
whatever
> I do think that either our communication can transcend time somehow or we're being lied to about what year it is.
> I guess the latter is more plausible.
> But if we're not in the same time period, it wouldn't make sense for you to alert the authorities for us.
> Unless you could get them to help prevent severance from ever being invented.
> But then none of us would exist. ▌
She really didn't care about whether she existed, but she wouldn't want to do that to her friends, who did seem like they wanted to be alive for some reason that she couldn't grasp.
Sure, she had things that made life more bearable—she was determined to work with Mark to figure out the secrets of this place and bring Lumon down—but that didn't take the pain away. It just gave her the ability to sometimes move the pain to the background of her mind.
She did so now and tried to think through what might be happening.
As she had said to Hurley, it was more logical to assume that they were being lied to about the timeline, but on some instinctual level, she suspected that the messages could time-travel.
And when she thought about it, she realized that management had never said what year it might be. The current decade was part of her innate knowledge, just like the existence of Delaware was.
So, maybe this was real.
It was a marvel if they were communicating across time. When she thought about speaking with echoes of the past, she felt some deep sadness that she couldn't explain. Maybe it was because the past didn't exist for her before this moment. She was, after all, a few weeks old. She hated that she would never know her childhood.
When she pushed aside the ache of nostalgia for a time before she existed, the more pragmatic part of her mind wondered if she could somehow use this maybe-time-transcending conversation to her advantage. Maybe Hurley could help her after all, although it wasn't clear how.
ok well if its the former then i have a lot to say about time paradoxes
but ill hold off on that
wdym by alert
alert them about what> Well, we're PRISONERS and being tortured.
shit
i dont think this computer is hooked up to the internet
i dont know how were talking or how i could talk to anyone else
i wouldve gotten us rescued if i had internet> Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but w ▌
Dylan grabbed the back of her chair and rolled it a few feet away from the desk so that he could stand over the keyboard.
"What the hell, Dylan?"
> HELLO THIS IS DYLAN G.
> I DO NOT NEED RESCUING
> Not that you could rescue us anyway
> We can never leave
> BUT JUST IN CASE THERE IS A WAY, I'M GOODhi who r u
> Dylan G., I already said so
> Who are YOU
> what is your last name?reyes
> You know what your last name is
> So you aren't severed
> Huh
> Reyes, that's a badass name
> I don't need rescuing, but I would like to know more about my life and how AWESOME I amlol
> No, seriously
> I would like to see pics of the muscle shows my outie probably doesdude i dont know anything about that
> Well SHIT
idk if i can help u bc im from the past
i guess im a time traveler
u might not even been born in the time when i am from> What the shit? You were serious about that theory? Are you crazy?
dont call me that
> ARE.
> YOU.
> CRAZY. ▌
Dylan had been speaking out loud as he slowly typed, and he was almost yelling now. He slapped his hands on the desk once he was done typing.
DONT
CALL
ME
THAT >:(
im gonna go> ▌
"Seriously! What the hell!" Helly shoved him out of the way so she could take her place before the keyboard again. "You went too far."
Dylan angrily grumbled something and then pulled Irving's chair over so that they could sit side by side.
"Will you promise to stop harassing Hurley?" she asked.
"Yeah, yeah. Okay."
VI. The Island, 2004
This Dylan dude was such an asshole. He hated being called crazy. Hated it. On some level, he knew he was. He didn't need reminders.
He stared at the computer and could feel himself losing all will to talk. It always happened when he reached a certain level of upset. Fuck.
Hurley steadied his breath.
He needed to think carefully about his next steps because he had to be cautious about time paradoxes—if that's what was happening. And time loops. And alternate timelines. Fuck. There were so many possibilities. And there were so many different sets of rules for time travel, depending on the show or book or whatever. Who knows which one was accurate. It might've been exciting if he hadn't been, y'know, called crazy by some jerk. It was like a punch to the stomach, and his thoughts kept returning to it.
He desperately wanted to reach out to the future, to know everything was okay. That he'd get home. That his friends here would be okay. No, scratch that. He needed to know that everyone would be okay, even Sawyer and that Frogurt guy. And although he needed that reassurance desperately, Hurley understood Helly and Dylan couldn't give it to him, even though he still didn't really get what was going on. Tears of frustration threatened to spill out, and he rapidly blinked his eyes until they went away.
WAIT!
This is Helly
Please don't leave.>: ok
>: but dont do that again
>: plsPROGRESS: [####### ] 70.00%
We won't. I made him promise.
I'm sorry.>: i forgive u
>: everyone thinks it anyway :'(I don't think that.
>: i bet u do tho
I don't even know you.
And besides, I'm a little crazy.
It's not such a bad thing.
It's a natural reaction to a fucked up situation.>: i was like this before the crash
Is that why you said the numbers are evil?
>: i really dont want to talk about it
>: but youll stay away from those numbers if u want to be safeI don't think we really have a choice.
>: is it bc ur severed
Yeah. Kinda.
>: but u never actually told me what severed means
It means severed people go into work and literally forget the entire work day when they leave.
And the people they are during work literally forget everything outside of work.
And so my consciousness NEVER gets to leave work. EVER. Ever.
We never see the outside world.
We never get to meet our family or friends. We don't even know if we HAVE family or friends.
We're just stuck in a windowless room looking at numbers.>: ▌
That was real grim shit, if he understood it correctly.
And it wasn't just that being an "innie" sucked. He also remembered, with a bittersweet pang of longing, his time working at Mr. Cluck's and his friendship with Johnny. It was a simpler time. Sure, he had been depressed and feeling stuck in a life that didn't give him a lot of direction. But he wouldn't give up that time for anything because he had had friends.
Until the numbers had ruined everything.
>: i still dont totally get it but ok
>: i hope u have friends at work or other shit going for you
>: lol also
>: dude
>: so im also in a windowless room looking at numbers lol
>: what are the odds
>: r u dharmaWhat?
>: ok i'll take that as a no
But what is that?
>: it's a science initiative thing
>: idk man
>: all i know is
>: we just found this hatch and there was a guy who said something about how he was told he has to type in these numbers
>: and then a kinda creepy dude from the dharma initiative was in a movie that told us more about itWhat.
>: oh i forgot to ask
>: why are u sending me a fileI don't know what you mean.
>: i think it had bail in the title
I still don't know what that is.
Bail bonds?
That's kind of strange.
But this whole thing is strange.>: shit
>: maybe i shouldnt have accepted it
>: oopsNo, no. That's helpful information.
So, it sounds like someone else connected us.
I wish I knew who and why.>; yah idk
>: i would ask around to see if anyone else knows
>: but
>: right now no one is here but me and this guy who captured
>: so i have to enter the numbers
>: its so boring
>: kinda feel like im in hell tbh
>: shit
>: what if we all died and are in hell
>: dudeWait.
Backup.
You captured a guy?>: ▌
Fuck. Why did he mention that? He started to spiral. Hurley cast a look over towards the armory with a pang of guilt. He imagined Henry in the cell, looking broken and sad.
>: it's not what it sounds like
>: ok it kinda is just a LITTLE bit but i swear i had nothing to do with that part of it
>: i swearHI THIS IS DYLAN AGAIN
One time I captured a guy who was hitting on my friend because I thought he was EVIL
I mean
The guy, not my friend>: r u trying to tell me that we shouldnt be keeping this guy prisoner
No
I think you're TOTALLY JUSTIFIED in doing what you NEED to do
I mean I guess I don't know if YOU are justified
But I KNOW I did NOTHING wrong>: oh ok i am a little scared of u >_<
>: how many people are there with youPROGRESS: [######## ] 80.00%
H: I'm shifting to using initials to indicate which person is talking, since Dylan has said that he's not going to stop taking over the keyboard.
H: It's just the two of us right now. Normally, there are four of us, but one of us is meeting with management and another is visiting his boyfriend.
H: At least we think they're dating.
D: His boyfriend that I may have captured once>: lol
H: Oh, he's back now.
H: brb
H: I'm going to catch him up.>: ok
I: Are you actually laughing out loud at that, Hurley? For shame.
I: It was not funny when Burt was captured.>: who r u
I: Irving B.
>: why do you guys only have initials for your last name
>: its like ur in kindergarten
>: no offenseI: It's because Kier did not want us to know our names.
>: who
H: Never mind. He's just some dead guy.
I: That is blasphemy.
H: Whatever.>: ▌
Henry called out yet again. Up until this point, Hurley had been successfully tuning him out, but this time, the edge of desperation in his voice caught Hurley's attention.
"Please, Hurley. Please tell me what's going on. Why were you asking about severance earlier? Why are you typing so much? And don't try to deny it—the keyboard is loud; I can hear it. Please just tell me something. Anything."
Hurley sighed. The guilt over Henry's situation was getting to him. "Okay, so... there's... um... there's someone that I'm talking to on the computer."
"That shouldn't be possible."
"How would you know?" Hurley asked with open suspicion. What did he know? He walked over to the armory so he could speak to Henry without yelling.
"Well, I don't, you're right," Henry conceded. "But I just assumed that if that computer had the Internet, you would've gotten help before now. Who are they?"
"None of your business."
"Okay. Well, if you don't want my help..."
There it was again, those mind games that Henry played.
"How would you be able to help?"
"Well, you seem to have questions about your conversation. Like your question about severance. Maybe I can help you make sense of it."
Hurley sighed. "Okay, well... what they're saying doesn't make a lot of sense. They said they're people locked in an office or something, refining numbers."
"Huh." A pause. "You're right, that doesn't make sense. I mean no offense, but are you sure this is actually happening?"
"What do you mean?" Hurley's voice had a slight edge to it. A precursor to panic.
"I've heard that in situations of extreme isolation, people can start to imagine things..."
Fuck. This guy was good at getting in his head.
But if he was honest with himself, Hurley did have some doubts.
"It's really happening," Hurley said. And then he added, "I think."
"Would it help if I confirmed whether what you're seeing is real?" Henry asked.
"I can't let you out, dude. Nice try, though."
"Okay, okay, you got me," Henry said with a little defeated laugh. "I wasn't planning on running away, though. As much as I'd like to leave, I know it wouldn't work. I'd just get caught again. But I just have some questions for the person you're speaking with."
"Why do you have questions? Actually, wait, no. I don't care. You trying to manipulate me is not cool, dude." Hurley felt himself starting to shut down. This was too much.
Henry ignored his accusation and replied, "Something about what you're saying sounds familiar to me. So, I want to ask some questions to figure out why."
Yeah, that was suspicious as fuck.
"And what questions are those?" Hurley asked.
"Would you type them out for me?" Henry sounded cautiously hopeful.
"Maybe. Tell me the questions first, and I'll decide whether I want to."
>: hold on 1 sec
>: the prisoner would like to know if you have any information about why you are refining numbersH: Nope.
>: he wants to know what this process looks like
H: We just zoom in and out of a bunch of numbers and then feel things and sort them into bins that have weird names.
I: The Four Tempers are not weird.>: and what are these four tempers
I: Woe, Frolic, Malice, and Dread. Are these not well-known in the outside world?
>: nope
I: Oh. I'm surprised that the taming of the Tempers is not known. We have to balance the Tempers in all of us.
PROGRESS: [######### ] 90.00%
>: ▌
"Does what Irving said mean anything to you?" Hurley asked after reading the reply out loud to Henry.
"Irving?"
"Yeah, the guy I'm talking to. Irving B."
"I..." Henry paused. "I'm not sure."
For once, Hurley thought Henry might actually be telling the truth.
Henry didn't speak again for a long time afterward.
VII. Lumon, 2022
> I AM SO SORRY THIS NEVER SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED MS COBEL
> I DID NOT AUTHORIZE THIS COMMUNICATION
> OH OOPS
> M: SORRY LET ME TRY THIS AGAIN
> M: THIS IS MARK S. I AM SORsefkhdfkhfsdkjhfsd
> sdfsdgfhwzs cferasdce
> i got the keybarod aWadfgghy from himm but yousdfkhdflsdf ▌
"Mark, what the hell? I thought you wanted us to make contact!" Helly yelled while fighting Mark for the keyboard.
"I told you about the messages from last time to warn you. It's clearly a loyalty test," Mark said resolutely. And then more quietly so that only she could hear, "If we're caught, it might ruin everything we're working towards." But he gave up his hold on the keyboard.
Helly considered what to type, if anything. Maybe Mark was right. But she would risk going to the Break Room again for this chance to (sort of) make contact with the outside.
Meanwhile, Mr. Graner had walked in unnoticed. "What are you all looking at?" he asked in his flat tone, with an arch of an eyebrow. As they stood all around Dylan's computer, clearly agitated, the tableau they had created was probably highly suspicious, even if Mr. Graner hadn't seen the scuffle.
"Dylan just completed a file," Helly offered. At this, Mark made eye contact with her. She glared back at him. Don't you dare contradict me. They had come so far—Mark had actually been taking steps to rebel—and yet, he had just been trying to tell on them just a moment ago. What the fuck was his problem?
"Yeah." Mark smiled slightly. "We were just congratulating him."
"But Helly R. is sitting in his chair?"
"Yep. I gave it to her because I wanted to know what it felt like to finish a file," Dylan chimed in.
"Uh-huh. Well, there seems to be a problem with your computer."
Shit. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Hurley was still sending them messages. She stood up and kept her back to the computer, her hands resting behind her on the top of the chair, trying to look casual as she blocked his view of the computer screen.
r u ok
dude
seriously
im getting worried
DUDE> ▌
"Oh, what seems to be the issue?" she asked. "We haven't noticed anything weird."
"Nope, nothing," Dylan added, somewhat unhelpfully. He was not terribly convincing.
Irving took a step towards Helly and said, "Mr. Graner, we just wanted Helly to experience Kier's blessing, that's all." She was surprised that Irving would lie for her.
"I need to sit down," Mr. Graner said, clearly meaning the seat Helly was leaning against. He looked slightly uncomfortable at the idea of pushing Helly aside, which surprised her. He didn't seem like the kind of guy who would be uncomfortable with pushing anyone, including a woman, aside.
As the moment stretched on and she didn't move, she knew that she was losing all plausible deniability. But what else could she do? At a certain point, Helly realized she could no longer have any hope of coming up with a rational explanation for her behavior. And as she started to step aside, she heard Mark yelp from behind her. And then a crash, and "Oh, fuck!"
By the time she turned around to see what was going on, Mr. Graner was already crouching at Mark's side. From the floor, Mark said, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Graner." His keyboard was overturned next to him. A few keys had flown off. "I don't understand what happened. I just got really dizzy all of a sudden."
Mark rolled up one of his pant legs, and she saw that he had carpet burn from his fall. She winced in sympathy.
He confused her so much. First, Mark was trying to alert Ms. Cobel via the computer, but now he was injuring himself to keep them out of trouble? It seemed like one moment he'd be yelling at her to "behave", and the next he'd be showing her maps he'd drawn. He pissed her off. Such a hypocrite. But a small part of her found it strangely endearing that although he might have urges to be a good little soldier for Lumon, he was doing his best to fight those impulses, even if he wasn't successful all of the time.
He was trying.
Maybe for her. Part of her kind of hoped so, and another part hoped he was trying because he truly believed in sticking it to "the man". What was that guy's name again? She tried to remember what she had heard in her walkthrough of the Perpetuity Wing. Jame Eagan. What a stupid fucking name.
Instead of taking Mark to receive medical care, Mr. Graner just sighed and said, "Mark S., go see Mr. Milchick for medical care." He roughly pulled Mark up by the arm.
"Y... you're not going to take me?"
"Nope. On you go." Mr. Graner nodded slightly towards the exit before pushing Mark towards it.
As Mark started to walk off, he glanced over his shoulder at Helly. She wanted to mouth "thank you"—Mark may not have been successful, but it was a good try. However, she could feel Mr. Graner's slimy eyes on her.
Mr. Graner had finally made up his mind about whether he should touch her, and he shoved her aside, although not hard enough to knock her over. He read over the last few messages that were still on the screen, and a chilling, strangely calm anger flashed across his face. She braced herself in case he slapped her, or worse. But instead, Mr. Graner started to get under the desk to unplug the computer, not content to turn it off normally with the switch.
"Mr. Graner—I can explain..." she called out. In actuality, she had no idea what she was going to say.
"Break Room. Now," he growled. "And after you're done, the rest of you will go to the Break Room, one by one." With a sick smile, he added, "Never had to send a full department to the Break Room before."
VIII. The Island, 2004
PROGRESS: [##########] 100.00%
BAILIFF.PRG FILE TRANSFER COMPLETEREBOOTING TO TAKE EFFECT
What the hell was the file?
When the screen turned off, the countdown on the wall suddenly but briefly flashed red and black hieroglyphs. Blast doors came down, and the power went out briefly.
Hurley stood up immediately and started banging on the door that led to the living quarters. "What the...!" he yelled. He tried to open the doors, although it would take an impossible amount of strength to do it manually. He was strong, but he wasn't that strong.
Henry yelled, "What's going on?" Hurley could barely hear him through the blast door and the panic pulsing through him. The heartbeat in his ears was so loud that he worried he had partially lost his hearing and this was the only noise he would ever clearly hear again, even though he knew that wasn't possible. He did some breathing exercises that he learned at the Santa Rosa Mental Health Institute. It would be okay. It was just temporary, right? But he couldn't make himself answer Henry's question.
And then the lights came on, the doors came up, and the usual prompt was displayed on the computer.
>: ▌
Everything was back to normal. He took a sigh of relief before realizing that although it was good that everything was back to normal, it brought into question whether he had imagined the whole thing. Maybe he should've let Henry look at the computer after all.
Or maybe Henry was just getting in his head.
"Hey, Henry?" Hurley asked hesitantly.
"Yeah?" came the reply from the cell.
"That actually happened, right?" Hurley winced. It was so awkward to ask that.
"What do you mean?"
"Um. The blast doors." That's not really what he wanted to know about, but it felt safe to ask that at least.
"Yes, I didn't see them, but I heard them," Henry said in a reassuring tone.
Hurley gulped. He didn't want to ask this next question. But he had to know. "And the messages?" he managed to say.
"I don't know, you tell me," Henry replied. "You wouldn't let me see them."
"But you heard me typing," Hurley offered hopefully.
