Archive of Our Own ^beta

The following should be completed before commencing the day’s work.

That’s what the checklist says, but Mark doesn’t know he’s going to be subbing in for Petey until he’s already arrived and started working. Carol and Irving walk in together, chatting amiably, and Mark keeps sorting numbers, lifting his gaze to the clock on the wall, watching the minutes tick by.

“It seems that Petey’s out today,” Irving says at last.

“Yeah,” Mark says. His hand curls on the trackball. Feels a tightness in his throat. He doesn’t want this job, he never has, but that’s Lumon: you don’t choose what you have to do. You just do it. “I guess I should look at the checklist?”

Milchick doesn’t usually come into MDR during the day. But sometimes he does, and you never know when.

If Mark knew how long it would all take him he’d be able to time it better. Maybe do it during his lunch break. But Mark’s never completed the morning checklist before and the idea that it’ll still be somehow unfinished by end of day pulls at the edge of his brain.

It won’t take that long.

He knows that. It’d never taken Irving that long, and Mark’s pretty sure he can move faster than Irving if he tries. He imagines himself running from task to task like it was some kind of marathon, a joke that lifts the corner of his mouth for a vague moment. Running in MDR would call way too much attention. What Mark wants to do, suddenly, is go out into the hallway and just walk: keep going until he finds a new turn, past all the empty plastic-wrapped rooms, into the dark endlessness of the looping hallways until he gets lost.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Mark stands up and goes over to the metal folder on the wall, reaching for the morning checklist still waiting there innocuously, official on blue printer-paper.

Remember! You are permitted one record to listen to each morning during your morning checklist procedures. Which will you choose today?

It’s not exactly morning anymore, and Mark can’t recall Irving and Carol ever turning on a record when they subbed for Petey, so Mark skims by it, going to the first item on the checklist.

Brew a pot of coffee.

Easy. Fuck, okay. He can do this.

Mark folds the morning checklist, slips it into his pocket, and goes into the kitchenette.

He puts in the filter, pours a spoon of coffee into the pot and closes the lid. While it’s brewing he checks the Supply Closet for soap and goes into the bathroom. Unlocks the soap dispensers, which are still mostly full of viscous yellow-green fluid. Pours out the soap, watches it run astringent into the corners of the dispenser.

“Coffee’s done,” Mark calls out as he pours himself a cup, and Irving and Carol trail over to the kitchenette. She pours herself a cup too and opens the silverware drawer, finding a spoon (she prefers spoons to coffee stirrers, which Mark can’t fault her for, but it means he needs to keep track of where it goes). He shares a look with Irving and Irving nods slightly—okay, so Irving’s on it.

Mark takes out the sweeper as the refiners begin work, pushing it across the floor, glancing up at the clock on the wall every so often. Nervous habit—everything’s fine.

There are little dust-cloths to wipe down the cubicles. Mark shuts down his monitor and starts at his own, drags the cloth over the surface of the desk and the keyboard and the monitor. He skips ahead on the list here and tests the keyboard, too. Each key one after another, nothing sticking. His chair seems fine, too.

He goes over to Petey’s desk, then, and sits down in Petey’s chair while he dusts around the space.

It’s weird, sitting in Petey’s chair. Mark pauses with his hand around the cloth. The momentary lull in action opens a space for all the things he’s been trying not to think about, gazing at him from the dull reflection in Petey’s inert monitor.

He’s not gonna get out. He’s never gonna get out.

Inside the plain silver frame is the group photo from Mark’s second day at Lumon. He doesn’t usually glance at it, much. The man inside the photo has a grin on his face like he’s sure he’s going to wake up any minute. He stands awkwardly apart from the others, uneasily placed between Irving’s stoic gaze and Carol’s bright, easy smile.

Petey stands on the edge of the group but he takes up more space than anyone. They’re all aware of him there, holding them in place like an anchor, steady and unafraid. It’s a lie, but no more than anything else is.

Mark touches the photo with the edge of the dust-cloth, slides it across Petey’s form, and thinks despondently that if Petey were there he’d get on Mark for being so maudlin. He’d make a joke of it, and Mark would forget.