"Yes, but I don't know if there were actual messages," Henry said, sounding like he was patiently explaining something to a kindergartener who should know better than to ask stupid questions, but what could you do? Kids, am I right? But Hurley wasn't stupid, and he hated it when people assumed that. Yeah, he didn't do well in school and got confused about some stuff, but he was smart in other ways.
He had asked because he just needed some support right now.
Fuck. He didn't know what to do. He needed more time to think. "Please don't tell anyone about this. Please."
"Okay. But you are—were?—in charge of the food, right? So can you give me a chocolate bar?" came the reply immediately.
"Uhhh... Is this a bribe? Because it's a weird bribe. Not that I'm complaining."
"Yep." Henry sounded almost chipper.
"That's all you want?" Hurley asked.
"No, I get one favor too."
"I'm not going to let you out, dude." Hurley rolled his eyes.
"No, no. Not that," Henry replied, which was a surprise. Did this guy have another plan to get out? Or was he so certain that he'd be found innocent that he'd be let out? Even if he was a dick, Hurley hoped they would let him out, but he couldn't be the one to do it. The whole thing was so fucked up.
Hurley sighed in frustration. "Okay, what do you want as a favor?"
"I'll ask for it later."
Hurley was sitting on the couch in the living area when Libby came in. Even though they were in an impossibly difficult situation, when she was around, the world had more color, sounds were more musical. Just her presence transformed the dimly lit station, smattered with old furniture, into something that he imagined could be a real home. Yeah, it was cliche, but he genuinely did feel this way. Was this what being in love was like? He didn't know how people in love didn't literally explode from the intensity of their feelings.
He debated whether he should tell her about the messages. He trusted her, but... it would be awful if he had imagined the messages and possibly messed up the computer somehow. Better to keep it to himself for now. No reason for anyone to know if there was (hopefully) no damage was done. And in the meantime, he'd think about how to leverage the maybe-time-traveling messages that may or may not exist and may or may not occur again.
Hurley suspected he'd eventually feel too guilty about keeping it a secret and tell Jack.
He must have looked deep in thought, because she came to him immediately and asked, "Hurley, what's wrong?" She crouched beside the couch and put her hand on his shoulder. He liked the way she touched him. He was generally so at peace with her in a way he hadn't been with anyone since winning the lottery. Actually, scratch that. He was more comfortable with her than anyone he had ever met before.
"I'm tired," he muttered, a torrent of conflicting emotions raging through him that manifested in a small frown and a furrowed brow.
"You should rest. I'll take over." Libby patted his arm and stood up.
"Thanks." He shot her a warm smile, although he avoided looking in her eyes, and he found that he was blushing. "You're the best."
IX. Lumon, 2022
Using her scarred finger as the key, the nurse winced as her blood was used to open the new room: The Swan.
Gemma sighed. Another room. Another horror that she wouldn't remember; she'd just be left with some physical discomfort—a cramp or an ache—or a change in her cortisol levels. This time, she was dressed in a dirty tank top and some low-rise boot-cut jeans that reminded her of the early aughts. Very retro. She had been given a wig of long, slightly tangled hair. She was pretty sure it was top-of-the-line, genuine human hair. Why they went to such expenses, Gemma would never know.
She stepped inside.
Chapter 7: Destination Part 1: Direction
Summary:
Chapter 7: Burt and Irving share a moment in the plant room, Graner forms a plan, lockdown in the Swan happens yet again, and flashbacks to some of the first times that Richard met Locke.
Notes:
In this chapter, the effects of the events of chapter 6 (the communication between MDR and Hurley) begin to ripple out and change the timeline. Some of the dialogue and events may seem familiar—this chapter pulls from (but then diverges from) Severance S01E06 "Hide and Seek", Lost S05E03 "Jughead", Lost S04E11 "Cabin Fever", and Lost S02E17 "Lockdown".
I had been aiming for a chapter every two weeks, but because of some big life things, I will be posting every 3-4 weeks until things calm down.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"He felt like a compass needle. The needle knows nothing about magnetic north; it only knows it must point in a certain direction, like it or not."
—The Waste Lands by Stephen King, 1991.
The Island, 1954
A light wind rippled the canvas of the army tent, offering a pleasant reprieve from the humidity that made each lungful of air feel sticky and heavy. One side of the tent was rolled up, letting Locke further luxuriate in the breeze. Inside, Locke calmly sipped cool water from a canteen cup as he studied every line of Richard's face, John's eyes twinkling in a private amusement. He looked for differences in Richard between whenever he was now and the time he had left, but there simply weren't any. Except that Richard possibly seemed less tired. His unchanging appearance disrupted John's sense of temporality.
The only marker of time was the fact that the Others were dressed in fatigues and living in tents—and therefore the Others, with the assistance of Ben, had not yet massacred the Dharma Initiative and unceremoniously thrown their bodies in a pit. It was possibly before the Dharma Initiative even existed. But he wasn't quite sure when he was beyond that.
He knew he probably only had a short time to convince Richard to give him the information he needed. The time jumps that Locke and his companions had been experiencing were unpredictable, but they were often fairly rapid.
"Why don't I remember... well, any of what you have told me?" Richard finally asked after Locke tried to establish common ground.
"Because it hasn't happened yet," John replied matter-of-factly.
Richard softly chuckled, as if John was pranking him. "I'm not sure what you're expecting me to say, John Locke."
Fair enough, Locke supposed. It did sound far-fetched. But he was also surprised that Richard didn't have more faith that wondrous things could happen on this Island. Surely, in his long life, Richard must have seen things that even John could not begin to imagine. And John, who had been healed—in more ways than one—by the Island, could imagine a lot.
"I expect you to tell me how to get off the Island," John replied with all the confidence of the future leader of the Others.
At this request—this command—Richard stopped chuckling at the absurdity of it all and looked appraisingly at Locke. "That's very privileged information. Why would I share it with you?"
"Because you told me that I had something very important to do once I get there," John explained. Richard gave John a skeptical look in response. "And because I'm your leader," he added.
"You're my leader?" Richard asked incredulously.
"That's what you told me."
"Look, I... certainly don't want to contradict myself, but... we have a very specific process for selecting our leadership, and it starts at a very, very young age."
Oh, how John knew.
"Alright... Alright... What year is it right now?" John asked. It was a clichéd question asked in every time travel movie, but it was of great importance.
"It's 1954," Richard replied.
"Alright." A plan formed in his mind. "May 30, 1956—2 years from now—that's the day I'm born—Tustin, California, and if you don't believe me about all of this, I suggest you come and visit me."
And then a faint memory came unbidden, seen through the eyes of a child. A memory of a man with intense eyes who was showing John some items strewn out on a coffee table. His heart ached for the sad and lonely boy he used to be. With his childlike innocence, he had thought that Richard would be his friend. But then Richard abandoned him.
And he would have to put the boy through all of that again.
And so Locke added, "And visit me again when I'm a bit older, too. I think you'll be surprised at the things that I know about my future and the fate of the Island."
"Are you some kind of fortune-teller, John?" Richard asked incredulously.
"Something like that," John replied with a smile.
"You're not going to explain further, are you?"
"No," Locke said. "But maybe you can find a way to stop it."
"Stop what?"
It would have been helpful to explain the future to Richard, but he couldn't recall the visions he had as a child. All he remembered was that when he had met Richard when he was 5 years old, he had known something that Richard thought was important.
Eventually, John had realized he was "different" from the other children and had willed himself to forget the things he had seen of the future.
He was glad that Walt had never done the same.
John closed his eyes, trying to call forth the memories. The swirling dots behind his lids reminded him of the glow of the blast door map that he had seen exactly once during the lockdown in the Swan in 2004. He distinctly remembered that the map had read, "Ut sit magna, tamen certe lenta ira deorum est": "Although it is great, the anger of the gods is certainly slow."
Locke opened his eyes. He knew that a man was coming for Malice. He had been trying to find him for a century. He would never give up the hunt.
All John said was, "The man in the drawing is coming." And he would explain no more.
I. Lumon, 2022
"Irving, what's wrong?" Burt asked. They were in the front room of O&D, and Irving looked tired. Irving never looked this tired when surrounded by art. No, it was not his normal, I-might-fall-asleep-on-the-job kind of tired that Irving so often described experiencing. Irving tried to hide it with a smile, but Burt recognized that type of exhaustion. It was like he was driving a car and the engine light had come on and he had to keep driving, keep driving through the night, headlights barely making a dent in the dark of the back roads, brush on each side spectrally lit by the headlights. Keep on until the next gas station, miles and miles away.
(Burt wasn't exactly sure how he had that mental image, but there didn't seem to be consistent rules about what he could or couldn't imagine from the outside world. He couldn't remember driving, but imagining things in the abstract wasn't always that difficult.)
"The Break Room?" Burt asked knowingly, although it wasn't really a question. He started to reach for Irving's hands, but then paused. "Is this okay?"
Irving nodded and wordlessly gave Burt his hands, without the awkwardness he had first expressed around Burt. Burt firmly (but not too firmly) grasped them, wishing that somehow he could transfer strength to Irving if he held on long enough. He noticed, not for the first time, that Irving's hands were callused in places, and he wondered what would cause such calluses. He wondered what Irving's outie was like. He wondered if his and Irving's outies would get along.
Irving looked down at their hands clasped together and said nothing. But Burt noticed a slight change in his demeanor, like the gas station had finally come into sight and the moon had come out from behind the clouds, and he knew that everything would be alright.
"Come on," Burt said, and he started gently pulling Irving toward the room with the plants. He had always thought of it as his room. But now it could be their room—if Irving wanted it to be.
They wordlessly walked through the winding, white halls, holding hands. There was a comfortable silence. Burt felt almost like he was vibrating from the anticipation of getting closer to Irving in their room. He hoped that was not too presumptuous.
They reached the unassuming door to the plant room. When they stepped inside, Irving gasped. Burt understood the feeling. Until he had discovered the room, he had never seen so many plants in so many variations. That was the moment that made him a true believer in Kier. The sheer number of potted plants in this room formed a lush indoor rain forest. They weren't real, but somehow that made them more beautiful to him. Just as O&D created things of beauty on a daily basis, someone had lovingly created these plants.
He liked to imagine that the outside world was full of plants, and this room was a replica of what he might find if he could walk outside and feel the sun on his face.
"You found this?" Irving asked, looking around the room, awestruck.
"A while back. I come here sometimes, just me. Now, I want to show it to you."
"It's beautiful."
"It could be just for us. Our secret place."
"Finally." Irving looked chagrined when he realized how it may have come across. "What I mean to say is that your O&D colleagues are very nice, but they're also..."
"Always around." Burt chuckled. It was true. Felicia had warmed up to Irving finally, but the rest of the department still held Irving and the rest of MDR in suspicion.
"Yes."
"Irving, you know, the Lumon manual doesn't say anything about lip-to-lip contact." He winked.
"It does discourage romantic fraternization, though." Irving gently reminded him.
"This can't be romantic, then." A lie he was willing to try to believe if Irving needed it to be so. Although, in truth, Burt believed that the founder would look favorably upon this union—this relationship (he dared to hope it was indeed a relationship)—as Kier had had with Imogene. But, in this moment, he decided not to bring up his theories about Kier, as it might make Irving feel pressured.
Irving looked down at the hands, still held together. "I suppose we're past that point."
"Are we?" Burt raised an eyebrow.
"Aren't we?" Irving asked hesitantly, a small smile returning.
"Well, I hoped you might think so."
Burt managed, with no small effort, to force the grin to fall away from his face. Even though he felt so elated in this moment, he worried that smiling might make what he had to say next seem glib. "But Irving, if you need this to be something else... I just want this to be whatever you want it to be. Whatever you're comfortable with."
Irving made eye contact with him, "I had a lot of time to think in the Break Room. And I realized... I'm ready."
Irving pressed his lips against Burt's, tentatively at first, and then the kiss became more forceful, his fingers running through the older man's hair.
Eventually, Irving finally pulled away, reluctantly. "You're good at that," Irving said.
Burt shot Irving a rakish smile in response.
"Have you... have you ever done that before?" Irving asked.
"Yes. Does that bother you?" Burt gazed deep into Irving's eyes, trying to sense any discomfort that Irving might be feeling that he wouldn't necessarily voice.
Irving considered the question before shaking his head slightly. "No." He thought for a moment longer and added, "I don't think so."
And when Irving broke into a sly grin, Burt knew everything was going to be okay in this conversation. "Was it Felicia?" Irving asked conspiratorially.
"No, no, not Felicia." Burt laughed. "A gentleman who has since retired. But I don't want to talk about him right now. I want to talk about us." He knew that he and Irving couldn't be together forever. One of them would retire one day. But for now, this was more than enough.
Irving pressed his forehead to Burt's. "Us. I like the sound of that." They stood there like that for a long time, eyes closed, listening to each other breathe, synchronizing into a harmony. Eventually, Irving demurred, "It's been a while. I ought to go back to MDR."
"Just stay. Stay here with me." Burt said, much more emphatically than he had planned. Somehow, he knew in his bones that this was the calm before the storm. But as long as they stayed here, like this, they wouldn't have to weather it yet.
He just wished they would never have to leave.
Graner's view of Burt and Irving from a monitor on the Security Office's wall of screens.
Doug Graner stared at the screen, watching the two men press their foreheads together. It seemed like the stress of the Break Room was driving Irving into Burt's arms. Interesting. He had been considering recommending that Burt "retire", but maybe this is something he could use. Play them against each other.
It would be kind of cute that they were finding love, if they were actually people. But they weren't. The enemy wasn't when he was working for a private military company in the Gulf War, and they weren't now.
(Although he liked the ones he could turn to working for them well enough. He and Inman had been a good pair. Maybe he could do that again sometime. He wondered if Milchick would play along. Good cop/bad cop and whatnot. It was easier when there were two of them.)
It wasn't like he had planned on being in the private military. Private military was not the thing little kids dream of growing up to do. He had liked the Marines well enough, but the extra cash had been helpful to his disabled parents. Yeah, real sob story, this guy. But it wasn't just that—there was a pleasure he took in certain parts of the job. He had been told once by an ex-girlfriend that he had psychopathic tendencies. He had dismissed her words—it wasn't a real diagnosis, anyway. But it was probably best for everyone that he work with "people" who weren't actually people.
He thought back to the puzzling incident that had led to sending all of MDR to the Break Room.
The main thing he remembered seeing was something like, "Are you okay? I'm getting worried." And then, inexplicably—and this part did stick in his mind—the person who had been sending them messages had just written "DUDE" in all caps.
When he had told Harmony about the messages, she had leaned forward in her chair, eyes blazing with a strange kind of glee in a way that nearly frightened him. She was barely over 5', but in moments like this, she seemed much larger.
"Keep an eye on them," she had practically purred. She was an odd one. "I don't think we'll catch them in the act. But maybe we'll overhear them talking about it. Oh, and check up on their outies more often."
He had wondered what Harmony planned for her "check-ups" on Mark. No, better that he do it himself. He dreaded having to go into the guy's house, go through his trash, monitor his calls... it was a lot of work. And he'd also have to start actually going into Irving's apartment instead of just watching him from his car.
"I did notice something strange," Graner had said tonelessly. "Both times, the numbers that they had just refined were the same." He had paused, trying to remember the numbers. "48163248. Or something like that."
"4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42," she had murmured, seemingly lost in thought or a memory.
"Yeah, I guess," he agreed. "That sounds right." He had wondered how she knew where numbers ended and new ones began. "What do those numbers mean to you?"
She stayed silent.
"Harmony?" He hadn't bothered trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
"Shut the door when you leave."
II. The Island, 2004
John frantically rode the stationary exercise bike, jazz music blaring over the speakers, sweat running down his face.
The music wasn't loud enough to drown out Henry's words repeating in his mind: "Why do you let him talk to you like that?"
Gale had been trying to disrupt the fragile peace between John and Jack, and he had nearly succeeded.
So, he rode and rode, imagining that he was riding away from this place.
Why do you let him talk to you like that?
He pedaled harder. Locke didn't think of himself as an angry person, except when people told him what he couldn't do. But Jack frustrated him to no end.
Only John could truly see what they had with this Island. And he would preserve this Island no matter what. If no one else would, then he would keep vigil over the computer. He alone would stand against the darkness and the smoke.
Compared with the cave and the beach, the Swan felt suffocatingly small and grimy in this moment. The station wasn't unclean, exactly, but a film of three decades of dust and dirt had collected, and no amount of scrubbing would get rid of it.
Why do you let him talk to you like that?
John practically fell off the bike when he thought he heard a muffled voice, probably a woman's voice. "20 minutes to lockdown," it very calmly declared.
He looked around. No one was there except for him and Henry. Once he got up and turned off the record player, he could clearly hear the hiss and whine of feedback over the loudspeaker system. What was going on? Was the computer malfunctioning? He walked over to the console. Everything looked normal; the blinking >: ▌ prompt was there. He looked up at the countdown timer, expecting it to be close to running out. But it read 47 minutes.
Through the cell door, he could hear Gale call out, "What was that? John, what's the matter?"
John didn't answer him. He started pacing. What should he do? He could try to find Sayid—he might know if there was a mechanical malfunction—but then John remembered that Sayid was off verifying Henry's story about how he had arrived at the Island via a hot-air balloon crash. Henry's story sounded made up, but was it any more implausible than the existence of this very Island?
The minutes ticked away as he pawed through the bookshelf, throwing books on the floor in his haste to find manuals for the equipment in the Swan. He finally found one that looked promising and eagerly thumbed through its yellowed pages. It had information about the inner workings of the Swan, and when he got to the section on the alarm system, he realized with horror that some pages had been torn out. Even stranger was what had been scrawled on the page prior in an unsteady hand: "Don't trust the cure."
He had a lot of questions, but this wasn't the time for it. John stuck a piece of paper into the manual to mark the page so he could return to it later.
The bookshelf exhausted, Locke wasted a few minutes rewatching the Swan orientation film, even though he practically had it memorized.
"The station 3 was originally constructed as a laboratory, where scientists could work to understand the unique electromagnetic fluctuations emanating from this sector of the island. Not long after the experiments began, however, there was... an 'incident'..." Dr. Marvin Candle explained in the film. Could this be another "incident"?
"... please proceed... protocol... please proceed..." the voice boomed out again from the speakers. Proceed where? What protocol?