That’s what Petey’s good at, but Petey’s not here.

His desk is done. Mark stands up, moves over to Carol’s desk and chats with her as he dusts the space. They’ve already started work, and no one’s chair has fallen to pieces under them, so it’s probably fine not to test her or Irving’s chairs today. Carol recycles the same three jokes from yesterday, and he laughs anyway, relieved at the familiarity, some kind of touchstone.

I’m not Petey. I’m not.

Irving stands up at his approach. Mark slides the cloth over his desk awkwardly as Irving hovers behind his shoulder.

“Am I doing it wrong?” Mark says. “You can do it yourself if you want.”

It’s playing out over Irving’s face like a slow-motion massacre. Twin impulses to strangle whoever touched his things, moved them a centimeter out of line, and the knowledge that this is protocol. That Mark is, in fact, being as careful as he can possibly be.

Still, he winces when Mark puts down the group photo slightly crooked.

“No,” Irving forces out. “No, it’s—quite all right. You’re doing wonderfully.” He gives Mark an uncertain smile.

“Sorry,” Mark says.

“Nonsense, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” Irving says. “I—recommended you for the job, you know,” he adds at last, a little hesitant.

“Oh,” Mark says.

Was it supposed to be a punishment?

He searches Irving’s eyes for the answer and concludes that Irving doesn’t know either.

When he steps away from the cubicles, Irving sits back down and moves the items in his space back to their proper positions. Mark puts away the used dust cloths and takes out the duster, dragging it carefully over the spines of the Handbook where they sit in their cubby below the portrait of Kier.

Mark unfolds the checklist to remind himself what’s next and, skimming ahead, notes Acknowledge Kier Eagan portrait (verbally or silently).

Petey’d gone over most of the checklist, but he’d never explained what that one meant. Mark can’t recall Carol ever doing anything about it, but Irving sometimes recites a prayer, so Mark looks into the painted face above the Handbook and thinks, hey, Kier.

But that’s worse than doing nothing at all. Mark has the distinct impression that the portrait is frowning at his lacklustre acknowledgement. Forgive me… Mark thinks hopefully, but that doesn’t work either, because he’s not in the Break Room, no matter what the portrait seems to think.

Mark fidgets with the duster and wonders if Kier would feel better if Mark dusted the edges of his picture frame, too.

Not in the checklist. Best not to.

Oh, well. He can probably use the catch-all. Tame in me the Tempers Four, that I may serve thee evermore, Mark thinks. Place in me the Values Nine that I may feel thy touch divine.

He chances a look back toward the painting. Its look seems more benevolent, now. Mark must have done the right thing.

He smiles, and goes back at the checklist.

The key to the vending machine lets out the tokens from yesterday, and Mark counts them, relieved to see all are there. He drops them back into the jar and locks the vending machine back up, then goes over to the fridge and looks inside. Four lunches. Petey must’ve only called in this morning, if they thought he’d be here today. Mark sticks his hand inside the fridge to make sure it’s cold enough (it is) and then stares at the brown paper bag for a long time. If he leaves it there, someone’s sure to have replaced it by morning. But Mark doesn’t like the idea of that, somehow.

He pulls out Petey’s lunch in his hands and walks over to the trash can, dropping the whole bag inside without opening it up.

Next item: Mark goes into the bathroom, opening every stall. Everyone’s flushed, so that’s good. It’s always clean in the bathroom, cleaner than Mark would expect considering nowhere on the checklist does it say clean the toilet bowls or mop the floor.

He wonders if whoever replaces the lunches also cleans the bathroom, after MDR is gone. In that strange time between the elevator going up and coming down that exists for everyone except severed staff.

They have to, right?

And if they do, then why does the checklist say check toilets for unflushed waste?

Mark re-folds the checklist crisply, and goes out to the copier. The tray’s almost full. It’s always almost full, because they don’t need to copy stuff that often, but Mark refills the tray anyway.