Should he vacate the Swan? He didn't know what "lockdown" meant exactly, but it suggested he wouldn't be able to leave once it happened.
But no, then there might be no one to enter the Numbers. And, he supposed, Henry should not be trapped in the Swan in his cell, left alone for an indeterminate length of time. But the Numbers were really what concerned him.
Through the din of the looping voice, John could faintly hear Henry yelling things that he couldn't process in this moment of panic. Locke continued to ignore the man, occasionally telling him to shut up. He needed quiet to think. But between the voice and Henry, there was no reprieve.
And then the voice started counting down seconds. "5... 4... 3..."
His heart was beating like a panicked bird as he waited for whatever was going to happen. He looked around wildly, hoping that the Island would give him a sign. But there was nothing.
"2... 1..."
Doors started slamming down from the ceiling, sectioning off the Swan. Almost by instinct, he grabbed a crowbar. The doors went down one by one. He sprinted for the only door that hadn't gone down all the way yet and slid across the floor in time to slip the crowbar underneath.
And then, finally, there was silence.
After a moment, Gale called out, "What happened? Did the blast doors go down?"
The lights started flickering. In a panic, Locke tried to use the crowbar as a lever to open the door. He strained, glad that there was still adrenaline coursing through him to give him strength, but it was utterly futile. He sweatily lay on the floor in exhaustion, his breathing labored as he tried to figure out what to do next.
And then he processed Henry's question. "How did you know about the doors?"
"It... it sounded like... like a door slamming on the floor. Like a garage door, but heavier." Henry sounded nervous, which was a dead giveaway that it was a lie or a half-truth. But maybe it was a calculated move on Gale's part, though—to make John think he was bad at lying.
He stood up, agitated. "No, no. You said the blast doors."
"Didn't Hurley tell you?" Henry asked.
"Tell me what?" When Henry didn't answer immediately, Locke snapped, "Henry, tell me what?"
"I... I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry."
"Henry, tell me what you're talking about!" he yelled. He slapped his palms against the blast door in rage.
"It's hard to talk through this cell door, John," Gale said pitifully.
John didn't respond right away, but instead he struggled with the crowbar again. No luck. This was not a one-man job. He hated playing into Henry's hands, but letting Gale out wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if he helped John get the door open.
"If I let you out, I also want you to help me open this door."
"And if I do help you and answer your questions, then you're just going to lock me back in here, aren't you?"
The lights flickered on and off like fireflies.
"That's right," John agreed.
"Then I'm going to need your word, John. I'm going to need your word that you won't let your people do anything to me."
He opened the armory door so that he could stare Henry in the eyes. John gave him one more chance to come clean. He asked, "Who are you?"
"My name is Henry Gale. I'm from Minnesota. And I crashed on this island just like you."
He gazed at Gale a moment longer before deciding that he believed in the sincerity in the man's voice. "Alright, you have my word. Now tell me about Hurley."
"When he was at the computer, he said that he started receiving messages..." Henry began.
III. Kier, PE, 2022
"How was work, Attila?" Fields asked with a chuckle. One of their many running jokes.
Burt grinned as he took off his winter coat. "Not a particularly memorable day." The joke had become a rote response over the years, such that it no longer felt funny. It was simply the proper response to the question.
But while he was hanging up his coat, he processed Fields' words and truly heard the question for the first time in a long time. Something did feel different. "You know, I actually left feeling especially happy today."
As if to make his point, Burt smiled and inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma of food that had just been cooked.
"That's wonderful," Fields declared.
"I suppose it is." He smiled softly. "But I wish I knew why I'm feeling that way."
"Maybe your innie has a boyfriend." Fields waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Well, I don't know about that. But..." Burt wrapped his arms around Fields' neck. "Let's say that was the case. You wouldn't mind?"
"I've told you before, I want him to be happy." He gave Burt a peck on the cheek. "And I want you to be happy, too."
Burt released Fields from his embrace. When he stepped into the dining room area, he saw a perfectly tender pot roast on the kitchen counter. He was so lucky that after retirement, Fields had developed cooking as a hobby. (And he had also begun to collect salt shakers and pepper grinders, which had rapidly overtaken the space above their kitchen cabinets. Fields' passion for his unusual hobbies was so endearing. Burt would have happily listened to Fields talk about his hobbies all day.)
They settled in, candles lit on the table, fire burning in the fireplace. It was cozy, a nostalgic painting brought to life. He wondered if there was anyone who had ever been so lucky in their life as to have what he had.
He knew he wouldn't go to Heaven, but he couldn't imagine that Heaven could be better than this.
Oh, he knew that he still could go to Heaven. But it required him to want salvation, and as much as he wanted to be with Fields in the afterlife, he knew in his bones that he would never deserve forgiveness for what he had done in his work for Lumon.
Burt tried to push all of this out of his head. He knew death would come for him eventually, as it did for all beings, and as he grew older, it weighed more heavily on his mind. But this wasn't the time for reflections about mortality.
Suddenly, Burt grabbed Field's free hand. "I love you, Fields." It was unusual to use each other's names, and Fields clocked that immediately.
"I love you, too, Attila. Are you alright?"
"Yes, I think so. I was just thinking about..." He trailed off, his gaze settling on the wall behind Fields, unable to look at him again until his eyes stopped tearing up. It was embarrassing that his emotions were getting in the way of such an idyllic night.
"About Heaven, again?" Fields asked. He sounded understanding, which somehow made Burt feel worse. He was ruining the moment and bringing Fields down with him.
Burt nodded.
Fields began, "Do you want to talk about—"
They were interrupted by Burt's cell phone ringing.
"Hey, I thought we said no cell phones at the table," Fields said with a frown. "Don't answer it. Be here with me."
Burt didn't bother taking the phone out of his pocket. He didn't need to look at the screen to know that the number would say it was "unlisted", as it always did when he received calls on his work phone.
"I have to take this," Burt said softly.
"You really don't." Fields was stern. "You don't have to let them continue to have power over your life outside of your work on the severed floor. You don't have to continue to drive for them."
Burt looked at him sadly and stood up. "I'm sorry."
Fields pointedly did not accept or acknowledge his apology. "We'll talk about this when you get home." As Burt walked past, Fields started to reach for him, but Burt ignored it. He didn't deserve Fields' kindness.
Burt walked upstairs into the spare bedroom, closed the door for privacy, and answered the phone. "Yes?" Burt asked. He didn't bother with turning on the light. The conversation wouldn't be long.
"Meet me outside Baird Creek Manor," came Graner's icy voice.
A moment later, Burt threw on his coat, wound a thick scarf around his neck, and stepped into the chilly nighttime air.
Graner looked through the phone's call log and text message history. Missed calls from a blocked number over and over and over again. He scrolled and scrolled, but it was more of the same. Some of the calls had been answered a few weeks ago, but that was the only deviation in the call log. No numbers saved, except for one emergency contact. He looked up this number on his own phone, and as he suspected from the moment he laid eyes on it, it was June Kilmer's number. So, it would seem that this was likely Petey's old phone.
As for the missed calls? Probably Reghabi. The only texts the phone had received seemed to confirm it:
Yep, sounded like Reghabi. And with the information he had gained earlier today about her whereabouts, he knew exactly what steps needed to be taken next. Easy peasy. He quickly called Burt on his work phone and then set about covering his tracks; he took the battery out of Petey's phone and placed the two parts of the phone back in Mark's trash can, roughly in the same spots he had found them.
It was curious that Mark had had the phone in his trash, which suggested that Petey and Mark had made contact. And nobody had noticed. Harmony was really fucking up. Or, she knew all of this but had decided not to share it with Doug. He was pissed about it either way.
He knocked on Cobel's door. She answered almost immediately.
"Harmony," he said flatly in greeting.
"Did you find Reghabi?"
"I got a tip from a campus cop at Ganz College. But more importantly... wait." He just noticed that she had some medical scrubs on. "What the fuck are you wearing?"
"I was doing some private research." She looked mischievous. He didn't like it. Was this a sex thing?
He raised an eyebrow. "What's that a euphemism for?"
"Doug, I've had a day. And I'm still trying to figure out what part of this conversation couldn't have happened on the phone," she snapped.
"I was already in the area," he explained. And by "area", he meant rooting in the trash in front of her next-door neighbor's house. "Someone's holed up in one of Ganz's old lab buildings. The dean's told security to look the other way. Probably is Reghabi. But that's not the only reason I wanted to talk to you. I was already here because you've gotten too lax about monitoring Mark Scout. I just looked through his trash and found something very interesting." When she didn't reply, he asked, "Can I come in? I don't want to talk about this out here."
She glared at him. "No. Especially not after you've gone through refuse like some street urchin." He had been wearing gloves when he was going through the trash, but he decided it wasn't worth arguing with her.
Graner shrugged. "Alright. Well. I found Petey's old phone. He was, as we suspected, in contact with Reghabi. Which meant that Mark may have been as well. I don't know how Mark Scout and Petey communicated or what Mark knows. Yet."
"You could have led with that."
"That's all you have to say?"
"Yes," she snapped. She was really getting on his nerves with her enigmatic bullshit, both here and in the office.
"Well, I'm going to go see her. Now that we know that Mark may also be involved, I'm going to be bringing some backup, too."
"Burt?" she laughed. "He's only a driver. And a very religious one at that. He wouldn't hurt a fly. Not sure if that octogenarian could manage to, either."
"Perhaps," Graner admitted. "But we'll need to drive Reghabi somewhere, anyway. Do you want to come with us?" Kind of a loaded question, he knew. Although she had never explicitly stated it, he was pretty sure that Reghabi and Harmony had been more than just colleagues at some point. But he was pissed and wanted to needle her.
"No, I do not," she said sternly. "But be careful. Call me when it's over."
IV. Tustin, CA, 1961
The boy was too intent on the backgammon board to notice the strange man who arrived out of the rain. When he would later think back to this moment, he would only remember him as having kind eyes with a bitter edge. He was lying about who he was, John somehow knew. And he also knew that they had met before he had formed memories and would meet again beyond the now.
"That game's stupid," Melissa, John's foster sister, had said before hitting the board, causing all the pieces to fly everywhere. John had wanted to cry, but he was five now and too old to cry. He stayed silent. He rarely talked, anyway.
He looked up when his foster mother approached. "This nice gentleman wants to talk to you, John. So, I want you on your best behavior. Understand?" Satisfied by John's nod, Florence turned to the man, who looked surprisingly dignified while being slightly soggy. "He's all yours," his foster mother said. And then she gave them some space.
"You like backgammon?" the man asked. John nodded emphatically.
"Yeah?" the man confirmed. "You seem to have a pretty good sense of the game." John felt pride at those words. Maybe this man would be his friend?
The man continued, "I'm Richard, John. I run a school for kids who are... extremely special, and I have reason to believe that you might be one of them. Mind if I show you a couple of really neat things?"
John nodded again. Was it a game? He liked games.
The thunder rumbled as Richard settled into a seat across from him.
Richard started to take some items out of a bag—a comic book (John liked looking at the art in comic books), an old knife, and...
Suddenly, Richard stopped taking things out of the bag, and his gaze settled on something past John.
"Did you draw that, John?"
5-year-old Locke's drawing.
John turned around and looked at where the man was focusing his attention. It was a drawing he had done in black marker, representing a recurring dream of smoke fighting with a man. It wasn't his best art—he didn't bother trying to make it look tidy—but he felt like it represented his dream well.
He looked back at Richard and proudly nodded. His foster mom didn't always display his art. ("It's so evocative!" she had exclaimed. He didn't know what that meant, but she had given him a big kiss on the cheek, so it seemed like it meant that it was good.)
Richard got up, walked over to the drawing, and brought it to the coffee table, so they could both look at it closely.
"Tell me about this drawing," Richard requested.
John stayed silent, not sure how to explain.
"John, it's really important that you tell me."
He made himself talk. He hadn't really spoken today, and his voice was croaky as it warmed up. "I saw it in a dream."
"Tell me about this dream," Richard said, now looking very intensely at John. It scared him a little.
He tried to remember. Didn't Richard know that it was hard to remember dreams? Adults were weird sometimes. "Two men were friends. But one of them was secretly a bad guy and wanted to hurt his friend. They had a big fight. Like Captain America and Red Skull. Pow pow pow!" He punched the air with his fists.
"I only see one person in the picture, John."
"No, there are two," said John. He felt confused. Was his drawing so bad that Richard really couldn't understand it?
Richard had a pained but patient smile. "Well, I don't see the second man, John. Can you show me both of them?"
"Here's the first man," he pointed to the man lying down in the drawing. "The bad man had a big mustache and beard," he patiently explained in case Richard was struggling to understand his drawing.
"And the... what did you call him? Captain America? Where is he?"
John pointed at the smoke. "But he's not actually like Captain America because Captain America is a good guy. These guys are both kind of bad. But especially 'Red Skull'."
Richard looked rapidly from John to the drawing and back again. "And this man in the smoke, does he have a name?"
John shook his head. "His mother didn't name him. He's an orphan. Like me."
Richard turned pale. "And the other man?" Richard motioned at the prone figure. "What was the 'Red Skull's' actual name?"
He wrinkled his nose. "I don't really remember. But it was a weird name. Key... key something."
Hurriedly, Richard started taking his items off the table and placing them back in his satchel. "I have to go," he said.
"But you didn't show me the rest of the things in your bag." John tried to keep the whine out of his voice. He knew that good boys didn't whine. But he wanted to see the comic book and whatever else might be in the bag.
"I'm sorry, John. I have to go." Richard threw on his coat and hat and hurried out into the rain. He left with John's drawing folded and stuffed into his coat pocket.
Notes:
I am very excited for the next few chapters! I plan to provide a couple of "fixes" to some plot points that really bothered me. For this chapter, it was very important to me that Burt and Irving actually kiss. It won't be the last time that they'll kiss in this fic, I'm sure :)
Credits:
Thanks to the Severance Wiki and Lostpedia for transcripts, which provided some of the dialogue in this chapter.
Locke's drawing was taken from Lost S04E11 "Cabin Fever" and then modified by me (to add the mustache and beard, and also make it look like it'd been folded in Richard's pocket). The original is here. The image of Burt and Irving on Graner’s monitor is, of course, my edited version of a still from the show. And thanks to this resource for help with the CSS styling of the text messages.
My understanding of Lutheran beliefs about predestination and heaven is informed by various online resources. It bothered me that Severance seemed to misrepresent Lutheran beliefs (based on my limited understanding of them), so I wanted to explore why Burt and Fields believe that outie Burt won't go to heaven. (Any misunderstanding of those beliefs are, of course, my own.)
Chapter 8: Destination Part 2: Drive
Summary:
Some secrets of the Swan are revealed, the prisoner is confronted, plans are made, and Burt has a difficult choice to make.
Notes:
Hello! I just finished a move to another part of my country for a new job, so things have been hectic, but also I had to think a bit about how to tell the story I wanted to tell in this chapter. We're finally getting to the point where the plot diverges considerably from the shows—changes are rippling out and changing things in exciting ways.
This chapter draws from the episodes Lost S02E17 Lockdown (and uses some dialogue from it) and Severance S01E07 Defiant Jazz.
The chapter includes a canon-compliant death. If you've watched Defiant Jazz (and hopefully you have?), then you know what’s coming.
The end notes give some (spoiler-filled) commentary about why I picked what may seem like a somewhat disconnected quote about Freud at the beginning of the chapter. In the opening quotes of the chapters, I have had a lot of fun with creating bricolage made up from various quotes, songs, and other bits of media that are rattling around in my brain. So, I hope you will forgive how self-indulgent I have been with these opening quotes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"[Freud's theorization of] the death drive is concerned with something other than the death that brings organic life to an end. Unlike an instinct, which is exhausted by the attainment of its aim or object, the drive is unbound, having no object or aim and thus no limit (including death itself)—whence the interminable character of repetition compulsion and the unlimited return of trauma. [...] "The theory of the drives," [Freud] writes, "is so to speak our mythology. The drives are mythical entities, magnificent in their indefiniteness" (New 95)."
—Introductory Note: Constructing the Death Drive by Tracy McNulty, 2017.
"Because tonight there will be no sleep
Tonight it comes for me
Please, help them understand
I've become the voices in the fan"
—Voices in the Fan by Devin Townsend on Ocean Machine: Biomech, 1997.
"John," the man with the large mustache said in greeting, his eyes frozen lakes that glittered with recognition, shining up from the frigid waters below the ice rind. "You came." His voice reminded John of the smell of damp, rotting wood, and yet, as he inhaled, he found it was a sickly sweet, medicinal taste coating his tongue. He involuntarily swallowed and realized his mouth was unbearably dry.
The man sat on a log in a forest clearing, the snow in piles around him, creeping up his legs like boots, sitting in mounds on his shoulders, forming epaulettes. A layer of frost had turned his blue uniform into a shade of grey that made John's mind itch like rough wool.
"No... no... not you again." John slowly backed away, snow crunching underfoot.
The heel of Locke's shoe hit a root, and he began falling backwards. He briefly thought he could steady himself, but then, with sickening horror, he knew he was going down. When his back hit the ground, John reflexively winced, before belatedly realizing it didn't hurt nearly as much as he had predicted. Nor was his back as cold as he had expected.
"You helped lead me here, John. Thank you."
Locke opened his eyes. The snow was now sand.
He was on the Island.
"No!" John tried to bellow, but it came out as more of a cry, a plea. He found with a detached surprise that he was weeping. "I don't understand."
The man smiled. "You're special."
John woke up.
I. The Island, 2004
He wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for the mustached man. If he hadn't been having nightmares for the last week, he would've been less sleep deprived and would have had better judgment. He wouldn't have been so desperate for someone else to help him enter the Numbers. But no, instead, a few days prior, he had gone to Hurley for help. He just needed someone to enter in the Numbers so he could sleep as much as the nightmares would let him. And when he asked Hurley, he had to tell him about the man they were now holding in the armory.
Hurley had said the Numbers were evil and Locke had laughed in disbelief, which had just pissed Hurley off. But eventually, he agreed to do it. Just for a few days, enough time for John to get some rest.
Hurley, who had always been so kind, so trustworthy. His hands shook as he thought about how wrong he had been. Locke hoped Henry didn't notice.
"So, let me see if I got this right. You didn't see Hurley talk to anyone on the computer, so you're not sure if he actually did?" John asked, trying to sound casual while looking around for things that could support a massive amount of pressure without buckling. The blast door leading into the hallway was only about an inch off the ground, but if he shoved enough things underneath the door, maybe he could raise it up enough that he could crawl or slip under.
"That's correct," Henry responded while joining Locke in casting around the room. Gale spied some metal kitchen implements and messily stacked them by the door. John wasn't convinced that much of the kitchenware would be helpful, but he appreciated Henry's attempt at helping. The man was still quite weak from the arrow and Sayid's "talk" with him.
"What did Hurley learn from the people he was speaking to on the computer?"
"He didn't tell me much. Just something about being locked in an office, doing something with numbers."
"Like spreadsheets?"
"I don't know."
"But they weren't entering the Numbers into a computer?"
"What? I don't know what that means, but if you mean whatever it is that you people do with the computer, I have no idea." He sounded almost petulant, but John pressed on, ignoring Henry's frustration over the onslaught of questions.
"And you didn't learn anything else from him?"
"No."
"And what happened next, after you stopped talking with him?" Locke asked, while taking some hardy-looking books off of the shelf, checking first for anything hidden behind them or between the pages before sticking a bunch of novels into a mound of miscellaneous objects from the 70s. It brought to mind old trash heaps unearthed by archeologists.
"When he was done using the computer, the blast doors went down."
"And Hurley didn't say what caused them to go down?"
"No, but—"
"Grab the bar from the weight set." When Henry brought it to Locke, John commanded, "Put it under the door. Quickly."
John strained to apply pressure with the crowbar to lift the door up enough that the barbell would fit. When Henry deftly slipped the weight set bar underneath, Locke released the crowbar and sat on the floor, exhausted. "Good, we're making some progress," he said, breathing heavy.
After a moment, he caught his breath and returned to the topic at hand, "Afterward, Hugo asked you not to tell anyone?"
"Yes."
He frowned. "That doesn't sound like Hugo."
"He was worried he was going a little... you know."
"No, I really don't, Henry." He did, but he needed Gale to explicitly say it. "Enlighten me."
"Crazy. He was worried he was delusional."
"And why would he worry about that?" John asked sharply.
"Well, I don't know! I assume because it seemed implausible that the computer would be hooked up to the Internet."
But that didn't sound implausible to Locke at all. He recalled the cut film from the Swan orientation movie that Mr. Eko had found; Dr. Marvin Candle had said:
"Now, do not attempt to use the computer for anything else other than the entering of the code. This is its only function.
"The isolation that attends the duties associated with Station 3 may tempt you to try and utilize the computer for communication with the outside world. This is strictly forbidden. Attempting to use the computer in this manner will compromise the integrity of the project and worse, could lead to another incident. I repeat, do not use the computer for anything other than entering the code."
Henry didn't need to know about that bit of film. John knew that he would be able to tell if and when he could reveal the information.
Henry continued, "But I barely know the guy. How much do you really know him, John?"
"In some ways, I don't," he agreed. "But who we were before the Island doesn't matter. It's who we are now that does. And I know him a hell of a lot better than I know you. I'm going to ask to him about it."
"Don't. Please. He'll know I told you." Henry sounded pathetic, but in that moment, Locke couldn't muster sympathy for the man.
John used the barbell to lift the door up a bit more. "Get the toolbox." He motioned toward where it was behind him with a jerk of his head, before continuing the conversation. "Well, you shouldn't have said anything, then." He felt like he was a high school teacher scolding a naughty child.
"I—"
"Hurry up! I can't hold this up much longer!" The bar from the weight set was better than the crowbar, but John was still struggling to get leverage.
Henry shoved the toolbox under the door, and Locke let go of the bar. The door bent the lid of the box a little, but it didn't crush it entirely. He might be able to lie on his back and scoot underneath, but... first, he needed to finish this conversation with Henry.
"I think there's something you're not telling me. I only agreed to protect you because I thought you would tell me the truth." Locke looked at Henry critically.
"I'm being honest." The reply came a bit too quickly for Locke's taste.
"That's not what I said. I said, 'tell me the truth'. And I mean the whole truth. Think harder about what Hurley said and about any details that might be relevant."
"There was something about taming tempers? I don't know what it meant, but it sounded like old-timey medicine." Henry laughed nervously and busied himself with shoving more items underneath the door as he spoke. "That's all I know." He looked at John. "Really."
And then, the insistent beep of the countdown reminded John that the computer would need to be dealt with soon. "Shit!" He knew that the clock only started beeping within the last four minutes of the countdown. They had spent more time than he had hoped trying to lift the door up.
He would have to crawl through the vents to drop into the room with the computer if the doors didn't go up soon. Ignoring the computer was a not a choice John was willing to make.
"Henry, get back into the armory."
"John—"
"Do it!"
"You need me. You can't lift the door alone, John."
"Don't tell me what I can't do!" John roughly shoved Henry into the armory and closed the door.
John leaned against it and let out a long, anxious and exhausted sigh. Yet again, he was struck by how the room felt like a time capsule. He imagined prying open the blast door and being made anew in the future world outside the station.
Invigorated by that image, he finally walked away from the door and started climbing the wobbly shelves underneath a dust tinged ceiling vent. John yanked off the grill that was covering it and threw it on the ground. He looked up into the cavern of the duct. He wasn't thrilled with the idea of going into such a tight space, but he decided he would just pretend like he was in Die Hard. He always dreamed of being an action hero. And now, here he was.
Except, when he tried to climb in, it became clear that his shoulders were too wide. It was like trying to cram a sleeping bag into a storage sack that was slightly too small. It might've been possible to crawl in, but he had this unshakeable fear that he'd never get out.
But with his slight figure, Henry might be able to do it.
John opened the armory door reluctantly, embarrassed to have to ask for the man's help a few moments after shoving him into his cell.
Henry was sitting calmly, his back leaned against the wall. He opened his eyes and looked up at John with hope.
"I need you to climb through the vent and enter the Numbers into the computer." Again, John left no room for argument.
"What are the Numbers?"
Ah. Right, Henry wouldn't know. They had quickly become such an integral part of Locke's life that it seemed unthinkable that anyone would not have the Numbers memorized. "4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. You enter them and press 'execute'. It has to be exactly those numbers in exactly that order. Now, do you..."
"4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42. I got it."
John carefully looked at Henry. "Thank you."
He boosted Henry up to the vent. Henry might've gone up using the shelves as Locke had done a moment ago, but they were precarious, and John didn't want to risk them falling over or breaking underneath Henry.
Henry scampered into the vent. Locke heard the thumps and clangs of Gale crawling, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then there was the clang of another grill falling to the floor, followed up by a loud thud when Henry dropped down into the computer room.
Soon, the one minute alarm started sounding—a louder, more urgent noise than the alarm that sounded at four minutes. He tried not to panic as it went on and on.
"Henry? Henry, can you hear me?" No response. "Henry!" he shouted louder.
Silence. This was bad. "4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42!" he called out in case Henry had forgotten. "Don't forget to hit 'execute'!"
And when the alarm was abruptly cut off, John heard the noise of the counter flipping back to 108 minutes, as he had heard so many times since they had opened the hatch. It was the soundtrack of his life now.
Suddenly, the lights in the station shut off with no warning, throwing John into a moment of disorienting pure darkness. Black lights switched on—lights that he hadn't even known were in the station—and he stared in wonder at how the door they had been trying to open came alive under their glow. In neon was a map of the Island with annotations, some in print using English, others written in cursive in what he thought might be Latin. They were like the ravings of a mad hermit drawn on a cave wall.
They were beautiful.
The outline of the map was a blue octagon, similar to the Dharma logo, with what appeared to be different stations drawn in red. One was the Swan (with a helpful "I AM HERE" written by it); the others were the Flame, the Staff, and the Arrow, and there what appeared to be unnamed stations, as well as one crossed out station that was simply labeled with "UNKNOWN". At the center, was a large red question mark in a dazzling yellow circle.
In that strange, otherworldly glimmer of the black light, he ran and grabbed paper and a pen before deciding to also grab an electronic point-and-shoot camera that he had found in someone's luggage. After a false start (he had triggered the camera's flash, which drowned out the black light), he started rapidly taking as many pictures as possible. He planned on zooming in on the pictures later using the camera's screen so that he could carefully replicate the map on paper.
John's photograph of the blast door map.
As suddenly as they had turned off, the regular lights came on and the blast doors shot up, leaving Locke feeling lost, clutching his paper and pen like a small boy holding a drawing to show his parents.
The time capsule was open.
"Henry?" He spotted the man calmly sitting in front the computer. "What did you do? What did you do to end it—to make the doors go up?" he demanded.
"I just did what you told me to. I entered the Numbers and the timer reset. The lights went off. And then not long after, the doors went up."
"Do you think the lockdown happened for a reason?" Surely it couldn't have just randomly happened?
"Don't look at me; it's your hatch."
John frowned. He looked down at the image on the camera's screen again.
"Henry, do you know any Latin?"
"I don't. Why do you ask?"
"Don't worry about. It's nothing." Mr. Eko probably knew some Latin. Yet more evidence that the Island had brought them together for a reason.
Upon hearing the noise of people walking loudly, Locke whirled around to see that Jack, Sayid, Ana Lucia, Charlie, and Kate were entering through the hallway, practically tripping over all of the items that he and Henry had piled around where the door had been.
He knew how this tableau looked, with Henry outside of the armory—it probably seemed like he was freeing Henry without consulting Jack.
And, indeed, Jack's response to seeing Henry sitting at the computer and Locke standing next to him was predictable.
Jack ordered, "Get away from him."
"No, no, it's okay—" Locke began.
And then, Sayid raised his gun.
II. Ganz, PE, 2022
With Graner in the backseat, Burt drove in the oppressive silence to Ganz College. It was cold. It was always so cold in Kier. In that frozen land, the sickly shine of his headlights illuminated the sparkling filthy snow piled up on the sides of the winding roads.
It had been so long since he had driven for Lumon. But it was easy to fall back into his role as a driver. Too easy. It felt like slipping on the leather gloves that he had worn in. Comforting in its familiarity, even though he knew that he was enveloped by death.
The silence in the car was a chasm, and he was afraid of falling in. He turned on the radio, just loud enough to faintly hear the plink of the piano keys of some old jazz song. It was too quiet to make out what song it was, but it was nostalgic nonetheless.
A smattering of buildings disrupted the eternal frozen wastelands, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was something about the stretch of road between Kier and Ganz that felt surreal and haunted. He had half expected to see the ghost of a young woman hitchhiking on the side of the road.
But as they entered the town of Ganz, he felt the spell of Kier broken; his joints had finally warmed and the weight on his chest had lifted. The song on the radio changed to something more contemporary, as if to signal that he was no longer in fossilized space; he was reentering the natural flow of time.
Soon, the concrete buildings of the college campus came into focus. He slowed, waiting for Graner to finally speak and direct him to the exact building he needed to investigate. Following Graner's instructions, Burt pulled into a small parking lot lit faintly by street lamps. There was only one other car in it.
Graner checked his gun, concealed it, and stepped out of the car. "Come with me. I'm going to need you to wait in the hallway. I might need your help. This one is wily."
Burt had never assisted before. He didn't want to, either. "I'm just a driver, Mr. Graner." It came out more feebly than he had imagined. He already knew what Graner's response would be.
"Too bad."
Burt reluctantly followed him into the dark of the abandoned lab building.
III. The Island, 2004
The gun gleamed in the glow of the Swan's lamps as Sayid expertly adjusted his aim. "Step back, right now."
Locke raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Sayid, it's okay." John looked over his shoulder and nodded slightly at Henry, who was frozen in front of the computer, avoiding any movement lest he alert a pride of lions to his presence. "It's all okay."
Jack walked over and shoved Henry, sending both Gale and the chair toppling onto the floor. "I said, 'get away'!" For perhaps the first time, John felt some genuine discomfort at their treatment of the man. Was this who they wanted to be? Were these base instincts what they had been reduced to?
"Stop! I let him out; there was some kind of lockdown or something. He was helping me. And... and he had some additional information that could help us." He looked to Kate, the one person he thought he might be able to persuade to help him. Jack, Sayid, Ana Lucia, and Charlie were lost causes. "Get Hurley."
"No, stay here," Jack commanded, not looking back at Kate.
"Kate, please!" Locke yelled.
Kate swiftly looked back and forth at the two of them. "I can make my own decisions," she answered sternly, not willing to get in the middle of whatever was going on between Jack and Locke. "I'll be back soon," she said to Jack.
Gale sat up. "Couldn't you find my balloon?" he asked hopefully.
Ana Lucia replied, "Yeah, we found it."
Locke couldn't understand what was going on—surely finding the balloon was a good thing, but Ana Lucia's voice was cold and accusatory; granted, she almost always sounded that way. He wondered what she had been like before the crash. She and the rest of the tail section had been through too much. Far too much.
"We did find your balloon, Henry Gale, exactly how you described it." Sayid stepped towards Henry, who recoiled slightly. "We also found the grave you described—your wife's grave. The grave you said you dug with your own bare hands. It was all there. Your whole story—your alibi—it was true."
Henry breathed a sigh of relief, but Sayid continued, "But still, I did not believe it to be true. So I dug up that grave and found that there was not a woman inside. There was a man." He handed a man's driver's license to Locke. "A man named Henry Gale."
The man shown on the license was indeed named Henry Gale, but he clearly was not the man John had known as Henry. The person in the picture was a middle-aged Black man.
"I... I can explain!" the man whose name John no longer knew called out.
John was furious. But, he had sworn that he wouldn't let any harm come to this their prisoner, and so, with some reluctance, John stepped in front of Sayid, who had been quietly advancing. "You can't hurt him. I gave him my word. I don't know who he is, but... he helped me."
"I really don't care what he did," Jack snapped before turning back to the prisoner. "You have one chance to tell me what I want to know." He didn't need to articulate the threat for it to hang heavy in the air. The vagueness possibly made it even more ominous. Jack continued, "Who are you?"
The man gulped audibly, eyes darting between the people assembled before him before settling on John. "My... My name is Ben Linus. It's true; I'm one of the people that you called, what was it... the Others?"
"I knew it. Their leader," Ana Lucia hissed.
"No, no. I'm not the leader. He's brutal. He'd kill me if he knew I was telling you any of this. Don't you see why I had to lie? Anything you would do to me can't possibly be as bad as anything he might do. You can't even imagine. They have this... this room they take people to, to 'reeducate' them." He shuddered. "I don't want to go end up there. I can't. And so, I need you to believe me when I say that I am not your enemy. Just like you, I want to stop him. His tyranny cannot go unchecked. Not any longer."
"And how do we do that?" Kate asked.
"First, we save that boy he took. None of us would openly oppose him, but many of us thought what he did was beyond cruel."
Locke's eyes grew wide. "Walt?"
Ben nodded sadly.
Ana Lucia grabbed Ben roughly, holding him up by his shirt. "What makes you think that we'd believe you? And why Walt? What makes Walt different from all the other people stolen—why do you now suddenly have a conscience?" The hurt in her voice was raw.
"Walt is special." He looked at John again. "I think you understand what I mean. He's special like you are."
John's whole life, people had told him he was special. Richard, his birth mother... and now Ben. Despite all of Ben's lies, in this moment, he felt seen. John wanted to believe him.
Ben continued, "And he is important for their plan. But, by saving him, we can upend their plans."
"You're just trying to lead us into a trap," Ana Lucia accused.
"I believe him," Locke interjected. He couldn't explain why, but it felt right.
"You're just saying that because he flattered you. I'm sorry, but you're not special, John. None of us are." Jack's expression softened, and he added, "Not to people like him."
John shook his head. "I don't know what you mean, and in fact—"
Jack's brief moment of empathy for John passed as quickly as it had arrived. "Get out of the way, John," Jack snapped.
"Dude, don't," Hurley called out from where he stood with Kate at the entrance to the computer room.
Locke looked to Hurley. "I think it's time for you to share everything that happened."
"Um. I don't..." Hurley shuffled his feet slightly, not making eye contact with any of them. "I don't know what you're talking about, dude."
Locke gave Hurley a pointed look.
"Okay, fine." Hurley folded quickly. "Kate told me there was a lockdown. Well, there was another lockdown when I was in here before. I asked Henry or whatever his name is to..." his voice lowered in shame "...keep it a secret. Because I thought maybe I was..." he trailed off.
When it became clear that Hurley was unwilling to finish the sentence, Jack looked over at Locke, "And you also knew about this?"
Locke ignored him and nodded to Hurley. "Go on. Tell them about the computer."
After swallowing nervously, Hurley relayed his story while the other Flight 815 survivors chimed in from time to time with questions. Once they were all caught up, Sayid began questioning Linus about the extent of his deception—what information had he hidden during his encounters with Hurley and Locke?
"Did you know that the computer could connect to the outside world?" Sayid asked.
"No," Ben replied. "It should only be able to connect to the internal network."
"And what does the computer connect to?"
"There's other stations. One called the Flame might be how messages are getting out. It connects all of the other stations and also has connections to the outside world."
"If we could talk to the outside world, we could be rescued!" Charlie exclaimed.
"Wait, Hurley, why couldn't the people you talked to on the computer help us?" Ana Lucia asked suspiciously.
"I..." Hurley blushed. "I think there's time travel involved."
Linus laughed. "I'm sorry, Hurley, but I don't think that could be true. It's 2004. You haven't traveled in time."
"Well, why did the people on the other end think it was the 2020s, then?"
"I don't know. It sounds like they were being manipulated and lied to."
"Kind of like you're doing to us now," Kate quipped.
Ben just smiled.
"You will draw us a map so that we can get to the Flame," Sayid commanded.
"I have a picture of a map, actually," John chimed in. "It was painted on a blast door. It was revealed when the black lights came on." John handed the camera to Jack so he could see what Locke was talking about.
"Did you know about the blast door map?" Jack asked Ben.
"I'd heard about it, but I've never seen it myself."
Jack zoomed in on part of the image on the camera's screen. "What's this unknown station?"
"What?" Ben asked. Jack held the camera in front of Ben's face. "Oh, that. That's just a rumor. Probably a joke."
Sayid gave him a sharp look.
"Really, I don't know what it is! Don't hurt me."
Sayid began his approach again.