He looks at the last two unfulfilled items on the checklist.

Inspect office crannies for interdepartmental raiders (unlikely).

Right, that. So where exactly would an interdepartmental raider hide? There’s no one in the Supply Closet, no one in the bathroom, no one hiding under the desks. There’s the kitchenette cabinets, Mark supposes, so he goes back in there and opens each of them suspiciously.

Nothing.

Yeah, he can’t exactly imagine O&D hiding out in there, like, eavesdropping. What are their names again? Burt and Felicia? Neither seem the type to crouch down inside a kitchenette cabinet. But maybe some of those other departments might. The weird ones that he’s never met, only seen occasionally down the ends of very long hallways—silent figures that slip out of sight when your back is turned.

Then there’s just one more item.

Self-Assess: Can I lead today?

Everything else is checked off. The paper is waiting to be filed, except for that one question.

Can I lead today?

Mark goes back to his desk and sits down. Glancing between the dividers at Irving and Carol. He doesn’t want to lead today, but that’s not what the question asked.

There’s only one right answer, anyway.

“Hi, Mark,” Ms. Cobel says.

Mark walks into the room, and when she doesn’t gesture to close the door, he leaves it open behind him.

“Come in, sit down.”

He sits, and Ms. Cobel stares at him meaningfully. “Today was your first day as substitute Department Chief,” she says.

“Uh, yeah,” Mark says. “It went great. So. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Are you certain?”

He was before she asked in such a forbidding manner.

“Yes?” Mark says, trying to sound like he knows what he’s about. “Everything went smoothly. No interdepartmental raiders,” he says, risking a smile.

Today she’s in a good mood. She smiles back as though relieved.

He shouldn’t ruin it by asking a question. Like, why should we be worried about interdepartmental raiders? Doesn’t everyone get the supplies they need? Or if there are janitors down here, why does the Department Chief have to check the toilets every morning? Or even How exactly are you supposed to acknowledge the Kier portrait?

Actually, he probably can ask the last one.

“Actually, though, I uh, I did wonder about one of the items on the checklist,” Mark says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the one about the portrait?” Mark says. “I wasn’t sure if there was a preferred way to acknowledge him or something…”

“Acknowledging the portrait is something personal to the refiner, and as such we refrain from offering direction,” Cobel says. “You may nod to it if you feel inclined.”

“Right, good to know,” Mark says. “I didn’t, um, know, so I kind of just said a prayer.”

Cobel pauses and looks at Mark for a long, quizzical moment, as though he’s surprised her.

“Um, you know the one, probably? ‘tame in me the tempers four…’”

“I am familiar,” Cobel says.

Yeah, it’s only the first prayer every innie learns. It was probably ridiculous to assume she might not know it.

Mark gives her another nervous smile.

As though pulling herself out of a reverie, Cobel laughs suddenly, and gives him a bright smile. Mark laughs too, though he’s not sure what she’s laughing about.

Cobel lets out a shaking breath and says, “oh Mark, you do surprise me. Yes, yes, I’m sure Kier found such an acknowledgement to be quite sufficient.” Her smile grows fond, and she says, “well. I’m glad to hear your first day with such weighty responsibilities went by without incident.” She stands up, and Mark hurries to stand too, as she continues, “in light of the occasion, a handshake is available upon request.”

Cobel’s not like Milchick. Her anger is always obvious, and her offers are always real offers, not tricks. Still, Mark considers the offer for a good moment. Does she want him to ask? What would a handshake with Cobel even be like? He’s never touched her before.

She’s never offered, before.

“Thank you,” Mark says. “May I have a handshake?”

Cobel watches him a minute in silent curiosity, as though wondering what pattern of cause-and-effect could have lead him to ask for such an inscrutable thing.

Then she smiles again, a quiet, flattered smile that turns her face almost girlish. She holds out her hand and Mark takes it. Her grip is steady, warm and dry; her palms are soft, but callused at the thumb and index finger, the same place he still has fading ones on his own hand from the effort of pushing a needle through fabric.

She shakes his hand quickly, without lingering.