"Please. Don't hurt me. I'll... I'll do anything... I... I can be helpful! Let me explain my plan for saving Walt." Ben looked to Hurley as though he were his savior. "And then it's time for the favor."
"Favor? You made a deal with him?" Ana Lucia spat out in disgust.
"I didn't... I... it wasn't like..." Hurley turned to Linus, rage flashing across his face. "You lied to all of us. I'm not doing you any favors, dude. You didn't even keep my secret."
"You don't understand. Please... my plan..." Ben sounded defeated.
"We'll make a plan. We don't need his." Ana Lucia was practically vibrating from rage.
"Please, listen. If we go to the Flame, we can learn what's happening. And we can sabotage the tech they use to protect their town. It's all networked, with the Flame as the central hub. So, we go there, disable the cameras, the sonar fence, and the electronic lock on Walt's door. Once it's deactivated, another team gets in and out. They only have a couple of guards at night."
"A prison break," Ana Lucia muttered. "This guy thinks he knows how to do it because he's seen a few movies. It's not so simple."
"She's right. And even if this plan was a good one, what's in it for you?" Sayid asked. "What's this favor you wanted?"
"I get asylum. And I get off this island. I want to see my family." Then Ben turned to Ana Lucia. "And yes, you're right, it's not so simple. But be that as it may, I am sure that, together, we could make it a better plan."
"Your family?" Charlie repeated.
"I wasn't always on this island, you know. They tricked me and my wife into coming here. She's a doctor. She gets the fancy jobs, and I'm just along for the ride. I do I.T. I'm... I'm a nobody. But there was this man, Richard, who recruited us. He didn't tell us we'd never get to leave. We just want to see our daughter. She's back in San Diego. And if we can get into the Flame, maybe... maybe I can send a message to her. Let her know that we're alive."
Ben was providing too many details. Locke had heard once that was a sign of a lie. And yet, they didn't have another plan for saving Walt.
"This is a trap," Charlie said, stating the obvious.
"Agreed. We shouldn't do this. We'll find another plan. We'll save everyone. Zach, Emma, Cindy. Everyone," Ana Lucia said.
"Saving them all would complicate things considerably," Linus retorted. "In part because Cindy has defected."
"I don't care," she snapped. "We save everyone."
"And what about Michael?" Charlie asked.
"My people have him."
"Okay, we save him too," Ana Lucia said.
John's mind was going so fast that it took him a moment to register everything that was being said. "Wait, did you say 'Richard'?" John asked. The odds that this was his Richard were slim, and yet... everything across his whole life seemed connected to the Island.
As a child, he had had this reoccurring daydream that Richard had come to him, adopted him, given him the permanent home he craved. He did come back for John, multiple times in his life, but he had never stayed long. He would just ask him a few questions about the men in the drawing that he barely remembered drawing. And then Richard would leave him again.
"Yes, John. Richard Alpert. Why? Do you know him?"
"I... I'm not sure." It was feasible that someone else could have that name. Besides... "The man I'm thinking of... he'd be quite old."
Ben smiled enigmatically. "Oh, Richard is very old."
So, it was his Richard. Another sign. He didn't know if he could trust Ben, but he did trust the Island. He nodded. "Alright. It's decided. We go to the Flame."
Jack shook his head. "No, it is not decided. I can't believe this. We can't trust him."
It devolved into bickering. But John ignored it. He had started making his own plan.
IV. Ganz PE, 2022
The muffled sounds of a struggle from inside the room were too much for Burt. He hated the idea of Graner attacking anyone—but especially a woman. It was too much.
Carefully sticking to the shadows away from the dim, flickering lights of the abandoned building, he crept into the room. He wasn't sure what he would do to stop Graner—how far he would go to save this woman—but he had to do something.
"Good, you're here," Graner said, breathing heavy. He sounded almost exhilarated. "Help me bring her to the car."
The tableau presented to him was unexpected. Graner was covered in blood, and the plethora of bruises and lacerations on his face and the crimson anthesis on his white shirt were testaments to how hard he had been fought off. But somehow, Graner had been victorious. He was standing over a Black woman who didn't look terribly hurt, but she was crumpled on the floor like some discarded tissue.
Not without some pain from his present condition, Graner put his hands underneath the unconscious woman's armpits to lift her up. "Take her feet."
Burt took a step forward and then thought better of it. "Mr. Graner, I—"
"I don't want to hear it. Do it."
He shook his head with more fearlessness than he expected he would ever have in a situation like this. "No. I won't do it."
"Listen, old man. You—"
Suddenly, the woman opened her eyes and slammed the back of her head into Graner's crotch. Graner dropped her, which caused him to lose balance and he tumbled to the floor with her.
"Fuck!" Graner yelled.
The woman's eyes flickered to a metal bat in the corner and then gazed at Burt with recognition and trust. "Burt, h... help."
She knew his name. But he didn't know her, which meant...
He knew what he had to do. He would bloody his hands if it would protect the people who treated Burt G. with even a modicum of dignity. He didn’t know if this woman was close with his innie, but he felt quite confident that however she treated him, Mr. Graner treated innies much, much worse.
He grabbed the bat, and, without thinking twice about it, he hit Graner on the side of the head. There was a loud, sickening "plink" noise and blood started pooling onto the floor.
He had never actually wounded someone before on the job, not personally. He never expected a Lumon man would be the first person he'd hurt. (No, that wasn't quite true. He had imagined attacking Graner before, if he was honest with himself. He despised the man.) It surprisingly didn't feel as awful as he had imagined.
But Burt couldn't keep his eyes away from the puddle that was growing. He stood like that for a long time, transfixed.
Finally, the woman crawled over to Graner and checked his pulse. After a moment, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"His pulse is weak. It'll be done soon. We need to go." She looked around. "But... my... my equipment..." the woman whispered hoarsely.
"Can you walk?" He finally tore his eyes away from the body to examine the room. There were far too many medical and electromagnetic apparatuses for him to carry the equipment and also support her weight.
From her position on the floor, she frantically groped around in Graner’s pockets and took his wallet and gun before unsteadily standing up. "I think so. We have to go."
"What about Graner?"
"His body? Leave it. We've made too much noise already. It's only a matter of time before the campus police come." She glanced at his gloved hands. "It'll probably be okay for you."
"And for you?" Her fingerprints must be all over the room.
She laughed bitterly. "In Kier, a fugitive from Lumon is a fugitive from the law. I have had a price on my head for a long time, as I think you well know."
He actually didn't know. Lumon never told him anything. But that was the whole point, wasn't it?
"What about cameras?"
"I disabled them. We need to go. Now."
He grabbed as much of the strange machinery as he could carry, and with the woman limping behind him—Graner must have done something to injure her leg or hip—they slowly made their way to the car. He put the equipment in the trunk and helped her into the back seat.
Burt decided he would take her to his home. It was the only thing he could think to do.
Notes:
Sometimes the characters just kind of surprise you when you're writing. Well, Burt surprised me here by taking Reghabi home. Poor Fields, always getting more than he bargained for.
Anyway. Regarding the quote at the beginning about the death drive, I'm not big on Freud, exactly, although some of his ideas can be fun to think with. But I felt here like the concept of the death drive was, well, a play on the fact that Burt has to drive Graner and also that there's a literal death in this chapter. But also arguably there's this drive towards self-destruction inherent in the very act of severance. And, well, the title of the chapter is a little less connected with the Lost plot line, but iykyk about Locke saying, "I don't understand" at the beginning of the chapter. The "unlimited return of trauma", indeed. (And the song lyrics also brought to mind Locke's fate in canon.) imo Locke is such a fascinating and tragic figure.
For the blast door map, I took an image from the show (thanks to Lostpedia), and I added some pixilation and a few other effects. The intent was to make it look as though the image was taken by a point-and-shoot camera from the mid-00s.
As always, thank you so much for reading! I'm excited for the next few chapters.
Chapter 9: (you must) return to yourself
Summary:
Fields asks Burt to make a hard decision, and Libby and Hurley share an evening together. Includes Libby flashbacks.
Notes:
This chapter has not been proofread yet by another person (as due to ADHD, I really struggle to see typos in my own work), so apologies in advance for any typos. That's my fault for getting too excited about putting the chapter out into the world.
Content notice for discussion about insecurities about weight, brief references to the AIDS epidemic in the US in the 70s/80s, discussion of cults, references to an abusive ex, and references to death of a spouse.
This chapter is footnote-heavy. None of the footnotes are necessary for enjoying the chapter, but they include some information to contextualize things for people who are less familiar with California. And they provide some references for some of the research I did for writing this chapter.
As for things that are semi-canon and thus may not be familiar to everyone: this chapter references the Lost mobisode, The Adventures of Hurley and Frogurt, and a deleted scene of Hurley and Libby (that I'm so mad was not in the actual show). Additionally, it features a bit of background on Olivia's story in the fictional Mysteries of the Universe semi-canonical "documentary".
The chapter also references some fan theories about Libby's backstory.
This is part of my "fix it" to Lost's plotline because damnit, Libby and Hurley are adorable and deserve to be happy. (Do I have a crush on Hurley? Yes, yes, I do.) So, I realllllly wanted to write a short chapter full of fluff and comfort and low stakes. As it turns out, this is the longest chapter yet, with lots of angst. But also, it has a few moments of levity and lots of important backstory/lore.
Sadly, given some other deadlines that I have, it'll probably take a bit longer for me to get the next chapter out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I followed the moon over the rooftops
To the silent salamander skies
Danced in the mist across the asylum
Where the sirens echoed in the snow
So many years ago
You must, you must believe in magic"
—Before the Helmets by Major Parkinson on Blackbox, 2017.
"Once you have found the door, it is always with you. You simply look for it and there it is. Finding it the first time is where the difficulty lies. [...] I eventually concluded that it was necessary to cleanse one's vision in order to see the door. To do this one must return to the place, the geographical location where one last believed the world to be fluid, responsive to oneself."
—Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, 2020.
I. Kier, PE, 2022
In his armchair, Fields waited for Burt. He drifted off to sleep while reading Piranesi, [1] his mind uncertain whether his life in Kier was real or if he was truly in another place, where a well-dressed man watched him from the giant windows in another wing, as Fields slowly explored endless white hallways that branched off into lonely, statue-filled rooms. There was no world outside of this labyrinthine building. He could hear the ocean surging and crashing in a lower floor of the structure, and he wanted to descend into the depths below. He looked back at the man, trying to inspect his features, but he now had his back to Fields. Somewhere, a door opened.
Fields' dream.
At first he thought the door was in the dream, but then he heard Burt's labored breathing.
Burt stood in the open doorway, his arm around a woman who swayed on her feet. Two things immediately struck Fields: first, the woman needed medical attention. Second, a reddish brown liquid speckled Burt's shirt, in a pattern that suggested it had splattered up at him. There was no question of what that liquid was. He had always suspected what Burt's job entailed, but to so clearly see the direct results of Burt's work made Fields feel a nameless fear and shame for being so willfully ignorant. But he knew he didn't have time to process that emotion.
He leapt into action. Burt tried to say something to him, but Fields couldn't hear it in his focus on the woman. Wordlessly—for he feared that if he said anything, he'd yell at Burt for engaging in a job that resulted in whatever had happened—he motioned for Burt to stop talking before turning back to the woman. He first examined her head—it seemed okay. Her spine seemed okay too. Fields saw that one of her legs had dark bruises rapidly blossoming and her ankle was likely sprained, but otherwise she wasn't in too bad of a way physically. She was, however, shaking slightly, probably from the psychological toll of what had happened.
When he finally spoke, it was to command Burt to grab a cold pack and a bag of frozen peas from the freezer. Burt helped her to the couch, and elevated her leg and placed the cold packs on it, causing her to hiss in pain. Fields used a kitchen timer to make sure that they wouldn't leave them on her for too long. And when he spoke to her (and only to her), he used techniques he learned while developing his bedside manner to calm her down. He supposed that you never really lost that skill, although he hadn't dealt with live patients since medical school. When her shaking finally subsided, Fields gave her some ibuprofen, and she fell into an uneasy sleep on the couch.
Fields rounded on Burt. "What the hell is going on?" he hissed, trying not to speak too loudly.
He wasn't mad that Burt had brought the woman to the house and thus potentially placed them all in danger. She was either Burt's intended victim—he gave himself permission to use that word because there was no point in obscuring the truth anymore through euphemisms or rationalizations—or she was another Lumon employee that Burt had been working with. He had the feeling that the woman was not with Lumon; she didn't have the slick polish he associated with the Lumon employees that he had met. Even outside of work, they had this off-putting affect and strange way of speaking, but his limited conversation with the woman had been fairly normal. If she was a victim, then he believed that they had a duty to protect her from harm. So, no, he wasn't mad about that she was here; he was proud of Burt for doing what Fields assumed was the right thing.
But Burt should never have agreed to the job in the first place.
"I could explain, but it's better if you don't know. Lumon will be looking for her," Burt confirmed. "We need to keep her safe."
Fields let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Okay. We'll keep her here for now. I'll tend to her."
"Thank you."
"I need space," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice.
"Of course. I'll give both of you space while you take care of her. Thank you," Burt said.
"Yes, but I also meant space in general. I don't know what happened during your drive, but I do know that I'm scared of you for the first time. I have been angry with you many times in our decades together. But afraid? Never. After Roger, I swore I'd never be in a relationship where I feared my partner again. And then you came along, and... and I thought that I had found myself a good one. A bit of a scoundrel, but I loved that about you. You made me trust you, and I lowered all of my defenses. And I did trust you, I really did. After all this time, I never thought I would feel the same fear with you. What a fool I've been. I'm too old to be this naïve." Perhaps it was unfair to compare him to his abusive ex without learning from Burt what had happened. For all Fields knew, he was misinterpreting the events of the night. But once Fields had started speaking, it had all come out and now he couldn't take it back. And he would have to deal with the consequences of what he had said.
Burt nodded, unable or unwilling to make eye contact. The silence stretched on. It started to piss him off. He had just said something incredibly vulnerable, and Burt didn't have the decency to respond.
"You don't have anything to say to that?" Fields asked sharply, frustration momentarily winning out over fear.
Finally, Burt softly asked, "What can I do to make things right?" In that moment, Burt seemed to age years, as the exhaustion finally appeared to hit him. Fields wanted to tell him that everything would be alright—that they would be alright. He wanted to embrace him. But he couldn't make himself do it. If he did, Burt would be let off the hook and he couldn't do that, not without more information.
"I understand that it's better that I don't know some things, but tomorrow you have to give me some information about your job. And you have to promise that you'll quit driving for them."
Without hesitation, Burt said resolutely, "Okay. I may not be able to quit immediately—it would look too suspicious. But I will quit within the month."
Burt looked shaken by whatever had happened, and Fields wanted to believe that it was not an act; he needed to know that all this time, he truly had understood who Burt was at his core. He needed to know that their entire lives together had not been built on lies. But even if Burt was being sincere, would he feel as committed to his decision when this ordeal faded into just another unpleasant memory? If that ever happened—the less skeptical part of Fields recognized that the events of this night might never leave Burt, and he wasn't sure if that would made him feel validated or devastated.
"You promise?" Fields asked.
"I promise."
II. The Island, 2004
The honey glow of the sunset was thickly slathered across everything it touched, and Libby could almost taste it. A humid breeze ruffled her hair. She carefully climbed up the coconut tree that was leaning almost 45 degrees from the ground. She wasn't wearing the ideal clothes, but she didn't mind the roughness of the bark on her skin. However, Libby was very aware that doing this in a dress was not practical for preserving some degree of modesty. Although Hurley, who was waiting below her, had already seen her underwear when they did laundry in the hatch anyway. [2] Okay, well, doing laundry wasn't the same thing as seeing her wearing her underwear, but she'd never been that self-conscious, and life on the Island had stripped away most semblances of privacy. It wasn't like there were changing rooms on the Island (except for the privacy now afforded by the hatch), and while one could change behind some trees, it was not always sufficient cover. Everyone had probably accidentally seen another survivor in a state of undress.
Hurley and Libby chatted like old friends as she climbed and scooted along, sharing gossip about other survivors. According to Hurley, Charlie said that he had heard a rumor that Jin could speak English perfectly, and that Jin and Sun liked to gossip about the things he overheard. Libby shared that she had heard that Sawyer sometimes slept clutching a stuffed animal that he had named and everything. She decided not to mention who had told her that rumor.
Finally, she reached the coconuts and started pulling them off and dropping them to the ground.
She suddenly had a memory of a similar scene in her past—she is climbing the tree with a boy. They are sharing theories about the hostiles. The boy turns back to her to say something. In her memory, his lips are moving but there is no noise. His glasses fall on the ground, and as he tries to climb down to get them, he falls off. She's too scared to go down because what if she falls too? She refuses to leave the branch for nearly an hour, and the boy sits on the ground and waits for her, even though his knees are skinned and he must be hungry. He keeps cracking jokes, trying to calm her down. They're not very good jokes; the boy is usually so serious. She is cold. Eventually, her father arrives and helps her down.
Libby looked down and started laughing at herself, again in the same situation. "Oh no, I'm like a cat. I don't know how to get down."
"Um. I could catch you?" Hurley offered uncertainly. He put the coconuts down on the ground, emptying his arms for Libby to jump.
Well, it's not exactly the same situation. In this moment, she felt safe.
"Okay. But I cannot be held responsible if I knock you over." She grinned and let go of the tree, and then she was suddenly in his arms. They were comforting, strong. He started to lean over so she could put her feet on the ground, but she stayed there with her arms around his neck a moment longer than she needed to. When she finally put her heels on the sand, she noticed that he left his hand on her back. She felt like a teenager again, unable to use her words and alight at every single touch, no matter how innocent, from her crush.
And then they were making eye contact, which was somehow more intense than being held in his arms. It was the kind of eye contact where she had to remind herself to breathe because looks like that promise a kiss, and maybe more.
But instead, Hurley finally looked away and said, "I have something to tell you."
Well that doesn't sound good. At all. She felt confident that he wasn't about to break things off with her, but she had a horrible sense of foreboding about what it could be.
"Oh. Well, let's sit down, and you can tell me." She gently smiled at him. "Whatever it is that you need to say, it's okay." And she was telling the truth.
As they sat together on a fallen log on the beach watching the dying light sprawling, sparkling playfully on the waves, Hurley told Libby about the lockdowns. They quietly contemplated the plan that the group had forged after the second lockdown. They had been unwilling to completely go along with the plan proposed by their captive, and so it had taken them a few days to come to a decision. Furthermore, Hurley told her that the man was confirmed to be one of the Others—Ben. Why had he joined the hostiles? And would he recognize her? She wasn't sure whether she would recognize him after all this time. But regardless, Libby knew that she would not be able to escape or deny her past for much longer. She just wasn't that good of an actor to keep secrets like this one. When she was younger, she had tried to bury her emotions at the bottom of the ocean, but when she would come up for air, her feelings bubbled up too. The more she tried to bury them, the more she needed to breathe. At a certain point, she just gave up, and floated on her back, feelings out in the open.
In the long silence that stretched on, Libby thought about grabbing Hurley's hand, but it didn't seem like the right time. Finally, Hurley turned to her. "I think I have to go with them to the Flame. They need me 'cause we might be able to learn more about the people trapped in that office. We're leaving tomorrow."
"You're not going without me." Her response came automatically but not flippantly. She had her reasons for wanting to go along, yes, but she also wanted to be there to help Hurley with whatever might come their way.
"But..."
"But what?"
"But it's not safe," he mumbled.
She lifted her eyebrows at him. "It's not safe for you either."
"Well... yeah... I guess you're right." He wouldn't make eye contact with her. "But I... I..."
She knew where he was going with this. "I can handle myself." She said it firmly but without irritation. Libby finally gently touched his hand, and Hurley blushed. "I wouldn't have gotten this far if I couldn't."
All of the tail section survivors could take care of themselves. They each had something inside of them that gave the strength and the will to not give up. Ana Lucia had her rage and a twisted desire to protect others that fueled her, Mr. Eko had his faith to keep him grounded, and Bernard had the promise of reuniting with Rose to keep him moving forward. And Libby? Sometimes Libby wasn't sure what had kept her from falling apart before they found the rest of the survivors. But she supposed it was her desire to understand her past. And she believed her mental health issues were, strangely, a form of armor. As strange as this situation was—much stranger than the Island she remembered as a child—she had lived through even more fantastical and terrifying things in her head.
"I know you're a badass. But if the worst happened... well, I just couldn't stand to lose you." Hurley's blush deepened.
She took a drink from the coconut, which had certainly been worth the trouble. "I couldn't stand to lose you either. I know we just met, but I just feel like I've known you for so much longer."
"Libby, I'm gonna be real with you. I'm scared. This is situation is really not good."
"I know. But we'll get through it together." She laced her fingers with his.
"Yeah," he said. Based on his demeanor in that moment, it seemed to be that optimism and pessimism were waging a battle within him. She knew him well enough to know which one would win the war.
Libby scooted closer to him. "So..."
"Hm?"
"If we go with the group to that other station, we might not have time for just the two of us for awhile. Maybe we could stay here for the night?"
"Oh. Um." Hurley seemed flustered. It was actually really adorable.
"I'm not reading this wrong, am I? Because if I am, I'm going to be really embarrassed." But she was quite confident that she was not.
"No, you're not... no. But... You sure you wouldn't prefer to be with someone else? Like... Sawyer?"
"That guy?" She could stop herself from laughing, even though she could tell Hurley was being serious. It was just such a ludicrous question. "He's an asshole."
"But he's hot, right?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed.
"I guess...? Why are you asking me this? Do you have a crush on him? Because listen I've been down this road with polyamory, and I can tell you, it can get messy."
When he didn't say anything in response, she added, "That was a joke, Hurley." Sort of.
"Yeah, yeah I knew that." He laughed, but it wasn't convincing. "It's just... there's Sayid, who is really handsome and beyond competent at everything he does, and Jack, who is a doctor and all leader-y and stuff, John is kinda rugged and has a cool scar, and um... maybe that's it because... well, Mr. Eko is a priest and Jin is married and Charlie is maybe dating Claire, and Michael is missing..."
Fuck, why was he being like this? "Are you done? Did you forget any men? What about Bernard? Or Paulo?" she snapped.
"Who?"
"And I'm not just interested in men, you know. So, I guess we need to start adding everyone else."
"Oh, I thought..."
"Well, you shouldn't assume. What is this about?" It came out harsher than she had wanted, but also he was being shitty, and he should know that.
"Sorry. You're right. It's just that Frogurt said there were other people who were interested in you..." [3]
Her anger subsided a little bit as she started to understand why he was acting this way. She knew how weird the dynamic was between Hurley and Neil. But she couldn't help herself from teasing Hurley a little bit. "Like who?"
"He didn't say. Well, other than him. But he implied there were lots of people."
"Well, damn, I guess I better start asking around." And then she saw the gutted expression on his face. "Hurley, are you jealous?"
"No."
"Really? Don't bullshit me. As a psychologist, I'll know." She winked. "That was also a joke."
"Okay, yeah, maybe a little bit."
"You have nothing to worry about. But also, I have a past. And I'm not ashamed of that. And I wasn't totally kidding about the polyamory thing either, although I'm not looking to do that right now. But if any of my past makes you upset, we're going to have a problem." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized that they were true in more than one way.
"It's not that. It's just that... we're not even, you're not even... my girlfriend. And I guess I don't know if you like me too..."
Her frustration softened a little. She leaned in and kissed him for the first time. It wasn't much more than a peck, but she let her lips linger for a moment. "I'm not your girlfriend?" she asked, forehead touching his.
"Oh." She was too close to see his mouth, but she could hear his smile ring out in that one syllable. She loved that smile.
"Let's stay the night here, okay?" Libby said, pulling away a little so she could see his smile.
"Yeah. I'd like that a lot. A lot a lot. But, um, when you say stay the night, do you mean... what do you mean?"
"We stay the night." And then she cocked an eyebrow mischievously. "And we see what happens."
"Oh. Oh." And then, "Can we take it slow?"
"Of course."
"It's just, maybe you'll change your mind about me."
"What do you mean?"
He sat in silence for a long time, wringing his hands and inhaling deeply while staring up at the sky, which had been cycling through different shades of a bruise, now settling on a deep purple. His eyes glistened. He took one big breath again and without looking at her, he said, "Well, y'know... if you see me, all of me, maybe you won't be attracted to me anymore. So, I just hope you'll get to really like me first. And maybe I can lose some weight too. Because I think people are attracted to me 'cause I'm funny and nice I guess, not for my body. All my life, I've been kind of just the fat comic relief guy. I know life isn't a TV show, but that's really how it feels. And I want to be more than just a joke. The way you look at me makes me think I am more than that. But..."
"Hurley, look at me." He did and he smiled a little bit at her, insecurities disappearing for a moment. She continued, "I am extremely attracted to you. And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you had to lose weight. I thought it was what you wanted, and I wanted to help."
"You didn't make me feel that way. It's just the message people send to me. I can see it when they look at me. And I hear it when they whisper behind my back. At least Sawyer is honest enough, in his way, to say it outloud."
"I'm sorry. People can be cruel and insecure and feel like they have to tear other people down."
He nodded. "Yeah. But, going back to what you just said—what do you like about me?"
"Well, you are funny and nice, yes, but you're also thoughtful and insightful about what people need. You keep everyone grounded. You aren't afraid to speak up when things don't seem right to you. You're a natural leader." She paused to collect her thoughts.
"Oh. So, it's not physical, but like... you like my personality?"
She gently laughed at the absurdity of the question. "No, I just hadn't finished listing things yet."
"Oh."
"I love how your hair curls, your strong arms, the color of your eyes and how I feel when you look into my eyes, how it feels to be close to you, snuggled up against you, I like your smile and I can't express how many times I've thought about kissing that mouth. And kissing other parts of you too." She actually felt her cheeks redden a little at that. "And although I have not seen you without clothes on, I am utterly positive I would be attracted to all of you."
When he was silent, with an expression she couldn't read, she raised her eyebrows at him. "Well, are you going to say what you like about me? That's how this generally works."
"I, uh... yeah. But I gotta do something first." And then he kissed her without abandon. She imagined that if she could astral project and see the two of them, they would look like a romance novel cover with how she was swooning. She resisted the urge to climb on top of him. He wanted to take things slow, and she would respect that, of course. And, besides, she didn't mind the build up.
After a few false starts, he finally pulled away and cleared his throat. "I like... I like everything about you. I like that I can be myself around you. I like that you believe me when I tell you stuff, even when it seems outlandish. You take my concerns seriously. You make me laugh. You encourage me to be brave. Also, you're really, really hot. I hope that's okay to say."
She laughed. "Yeah, it's more than okay."
"Good, because now that I have you as a girlfriend, I'm gonna say it a lot..."
She leaned her head on his shoulder and laughed again when his hair tickled her face.
Libby started feeling sleepy as she cuddled up next to Hurley, but she was awoken when Sawyer wolf whistled from where he was standing behind some bushes, like a creep, "Well, well, well. Gao Gao and the Flower Child together at last. Looks like you pulled it off, you son of a..."
She felt Hurley jolt awake. "Get out of here!" he yelled.
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. After I'm done taking a leak." Sawyer rolled his eyes, as if that was a completely unreasonable thing to ask of him.
"You're disgusting," Libby said.
"Wait, what's a Gao Gao?" Hurley asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. Libby didn't know either, but she was sure it was going to be some horrible insult.
"A giant panda at the San Diego Zoo. It means Tall Tall."
"I... why do you know that?" Hurley said suspiciously.
Sawyer zipped up his pants and shrugged. "I just really like pandas."
Once he left, Libby turned to Hurley. "I think he's trying to say that he likes you."
"I don't think that can possibly be true?"
"No, really. I think he wishes he could be your friend." She privately thought that some part of Hurley wanted to be friends too, despite how much he complained about Sawyer.
"Well, he's not very good at showing it," Hurley said huffily.
"Yeah. But I still think one day you could be friends, if you wanted to be." Sawyer certainly seemed to respect Hurley more now that Hurley had beaten him up. Not a great conflict resolution strategy, but in this one case, she'd give him a pass.
"I'm done talking about Sawyer. I want to know everything about you," he said, while gently petting her hair.
"Let's talk more in the morning, okay? I am really sleepy."
She would need to tell him. Soon.
III. Newport Beach, CA, 2000
Her whole life, Annabel Elizabeth—Libby—Goodspeed had been trying to get back to the Island. She didn't understand why, but perhaps it was because the Island was part of a happier time in her life. She imagined the urge to return was similar to how salmon felt. Libby had tried to return countless times—she hired private investigators; she tried to piece together the clues in her deceased mother's research, [4] pouring over her old papers and books; and, when a scientific approach didn't work, she turned to visiting psychics and tried astral projection. But the Island had never materialized.
She knew it existed. She knew it. Libby may have been crazy, but she wasn't about that. Still, she had learned the hard way that most people didn't believe her about the Island, and so she kept it to herself. But David believed her about the Island.
One morning, Libby sat at a table on one of the many flower-lined balconies of their beachfront property in Corona Del Mar, looking out at the ocean, when a deep ache for a time she could barely remember washed over her. It was unbearable. And so, over an exquisite breakfast made by their staff, Libby put down the spoon she had been raising to her mouth, and declared, "I think I need to try again." She didn't need to explain what she meant; David understood.
He simply asked, "Why now?"
"I can't explain it. I need to understand why my parents did what they did. But it's more than that, it's..." She hesitated and started fingering the packet of cigarettes on the table. She had picked up smoking as an excuse to step out of the endless galas and charity balls when she couldn't stand smiling and nodding, keeping her politics, hobbies, really anything that made her seem differen close to her chest. She really hadn't fared well behind the Orange Curtain. [5]
Why David liked those events and those people, she had no idea, but she didn't have to understand. She loved him for his kindness and easy laugh. And for his devotion to her. He was the first person who made her feel like she was truly safe. He wasn't saliciously fascinated by the trauma in her life, he didn't feel like he had to rescue her from the demons of her past—he simply loved her for who she was now. He made her feel safe when her whole life she had been afraid—afraid of the hostiles, of people outside of the cult she later joined, of people within the cult once she left it. She was no longer afraid, but she still desperately wanted to belong somewhere. But no matter how idyllic, Orange County was never going to be home.
She found that every day they were together while she was away from the Island, she was losing a small part of herself, and it was harder and harder to tear the mask off. But she didn't want to say it because she knew it would crush him.
She shook her head, unwilling to finish the sentence. "I just wish I knew how to get there. There must be methods to go there intentionally, but also I think I may be able to get there if the Island wants me there."
He grasped her hand. "Okay. The sailboat. Let's take the Elizabeth. We'll take as many trips as possible, give the Island as many chances as possible to bring us to it."
"You'd go with me?"
He made eye contact with her. "Yes. I'd go with you to the ends of the earth."
"It might literally be there," she said, staring out at the waves again.
"Well, that sounds pretty far then. I guess we don't have time to waste." He grinned.
"I'd really prefer to take a plane. No chance of drowning."
"Well, just think about it, okay?"
"It might not work, you know."
"Sure, but what's the good of being fabulously wealthy if I can take lots of trips with my wife, hoping to get shipwrecked on a mystical island?"
"I love you."
IV. Kier, PE, 2022
In the following days, his complicated feelings towards Burt never entirely subsided; they were like a bit of elastic that had been stretched so much that now it could never regain its form. He could tell that Burt was dodging answering his questions. But despite that, they had all fallen into an easy rhythm.
Burt was wicked.
Reghabi was acerbic.
And he was keeping the peace between them.
It honestly reminded him of the little house they had lived in the Castro [6] with a lesbian couple. He assumed Reghabi would not be sticking around much longer, but for now, there was something comforting about yet again being in such a household.
As they did almost every night, Burt and Fields lay in bed, reading; Burt was engrossed in some thriller, while Fields tried to read Hearts in Atlantis. His mind kept wandering. He read the same passage over and over again before giving up.
Ted set the pop down on the table and lifted the caps with his churchkey. Then he lifted his bottle and clinked it against Bobby's. "To your new friends on the island."
"What island?"
Ted Brautigan smiled and shot the last cigarette out of a crumpled pack. "You'll find out," he said.
He shut the book.
"Attila. What do you think about what our guest has been proposing?". It was a conversation he'd tried to have with Burt multiple times since Reghabi had arrived, but each time, Burt would say a sentence or two and shut down. Fields felt like a monster for bringing it up yet again, and he told himself this would be the last time he'd say anything about it. It wasn't his decision to make.
"I still think it's a bad idea," Burt said, not looking up from his book.
"Why?
Eye contact, finally. "Wouldn't reintegration be killing his soul? And my soul too?" Burt put his open book facedown on the bedside table and took off his reading glasses.
"Maybe. But I've been thinking about it, and I don't think it's so simple. You know, Janus, the Roman god of doorways..."
Burt burst out laughing, "Um. No, I really don't, Atilla. But I'll buckle in for whatever ride you're taking me on." He touched Fields' hand. "I do enjoy it when you go on rambles like the one that I can you're about to go on. Just try not to go so fast that I can't keep up." [7]
Fields smiled. For a moment, things felt normal between them. "Well, he was one deity with two faces pointing in different directions—the god of thresholds, transitions, liminal spaces, even the beginnings of time. Of course, there are a number of other deities and mythical figures in various cultures that have somewhat similiar functions—twins that protect doorways, such as Lugal-irra and Meslamta-ea, [8] who guard the gates to the underworld, or twins that pose as cautionary tales of what happens when transgressing walls, such as Romulus and Remus... [9] and other cultures outside of those regions that also have gods with multiple faces, but I think Janus is particularly fascinating. It's thought that the ancient Romans might have even believed that he was a deity that had a uranic power; in other words, in other words, he had to do with cosmological creation. Now, why do I bring him up?"
"No idea, Attila," Burt said with a grin.
"Because you can't separate out the faces—it's like how a doorway doesn't have sides."
"A doorway certainly has sides."
"A door, yes, but... a doorway? It's all one thing."
"I think this is semantics."
"I beg to differ. But regardless, you may have two souls within your body, but the body is the doorway. If they're both residing inside your physical form, then they're inextricably tied together. Death of the body ends both souls. But life? Life doesn't happen all at once for both of them. But no matter what, they are still are bound together by the functioning of the body. But I think through the mind as well. You may think you're entirely separate, but he was always in you and you in him. You just seem separate because you and him may look in opposite directions, never destined to gaze at the same place at the same time or even to look at one another."
Burt rubbed his the bridge of his nose. "I'm having trouble following. So now you don't agree that innies have their own souls?"
"I'm not sure. I think I do still believe that, but I also think that the line between souls isn't as clear as I thought. Alright, so maybe I shouldn't have started with Janus. Quantum entanglement might have been more apt... the states of particles cannot be described independently from one another, right? So, your souls may be separate in some respects, but I think they're co-constitutive. Karen Barad [10] said that—"
Burt held up a hand. "Okay, at this point, I think you're just trying to be incomprehensible, and I'm going to go to sleep if this continues. Honestly, it's amazing to me that you decided that medical examiner was the correct career path for you, because clearly you missed your calling."
Fields sighed in mock frustration. "These are big metaphysical issues! I don't know how to not be like this about them."
"But even if your impenetrable analogies were accurate, that doesn't necessarily mean that I should reintegrate."
He considered Burt's words. He really didn't have an answer to that. It was comfortable relying on analogies, mythologies, and philosophy. But engaging with these questions on a visceral and practical level was much more difficult for him. "Maybe. I don't know. I just know that what Reghabi has said, about how you're not so different down there, it... it just makes me wonder if staying the course is the right thing. Will you consider reintegration?"
"You wouldn't miss me?" He sounded genuinely hurt.
"You'd still be there," Fields responded, privately wondering if that was true.
"Maybe. But neither of us—him and me—would live independently from each other anymore—"
"But I don't think you do live independently, even now."
"—And he deserves to have his own life. I can't take that away from him."
"But if what Reghabi has said was true, then... If he's truly being tortured, then he also deserves to be able to leave."
Burt paused. Finally, he said, "But we can't know what he wants."
"That's true. But I think there's a moral imperative to prevent suffering." Fields raised his hands, knowing this conversation was pushing Burt too far too fast. "I won't press the issue. I know that I may be asking you to fundamentally change yourself in a way that isn't fair. But I hope if you decide you do want to do it, you don't hold back because of my feelings."
"Do you think it's safe?" Burt sounded not scared, exactly, but the next door neighbor to it.
"She seems to think so," Fields responded, choosing his words carefully. Maybe he should feel guilty for not being more upfront with Burt about his concerns.
"So, you do think we can trust her?"
"I don't know. She does give off a certain..." Fields hesitated to say what he truly thought.
"Dr. Frankenstein vibe?" Burt asked, knowing exactly where Fields was going with this conversation.
Suddenly, a knock interrupted their conversation. Speak of the devil.
"Yes?" Fields asked.
Reghabi opened the door a crack. "Where do you keep the extra toothpaste? I've run out."
"In the hallway closet."
"Thanks. And..." She opened the door slightly wider so she could make eye contact. "Thanks again for patching me up, doctor."
"You're welcome, doctor."
With a faint smile, she nodded and closed the door.
In the silence that followed, Fields stared up at the ceiling for a long time, before saying, "Kier is such a strange place. I don't know how I would ever be able to explain this situation to our friends back in San Francisco. Sometimes I wonder why we moved here."
"Do you miss it?" Burt asked.
"Yes."
Burt nodded. "Me too. But it was too painful."
"Of course, I remember, but I wonder if we shouldn't have run away to Kier. Did it actually make our life better? We're away from all of the people who survived [11] that we considered family... and you found yourself with this ghastly job."
What he really wanted to ask was: why did Burt do this horrible job? What did they have on him? Or did he actually like it? It killed him that Burt was so private. Fields didn't feel like he was obligated to know anything about Burt's life that didn't directly affect him, but didn't this impact him? Especially now that a target of Lumon was hiding in his house.
Steering them back to the topic at hand, Burt simply said, "I'll think about it."
If Burt reintegrated, Fields wasn't sure how much of him would survive. Maybe Fields would be alone in a way he had not been in decades. But maybe he would have the chance to know Burt as he had been before something had started him down this horrible path. Had he always been on this path? Or had something changed him, and Fields hadn't noticed?
Maybe they could start over.
"I love you, and I'm proud of you," Fields said.
The next morning, Fields went to church. And in the pews that were draped in the light shining through stainglass windows, he wept. Whether it was from hope or from despair, he didn't know.
V. The Island, 2004
The next morning, they cuddled for as long as possible, watching the sunrise washing over the landscape, transforming everything it touched.
"Tell me about your life before the Island," Hurley requested again. She had avoided the question last night, but now she had run out of excuses.
Before the Island. The truth was, there was no before the Island. There had always been the Island, as long as she could remember. She knew she had lived somewhere else as a small child, but there was no one left alive that she could ask about it.
"Let's see... I spent a lot of my childhood in a boarding school on scholarship. My parents separated when I was a kid, and my mom got me. And we moved far away. But then she went off to do research in the South Pacific for a few years, so I was pretty much raised by the people at my boarding school. They tried to fast track me to becoming a doctor, but once I got into medical school, I dropped out pretty quickly. Too much blood. I decided to be a clinical psychologist. Got my PhD and opened a private practice. What else... hmm. As you know, I was married. I wasn't joking when I mentioned annulments either. That's a longer story for another time, if you want to hear it. But my last husband, David, he was different." And then she glanced over at him, trying to gauge his reaction. "I hope it's not uncomfortable for me to bring him up."
Hurley stroked her arm in reassurance. "It's okay. Really."
"He came from old money. Hadn't worked a day in his life. I loved him, but it was strange. Sometimes I worried that someday people might find out where I really came from and judge me. Me, the girl who had been abandoned by her parents, escaped a cult—and that is something I don't want to talk about—I barely scraped enough money and loans together to make my way through college. I was proud of my degrees and of my work. You know, people expected me to quit being a clinical psychologist after I got married. Of course, I wouldn't do it." Would she ever get to do work as a clinical psychologist again? "Anyway, I gave away a lot of our money and possessions after David died from an aneurism. I think I was finally finding myself again, right before the crash."
She could tell Hurley wanted to say something, but after a moment he just said, "That must have been really hard."
"Yes. It was awful, but I found my way through it. Well, I guess I'm still finding my way through it—it doesn't really ever end. But it does get easier. Tell me, what was your life like?"
"I think life was just getting started for me, you know? Well, I guess you don't know. I'm 26, but I've never had a girlfriend. Well, kinda. I asked a girl out once, Starla, but that's it. For a long time, I worked a dead end job... And then I won the lottery, and it felt like I was really going somewhere, until I realized the money was cursed."
The idea that Hurley had never had a girlfriend gutted her; assuming he had wanted a girlfriend, how could people not see how wonderful he was? It occurred to her that she would need to carefully navigate this relationship as the much more experienced partner. She was also struck by how under other circumstances, she might be rather uncomfortable with the age difference. [12] She hadn't realized quite how young he was. Belatedly, Libby realized that she hadn't acknowledged that Hurley had said the Numbers were cursed. But what was there to say?
"And um... Before that, I ended up in a mental institution. But I'm a lot better now and um... since you're a clinical psychologist, I don't want you to think I'm dating you for free therapy or whatever, so I just need to know that this isn't like... I don't know... going to be a problem."
"Can I tell you a secret?" She turned around to face him.
"Yeah..."
"After David died, I had to be hospitalized too. I underwent an experimental treatment, and I don't remember my time there. But I know I was there, and that people helped me out."
"Shit. I'm real sorry."
"Don't be."
"What was the procedure? It impacted your memory, so was it like... electric shock therapy or something?"
"It's hard to explain."
"Sorry. You don't have to if you don't want to."
"I want to. I do. But it's going to take some time."
She reluctantly stood up. She could tell from the location of the sun that they would have to go soon. The sand underneath her toes was still cold from the night air, but soon it would be uncomfortably warm. Libby knelt down to put on her shoes when—
Her vision flickered. She was in a room with sand and potted plants and a pool to the side. She stared down at her feet, wiggling her toes in the sand. The sand wasn't the correct temperature—it was too warm. This wasn't right at all. It was like a pale approximation of the Island. When she looked up again, Hurley was there by her side. The ocean roared and the ground was cold. She was home.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"I... I think so. I think I just need to eat some food." It was a lie, but she didn't want to worry him. Not until she understood what was happening.
"Do you want Jack make sure you're okay before we leave for the station?"
"No, no. It's okay."
But it wasn't.
VI. Newport Beach, CA, 2001
Before the funeral service began, a man in a dark suit approached Libby as she spoke to David's mother, Lucy. He didn't walk up all the way to her, he just hovered nearby, silently staring at her.
She prayed this stranger would leave, leave her alone in her grief. She didn't like how his dead eyes bored into her.
But when he didn't leave, and Lucy sat down and there was no one else left to talk to, she finally mustered up the very last of her emotional energy to speak to the man. She put on the mask she had hid behind so often at the events she attended with David. "Hello. How did you know David?" She tried not to sound exhausted, but she knew she wasn't convincing.
"I didn't. But I know you." His voice was so familiar, but she couldn't place his accent.
"I'm sorry. Can you remind me of your name?"
"I wouldn't expect you to remember me. Do you know why I am here, Annie?"
She froze. No one knew her by that name anymore. Lumon had found her. After all this time, she thought she was safe from them, but they would never let her go, she saw that now. Of course they'd come for her when she was so vulnerable, so close to losing her sanity; that's what cults did, wasn't it? She tried not to trip backwards over the pew as she took a small step back, away from this imposing man.
"We know you've been trying to get to the Island. We'd like to help you."
"I don't know what you're tal—"
He held up his hand to silence her. "We'll even give you an experimental treatment so that you're emotionally ready for the journey. We know you've been unwell." He sounded almost concerned for her well-being, but she knew better. And how would Lumon know about her mental health issues? They had been in remission until David's death. Did they have access to her medical records? Was her psychiatrist on their payroll?
"Please leave me alone," she said in a small voice, feeling as though she was that lonely child at the Myrtle Eagan School for Girls all over again.
"Please consider it." He took a large envelope from a briefcase and handed it to her. "There are details in this dossier. If you agree to the terms, then you must follow the instructions herewithin."
She didn't take the packet. "What do you want?"
"There is a photograph of a man in the envelope. You must give your sailboat to him at the appointed time. If you do that, we will render abetment unto you."
"And if I do this, you'll take me to the Island?" Entertaining his proposal, even for a second, was a mistake, and yet... she needed to go back to the Island more than anything right now. She needed to be away from the mourners and the flowers and condolences. She needed to be away from the house they had once shared. If she were to be by the ocean, then let it be by the ocean where she had her earliest memories, not this strange land that felt so sterile.
"Yes, if you get the treatment. It will tame your tempers."
She tried not to shudder. "And if I refuse treatment?"
"Then the deal is off."
Whatever Lumon had in store for her couldn't be worse than what she faced if she stayed here.
"A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea."
—Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe, 1849.
VII. Kier, PE, 2022
The doorbell rang. From the kitchen, Fields called out, "I'll be there in a moment." Another ring. And then three more rings, more insistent. He sighed and took the pancakes off the griddle, turned off the stove, and wiped his hands on his apron before walking to the door. He belatedly realized that Reghabi had said not to answer the door, but it was already too late; he had called out to the person on the other side on instinct. It would be more suspicious if he didn't answer the door. And so he did.
A short woman wearing a blue skirt suit greeted him coolly, "Salutations. Is Burt home?"
Notes:
Footnotes:
[1] Piranesi is so closely linked to Severance in my mind. I really recommend giving it a read. There's a lot of similar themes and the description of the house/world reminds me of the severed floor:"I have climbed up to the Upper Halls where Clouds move in slow procession and Statues appear suddenly out of the Mists. I have explored the Drowned Halls where the Dark Waters are carpeted with white water lilies. I have seen the Derelict Halls of the East where Ceilings, Floors—sometimes even Walls!—have collapsed and the dimness is split by shafts of grey Light.
"In all these places I have stood in Doorways and looked ahead. I have never seen any indication that the World was coming to an End, but only the regular progression of Halls and Passageways into the Far Distance." ^
[2] Reference to The Adventures of Hurley and Frogurt. ^
[3] Reference to a deleted scene of Hurley and Libby. ^
[4] Reference to Olivia's story in the fictional Mysteries of the Universe semi-canonical "documentary". ^
[5] The "Orange Curtain" refers to the boundary between Los Angeles County and the much more conservative Orange County (where Newport Beach is located). ^
[6] Reference to a historically gay neighborhood in San Francisco where many queer intentional families lived together. I saw a really interesting exhibit on this, but I've had trouble finding a link. ^
[7] At some point while writing chapter 7, I decided that Fields is autistic, and now it's my head canon. I also head canon Burt as loving infodumps. ^
[8] "[…] two other gods, Lugal-irra and Meslamta-ea, co-extensive in both the Netherworld and the sky with the constellation Gemini, are also depicted in late Babylonian glyptic with raised axes. They were thought to stand at the entrance to the Netherworld "ready to dismember the dead as they entered". Rather than a priori destructive, the underlying idea behind the mission of these twins too may be their function as examiners, guarding the path against the inept." —Ataç, Mehmet-Ali. "The “Underworld Vision” of the Ninevite intellectual milieu." Iraq 66 (2004): 67-76. ^
[9] "In Rome, except for the gates, the city walls were considered to be inviolate and sacred […] Crossing the walls, in fact, was punishable by death, a penalty which was explicitly connected with Remus' death (Pomp. Dig. 1. 8. 11). The myth of Remus' death, then, seems to have functioned as a deterrent against crossing the sacred walls […]." —Bremmer, Jan N., and Nicholas M. Horsfall. "Roman myth and mythography." Bulletin Supplement (University of London. Institute of Classical Studies) (1987): iii-120. ^
[10] Reference to Barad, Karen. Meeting the universe halfway: Quantum physics and the entanglement of matter and meaning. Duke University Press, 2007. I love this book. ^
[11] Reference to the AIDS epidemic in the United States in the 70s and 80s. ^
[12] So, I've been playing pretty loose with the ages of characters because characters' ages in TV shows don't necessarily reflect the actors' actual ages. And both Lost and Severance have aged certain characters down. So, how big is the age gap here? I am not really sure. The age gap between the actors is 4 years, which is not huge, but it can feel that way at that age. But also, if we go along with all the fan theories about Libby's identity, then the character is considerably older than her actor was at the time. ^
Other credits:
The image at the beginning is an edited picture that I took at the Glyptoteket, combined with another photo I took in my apartment.Credit to the fic "Don't tell anyone" for planting the idea in my head that Jin and Sun like to gossip a lot.
Chapter 10: Interlude: Maps and Plans
Summary:
An interlude chapter before shit hits the fan. Cobel is essentially a horror movie villain, Dylan tells the gang about the OTC, and Ben schemes about ways to capture Jack without setting off alarm bells.
Notes:
First off, many thanks for your kudos and comments. I am over the moon about them.
Second, I am completely slammed with yet another move to another city and a million deadlines, so what did I do instead of working on those deadlines? I wrote this chapter and half of the next one. Oops.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I. Kier, 2022
"Is Burt home?" she asked again.
"Um," Burt's husband—what was his name? Cecil Fields?—said. Clearly not a good liar. "Who are you?"
"A colleague. Is he home?"
When he didn't answer, she shoved past him into the warm home. The smell of pancakes hit her instantly. Harmony thought she heard some faint noises on the floor above, but she couldn't be sure.
"Wait, you can't just—!" Burt's husband exclaimed.
She made a hand motion to shush him, so that she could listen. Barely audible footsteps thumped above them. "Is that him?" she asked.
"I really think you need to leave."
A door closed upstairs. As she marched up the stairs, Fields tried to touch her shoulder to stop her, but she shrugged him off. "Don't touch me."
When she was halfway to the top of the stairs, she heard Burt down on the main floor. "What's going on?" he asked Fields.
"Oh, he's down here!" Fields called after her. "I thought you were up there, Burt. I heard steps upstairs, and I thought... well, I guess the cat must have closed herself in a room. I'll let her out while you two talk." Fields went back down the stairs. "I'll let you come down first," he said to Harmony. Passing each other on the stairway would have been a bit tight, although nothing like the hall to the Break Room.
She continued up the stairs. "Don't worry. I'll let her out," she said with a smile.
She knew they didn't have a cat.
"I think you should leave," Burt called out as he bounded the stairs behind her. Ah, right. He didn't know who she was. Well, he was about to get a pretty good idea soon enough. She turned back and hissed at him like a feral cat. He recoiled and paused for a moment in confusion.
"What the hell?" Burt exclaimed.
Harmony's eyes darted around each room as she opened the doors one by one. The first few doors lead to a bathroom (no one behind the shower curtain), a study (nowhere to hide), and Burt and Fields' bedroom. She decided not to snoop in that last room—at least, not yet.
The very last door opened up into a modest spare bedroom, which had an unmade bed with a quilt half on the floor and clothes strewn about the bed and floor. Some pants and blouses she recognized; in fact, she had purchased them as gifts. Her lips curled into a parody of a smile. So, she was here.
The closet door was slightly ajar. She opened it terribly slowly, its hinges painfully squeaking. She relished how sinister she must appear. But all she was greeted with were the sorts of random things people store in guest room closets—out of season clothing, an old, probably broken vacuum cleaner, and a portable air conditioning unit.
No matter. She looked under the bed just as Burt and Fields both burst into the room.
Ah, there she was, breathing heavily, eyes closed.
"We need to talk," she said to her ex-girlfriend.
"Oh, fuck this," Asal Reghabi muttered as she rolled out from under the bed. As she stood up, she brushed some lint off of herself. "Hello, Harmony."
Asal was as beautiful as the last time Cobel had seen her. Although age had changed her features in the last few years, her beauty was different but no less intense. Looking at her was like staring straight into the sun—exquisitely painful in any weather condition.
She didn't greet Asal in return. "I know you killed Graner. And now what—you're trying to reintegrate Burt, is that it?" Cobel looked at Burt. "Did she tell you what happened to the last person she tried to reintegrate?" And then back to Asal, "Peter Kilmer was your work, wasn't he?"
"What happened to—" Fields began.
"—I know how to do it better now."
So she didn't deny what had happened to Doug? Interesting, but Harmony couldn't be bothered to care that much. No, what was fascinating was her claim that she might be able to do it successfully without killing the patient—although, she noted that was not quite what Asal had claimed.
"And how, pray tell, did you learn how to do it better?" she asked with a quirk of her eye brow.
"I thought you'd be pleased. Yes, it wasn't perfect with Kilmer, but I proved it can be done. I used the electromagnetic formula specified by the Numbers, and it worked, Harmony! You should be ecstatic!"
She was indeed, although that was not an answer whatsoever.
The Numbers. Sometimes her memory of hearing them for the first time—the only time she had heard them, up until very recently—felt like a fever dream.
She had never told another person that story, until one night early on in their relationship, they got drunk on wine together and started sharing their childhoods with each other. Of course, Harmony omitted everything before she went to the Myrtle Eagan School for Girls. But with her head in the other woman's lap, feeling drowsy and warm from the wine, she told her the story of the Numbers.
She had the faintest of memories of a substitute teacher taking her aside during study hall and making her memorize them. She tried to ask why, but he said something odd in response. Harmony couldn't remember the exact phrase he used—it was something like "you're going to do, what you're going to do, so do it right"—but she never forgot the feeling of unease at his strange words. Over time, she decided it must be the overactive imagination of a young girl. It couldn't have happened like that.
As soon as it was out of her mouth, she tried to laugh it off as a joke, but apparently Asal hadn't taken it as one. She always could see through Harmony's bullshit.
And now, Asal had proven that the Numbers really did do something.
Cobel turned to Burt who looked deeply unsettled by this turn of events. "You must proceed with reintegration."
Fields asked, "This Kilmer, what happened to him?" His voice was shaking slightly.
"He died," Asal said. She sounded sorrowful, but Harmony knew her better than that. "But Kilmer didn't listen to my instructions and pressured me to go too fast. If we take it slow, Burt will be fine."
Fields turned to Burt. "I was wrong to ask you to reintegrate. I'm so sorry. I had no idea... I'm sorry."
Cobel said to the two men, "Yes, she failed with Kilmer. But if I help her now, it'll work. I promise you." Assuming Asal didn't get too cocky. It was highly unlikely that Kilmer was the one who had decided to speed up the process.
"I... I need to think about it. But I think... I think I want to do it," Burt said hesitantly.
"Attila. No. Please don't do this."
"I owe it to him to do it. And I owe it to you too, I think. I want to be the man you believe I can be."
"Good," Cobel said before Fields could argue more. "We'll map your brain tonight. Now, you should go to work. You're late, but just tell them that you had car trouble. Otherwise, they'll put two and two together and get even more suspicious about your role in what happened to Graner."
"He didn't agree to—" Fields started to protest.
"As for you, Fields, you should make yourself scarce. Asal and I have some things to discuss."
II. The Island, 2004
Sweat-stained backpacks littered the floor, overflowing with packets of DHARMA-branded food, water bottles, and slightly rusted tools. Ben sat in the dining area, watching the survivors in their flurry of activity; they didn't seem to want him to participate in the preparations, and that suited him just fine.
"And what or who else will we find at the Flame?" Sayid asked.
"There's a man there, Mikhail. He maintains the station. He may be pretending to be a member of the DHARMA Initiative, but he's lying. It's a costume. He'll be armed, but he's smart enough to know when he's outnumbered, and he'll stand down." He hoped that was true. "Mikhail may even support our cause. There will be computers there controlling the DharmaTel network."
"What, so he just wears a costume all the time, just hoping someone might show up?" Hurley asked.
Ben shrugged. He actually wasn't sure. Mikhail was an odd one. "I don't know. I've definitely seen him wear it when it's just the two of us."
"So he's LARPing," Hurley said with a knowing nod.
"Well, I don't know what that means, but Mikhail and I have worked together on maintaining and upgrading the network, but he's never let me use the computers for anything other than getting hardware set up. But if he doesn't agree to help us, I think that with a manual, Sayid or I can figure out the equipment." In the heat of the moment, he had nearly forgotten that he had told them he was an IT guy. Maybe not the best lie considering how easy it would be to catch him in it. He was definitely not tech-savvy enough to use the right lingo, but he was doing his best.
"Alright. We'll all go to the Flame together. If it's like how Ben said it will be, then we'll proceed with the plan," Jack said.
"Which is? Aren't you going to clue me in?" Ben asked.
"You'll draw us maps of the way to the Flame and to the Others' camp, and you'll draw us another map of the camp. Your only other job is to help us rescue our people."
"Well, of course I'm going to! We've already established that. But surely that's not your entire plan," Ben said.
"Nope." Jack's voice came out clipped and harsh while he readied his pack for the journey ahead.
"Okay, great. Keep the guy who can help you the most in the dark."
"I hate to admit it, but he's right," Ana Lucia said.
"Fine. Hurley, Libby, and Sayid will stay at the Flame. Sayid will figure out how to get the equipment working so that we can take down the fence and unlock the room where Walt is kept. Hurley and Libby will try to get a distress call out and also try to get in contact with those people that Hurley spoke to on the computer—we don't know how, but it seems like they're connected to all of this. Ana Lucia and I will break into the Others' camp, and Ben, you'll come with us and guide us through it. We don't have too much of a plan for that part, and we're counting on you to help us develop one in the moment. And then we rescue everyone, including your wife. Lastly, we'll meet back at the Flame."
"And me?" John asked while packing a plethora of knives.
Jack sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. It was all very overly dramatic, Ben thought. "I don't know, John; I just figured you'd do whatever it is that you want to do," Jack responded. There really was no point in giving directions to John Locke. Might as well tell him the opposite of whatever you wanted to do; tell him he couldn't do something if you wanted him to do it.
"Good idea. I'll go my own way after we wrap up at the Flame," Locke replied.
"Okay. Well, I guess I did say you could do whatever, but that's not very helpful," Jack said.
"I thought you weren't going to tell me what to do, Jack."
"Sure. Okay," Jack replied.
This plan wasn't ideal. He had hoped Kate would come so that when Jack was inevitably captured, they could get the leverage he'd need to get Jack to do the surgery. They might want to get Ford as well—he could play all of them off each other. They still had the other captives, of course, including Walt—so maybe that would be enough to motivate Jack. One would certainly hope that Jack would care. But brute force generally was not his style.
In contrast, Ana Lucia was too dangerous to have on this mission. However, Jack would want a tail section survivor with him when they infiltrated the Barracks—someone who could identify the other tail section survivors. So, likely Eko would be called upon to replace her, which he also didn't like, but he felt significantly better about. Eko he could work with.
No matter what, it would be okay. He had a plan B. And plans C and D. Plans all the way down.
"I know that Ana Lucia has been leading the tail section and John and Jack have been leading the middle section." They all stared at him. "What? I'm sorry if it's not something we're supposed to say aloud, but it's true. So, I think one of you three should stay behind. If something happens, you'll need someone who can lead the survivors."
He knew that Jack and Locke would fight about who would stay behind, neither budging, and then Ana Lucia would—he hoped—get pressured to stay behind. Honestly, all of them going reminded him of how Captain Kirk, Spock, and McCoy would always go on away missions in Star Trek, which even as a small child had seemed to him like an awful idea. It was frankly irresponsible.
"No way. I'm going," Ana Lucia said.
"And what do you think is going to happen, Ben?" Sayid asked.
"Nothing; I think you have a solid plan. But just in case..."
"He's not wrong. Besides, we have too many people for this to be a stealth mission—maybe we could shuffle things around," Sayid agreed. No one seemed to want to say it, but Ben thought it was pretty clear that Libby didn't make sense for this mission.
John raised his hands, seeming to misinterpret Sayid's quip as being about him. "You can't tell me what I can't do. I'm going. End of story."
"To do what exactly?" Jack snapped. "Why are you here, John?"
"Well, Jack, I crashed on this Island."
"That's not what I meant."
"I knew what you meant. But I don't owe you any answers."
Ben felt the corners of his lips threaten to curl up into a smile. He'd miss having a front row seat to their bickering.
"Actually, if we're going to be shuffling people around, then I'd like to go to the Others' camp," Libby offered.
"Are you sure?" Hurley asked.
She nodded. "Yeah." She squeezed his hand. "I'll be okay."
Interesting. Libby was not on any of Jacob's lists, but he'd take her over Cortez. She seemed more vulnerable than Ana Lucia, more likely to make Jack manipulatable.
God, there were too many moving parts, too many people to wrangle. Good thing he was excellent at putting parts together into a well-oiled machine.
"Do you know how to use weapons? To fight?" Jack asked her.
"Not too much, although I've been to the shooting range a few times. I know enough gun safety to not shoot myself or others accidentally, but I'm a terrible shot. But, more importantly, you might need someone who can calm people down—who can talk Cindy and anyone else with Stockholm Syndrome into coming with us."
"I don't think this is a good idea. Besides, if you went instead of Ana Lucia, then we'd need another person to come to the camp who can fight," Jack said.
"What about that woman who was with you the other day, Kate, I think? She seemed capable," Ben piped up.
Ben noted that Jack frowned in response. So, Ben was right—Jack was protective of her.
"Kate or Sawyer or Mr. Eko would all be suitable. I didn't want to add more people on, but I think they could be helpful," Sayid agreed.
Ana Lucia had been simmering with rage and now it boiled over. "Wait, wait. I see what you're implying, but this has not been decided. I am going." She wouldn't make eye contact with Sayid when she spoke to him. Was there a hint of... guilt in her voice? Was she trying to atone for her sins by going on this mission?
"Who would be in charge of the survivors if something happens?" Jack asked. Ben noted that Jack didn't suggest that if he and Ana Lucia didn't come back from the Others' camp, John could be in charge. He also thought it was interesting that he didn't suggest Kate.
"I thought there wasn't supposed to be a hierarchy, dude," Hurley interjected. "Live together, die alone or whatever."
"Mr. Eko can be in charge," Ana Lucia stated, ignoring Hurley.
"I don't think he wants the job," Libby said.
Ana Lucia frowned in response. "I don't care what he wants. He's got the job."
"I... can we talk somewhere more private?" Libby said to Ana Lucia before looking pointedly at Ben.
"Would you excuse us a moment?" John asked in a parody of politeness—or maybe he actually meant it—as he gently shoved Ben back into the armory and locked the door.
Ben heard their receding footsteps, but it would seem that they hadn't completely left the station because soon their raised voices echoed, although for a long time he couldn't make out the words; he just knew that Libby was doing most of the talking.
"...doesn't change anything..." said Jack angrily. But when wasn't he angry?
A moment later, "Are you okay?" Hurley asked.
"We'll go..." Ana Lucia said.
"...should move further..." Libby again.
And then he didn't hear anything for what seemed like multiple hours.
III. Lumon, 2022
Helly's 75% on The Flame file came and went without the Music Dance Experience that she had been told she would receive. Mr. Milchick had popped in to explain that with Mr. Graner having been reassigned to another branch and Ms. Cobel not in the office (for some unspecified reason), he was stretched too thin for such frivolities. He then literally sprinted away before Helly could respond.
It was disappointing—she was curious about music and dancing. The only music she'd ever heard was Ms. Cobel singing the Kier anthem, Irving humming various Eagan-related songs, and the faint noise of a marching band that she could never locate. She wondered what dancing was like and whether her body would automatically know how to do it. She liked to imagine that her outie was a graceful dancer and it would transfer over. She always felt so awkward and gangly even though she wasn't particularly tall.
"Well, that was a bummer," she said, slouching in her seat.
"Yeah, well, you'd probably just pick something stupid to listen to anyway, like 'wistful pipes' or something," Dylan mumbled. He had been in a foul mood, making small barbs at each of them all day.
"What the hell? I thought you loved the perks," Mark said.
"Yeah, well, some things have changed, and I see now that the perks are bullshit."
Irving pulled down his divider. "Dylan, do you want to talk?" Despite Dylan being a dick today, Irving had taken his attitude towards them with remarkable calm.
"Yeah. Yeah, why not?" He cleared his throat, stood up, and slammed his hand down on the table, as though he were about to yell "Objection!" during a courtroom drama. "It's come to my attention that Mr. Milchick is a bully, and bullies are nothing but bull and lies..."
"Page 42... you've been reading the book...?" Mark asked reverently, although it was more of a statement than a question.
"What book?" Helly asked. "Some stupid thing that Kier wrote?"
"Excuse me?" Irving said, showing irritation for the first time today.
"It's..." Mark lowered his voice. "The You You Are. I kinda... kept it." And then sheepishly added, "It's actually really inspiring stuff."
"It slaps," Dylan agreed.
"Mark. That's not okay," Irving said.
Mark pointedly ignored Irving. "Dylan, what were you saying about Mr. Milchick?"
"Mr. Milchick woke me up. They have some sort of override thing that lets them wake us up on the outside, and they never fucking told us. I was in a closet, and he woke me up to ask what happened to the card that I took from O&D."
Helly expected Irving to express disapproval at Dylan stealing from Lumon, but he stayed silent.
Dylan continued, "And then a boy came in and hugged me. I... I have a son. And it kills me that I don't even know his name or anything about him. I never imagined that he'd—I'd— have a kid. Never even occurred to me that I'd want one. But in that moment, I realized... well, it doesn't really fucking matter what I realized. I'm never going to see him again anyway."
"Dylan," Irving's voice was gentle, "That sounds really difficult, but you have to remember that that's your outie's child, not yours."
"Fuck you, man. That's my kid too."
Helly stood up in excitement. "This is good," she said, nodding to herself.
"How is this good?" Dylan asked.
"We can use this. We can turn on the override thing and we can go into the outside world and tell everyone about what they're doing here."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea!" Mark exclaimed. "I know where the security office is, which might be where they turn it on... Petey showed it to me once when we had a fire drill, and we walked by it. But I don't know how to get inside. It'll probably be unoccupied until they hire a replacement for Mr. Graner."
"Maybe we can somehow get a keycard off of Mr. Milchick? I don't know how we would, but... maybe we could incapacitate him or somehow pickpocket it or... I don't know," Helly said.
"Yeah, or like... use something they make in O&D. Like they said one time they made hatchets..." Dylan suggested. "We could hack the door to pieces."
Irving had clearly not been agreeing with this line of thought at all up until this point, quietly letting out sighs and shaking his head. But when Dylan mentioned going to O&D, a wave of conflicted feelings seemed to momentarily crash over him. "Well, I don't condone this plan," he said, sharply looking at Dylan. "But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to talk to them. Just to imagine how we would go about such a thing. As an intellectual exercise."
Helly nodded solemnly, "Yes, of course." She tried not to smile or laugh. "We have to keep our brains healthy so we can effectively do the mysterious and important work."
IV. The Island, 2004
After a long, long time, the survivors came back into the Swan and let Ben out of the armory. They wouldn't make eye contact with each other, but when they thought he didn't notice, they suspiciously stared at him.
"Well?" Ben asked innocently. "Figure it all out?"
John was the only one who seemed remotely happy. He was maybe even downright chipper. "The group goes to the Flame as planned. Then we split into three groups: Hurley and Sayid will stay at the station. Ana Lucia, Libby, and you will go to the camp. I have my own things that I need to do."
"I thought you all wanted an additional person to go to their camp with us." Always say "their" and never "our" when talking about Jacob's followers. Can't seem too integrated into the "Others'"society.
"We changed our minds," Sayid said.
"Uh huh." Then to Jack, Ben asked, "And what about you?"
"I'm staying back."
It wasn't ideal that Jack wasn't coming with them. He probably shouldn't have suggested that someone stay behind, but he had never expected that Jack would be the one to do it. Jack was usually so hardheaded and convinced that he—and he alone—was uniquely suited to "fix" any situation. Worst of all, Ben couldn't think of a good way to convince Jack to come with them without seeming suspicious. Well. More suspicious.
He knew the Island had sent Jack as a lesson that he needed to trust it—a lesson in humility. Ben was sure that was what had happened. But what lesson was it trying to teach him now by making it so difficult to capture Jack? Was it taunting him? It certainly felt so, with it curing Locke and Rose, but not him.
Fuck. His spine hurt. It always did whenever he thought about the tumor growing there. He wondered, not for the first time, if the pain was mostly psychosomatic or if it was just that he was able to tune it out most of the time and he was failing to do so now. How long would he be able to keep that up?
Okay. One last try, although it was a long shot, and then he'd give up. "We might need a doctor. I don't know what they've been doing to your people. Sometimes I brought them food, but they never let me talk to them or see them for more than a couple of minutes."
It seemed like the right thing to say. He had the vaguest memory of bringing one of the "hostiles" food as a child.
John replied, "Libby had a year of med school. And Ana Lucia has some first aid and deescalation training. And you said your wife is a doctor, right? I'd say medical expertise is a bit over-represented in our group." Jack practically rolled his eyes in response.
So, getting Jack to come with them was a no-go. Ben would have to execute plan C, which did not have a high success rate.
He noticed that Sayid stiffened slightly when John mentioned Ana Lucia, his composure seemed to be momentarily broken by the idea that she could be a healer; Ana Lucia, famously someone with a cool head on her shoulders, who was definitely "not" a poster child for police brutality.
They seemed mostly okay with each other. But he could change that. He'd fan those flames later.
"And the hatch? Who will be manning the computer?" He always thought it was strange that they called the Swan station "the hatch", especially because that wasn't even the main entrance. Sometimes they weren't too bright.
Sayid said, "You ask a lot of questions, Ben."
"It's important to me that this all goes well, and entering the Numbers into the computer is a part of that," Ben snapped. He had no reason to think that the Swan was anything other than a social experiment, so it didn't really matter whether the button was being pressed. But he needed to know whether Jack would be in the Swan or at the caves.
"Why? What happens if we don't?" John asked, leaning forward.
"Well, I don't know! But I was told that it was important by our leader. Well, not 'our'—he's never been my leader. Not really. But you know what I mean."
"And who is the Others' leader? What is his name?" Sayid asked.
Better make something up quick. He could make up a name, but it seemed risky. So, who could he throw under the proverbial bus? "I didn't want to say it before, but it's Richard, the man who recruited my wife." Okay, well, throw under the bus wasn't the right wording. He almost started laughing to himself, thinking about Edmund Burke. No, it wasn't that he had it out for Richard. When manipulating people, sticking to half-truths was usually best; Richard may not have been the leader of the Others, but sometimes he acted like it. And part of it was that he knew Richard could handle himself. And the other part of it was that he had a feeling John wouldn't attempt to hurt Richard, although he still didn't really understand who Richard was to John. Locke seemed slightly delusional sometimes, so who knew with him. Maybe they didn't even know each other, but John had fabricated some history between them.
John's eyes lit up. "Richard is your leader?"
"Yes, that's what I said." He failed to keep the frustration out of his voice.
"Where does he live?" Sayid asked.
"You want to capture him and what... trade up? Afraid I'm too disposable to the Others?"
Sayid shrugged.
"I can mark his house on the map I will draw. I wouldn't provoke him if I were you, though."
"Yeah, so about that. I get that you all have this old DHARMA tech, but like... you took their houses too? Or did you build them? From your clothes, I assumed you guys lived in tents or the jungle or something." Hurley asked.
"That was a ruse to get you to underestimate them. It's not like I wear these clothes as a fashion statement."
"What happened to the DHARMA dudes anyway?"
"Do you want a history lesson or can we get going now? I assume the sun is going down soon," Ben said. He actually had no idea what time it was.
"Answer the question, Ben," Libby said quietly.
"I heard that they're all dead. I guess the Others killed them. Before my time, obviously. When I came here, I had no idea that the buildings weren't originally built for the group of people I was joining."
Libby shakily sat down. "I don't... I don't think we should do this. Not like this."
Hurley rubbed her back. "It'll be alright."
"You don't know that," Libby muttered.
Ana Lucia crouched in front of Libby. "Hey. You don't have to come," she offered. It wasn't her calling Libby weak—it seemed like it was coming from a place of compassion. Interesting.
Libby took a deep breath and then looked at Ana Lucia, her gaze steady. "No, it's just... I think we're going to need more guns."
Notes:
Thanks again for reading! Hopefully, the Lost parts of this chapter don't seem like too much of a random tangent. I promise that there are important reasons for including those sections.
jupiter_midnight on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Feb 2025 01:03AM UTC
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threecatmoon on Chapter 1 Mon 10 Feb 2025 10:03PM UTC
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