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Chapter Text

The air remains cold in Kier, and Helena ventures the short walk home with her hands in her coat pockets. She can see her breaths as she exhales through her mouth, her movements brisk. For a while, the only sound she can hear is the clacking of her heels. That is until the taps of wary footsteps and the rustling of clothing somewhere behind her catches her ear.

On edge from her “chance” meeting with Mark Scout–and her ultimate humiliation after mentioning his wife–Helena whips her head around. She can barely make out the figure of a man wearing a brown leather coat, his hands in his pockets. Her eyebrows furrow when she notices he’s stopped walking. Deciding to brush it off, knowing her father will eventually observe her absence, she turns back around and keeps walking in the direction of the Eagan estate. 

Helena thinks of the listless night ahead of her–staring at the wall as she bathes, perusing through Kier-approved reading material in bed, finally knocking out only to dream of her short time on the severed floor with Mark and the others…

Suddenly, the footsteps become louder, and once again, Helena spins around–only this time, she’s met with the all-too familiar face and stance of Mark Scout. His presence startles her; after all, her thorough research has led her to believe that his home is indeed not this way. Besides, didn’t she see his car parked in front of the restaurant?

Despite herself, Helena smiles and waves, yelling out a “Hey!”

Mark doesn’t make a move, only meeting her eyes and holding her gaze.

“Mark?” Helena tries again, squinting to get a better read of the situation. There’s a glimmer of something in Mark’s expression, perhaps a hint of rage tinged with hesitation. It’s a wonder that the same face was able to drink her in so lovingly some nights ago, to laugh at her jokes, to bury itself between her legs.

Mark responds with movement, stalking in her direction, his strides cautious yet determined. Instinctively, Helena takes a step backward. This is not Mark S.

He’s moving faster now. Faster until he’s jogging, mere seconds away from breaching her personal space. Despite the combination of affection and obsession that led Helena Eagan to find Mark Scout tonight in the first place, the logical part of her brain tells her to do one thing.

Run.

Chapter Text

Earlier

“I’m going to eat,” Mark snaps at Asal Reghabi, pointing a finger at her face. “And you do not want me to find you here when I come back, you hear me?”

Reghabi flinches, taking in the threat. This reintegration fiasco has taken its toll on Mark; the sludge diet, the constant headaches and visions, the jumps in time. He can’t help but feel like it’s merely a waste of time, hooking his head up to wires while God knows what happens to Gemma in there.

Reghabi sighs, defeat taking over her features. Mark almost feels guilty, this outburst an exception to his recent attempts at being a good host. He bought the woman a tub of frosting, for fuck’s sake. But behind his eyelids, Mark can only see one thing. One woman. And his window of opportunity is undoubtedly closing.

Reghabi’s shoulders slump as she makes her way around the basement, slowly collecting her things and placing them in empty milk crates. Mark turns towards the stairs, stomping up them, but stopping just before he’s out of Reghabi’s sight. His tone is softer, apologetic: “You can keep all the food.”

Kier’s roads are characteristically empty tonight; barely anyone lives here, anyway. Mark opens his flask with his right hand as his left grips the steering wheel. He sneaks sips periodically as he drives, doing his best to maintain control over the vehicle. The radio hums a grating pop song that does nothing to calm his nerves, so he punches the A/V button to shut it up.

As a matter of fact, the contents of his flask are doing jack shit to calm Mark’s nerves either. It’s a daunting task, to effectively tamper down the shitstorm of his psyche. That’s why this will only be the first of many drinks tonight.

He has tried it all–kickboxing, jogging, chopping firewood in his backyard. But at nightfall, he always finds himself on the couch, bottle in hand, trying not to let his grief turn into rage. It has been especially difficult recently, knowing that the company he gave his brain to has had his wife all along. He’s been in the same building as her, breathed the same sterile air, carried out mysterious labour for them–all while forgetting Gemma ever existed. Mark shudders at the possibility that whatever work he does down there has something to do with her. The possibility that he is the reason she remains captive. It’s enough to make him want to hurt, to die. It’s enough to make him want to kill.

A deer appears in the middle of the road, startling Mark out of his train of thought as he slams his foot on the brake. He puts the car in park, flicking on his emergency signal and opening his window. He sticks a hand out and waves it at the deer, attempting to shoo it. “Hey! Get away!”

His attempts are futile. Instead of running away, the thing takes a step toward his car, tilting its head as if to mock Mark. He responds with a honk of his horn. Then another. Soon enough, he is blaring the horn at the deer, who merely responds with a challenging stare. “What the fuck?” he mutters to himself, letting go of the horn and throwing himself back against his car seat in exasperation.

Putting the car in reverse, he backs up enough to be able to slowly drive around the deer. As he does, he finds himself maintaining eye contact with it. A chill runs down his spine, but it isn’t cold enough to quell the hatred that burns in his heart. Hatred for the deer, hatred for himself, hatred for Lumon. 

Pulling into the parking lot of his local Chinese restaurant, Mark wishes he would have run the thing over.

Mark is almost finished with his ninth plate of food when he sees her.

He’s almost embarrassed to be seen eating so much, but then again, he is no stranger to gluttony. At least he isn’t seated in front of nine beer bottles.

The sight of Helena Eagan across the restaurant, smiling, acting like she knows him, instantly brings a furrow to Mark’s eyebrows. This place isn’t necessarily a dump, but he assumes the Lumon heiress would have better dining options. Besides, they’d never even met. Right?

Before Mark knows it, she’s seated in front of him, begrudgingly beautiful among the restaurant’s drab interior. He’s always known of Helena’s existence, having watched her on television speaking on Lumon’s behalf at the occasional press conference. But seeing her in the flesh, watching her hair shine under the fluorescent lighting, being able to smell her minty breath as she speaks to him…

He forgets himself. Forgets everything–the rage, the grief, his wife. It’s as if his body knows something his brain doesn’t, his lips curving upward into a coy smile as they flirt, his dick twitching at the thought of being Helena’s first.

But it doesn’t last long, and Mark’s conscience takes a deep sigh of relief when she fucks up Gemma’s name, bringing him back to reality. Really? Hanna ? She can’t even remember the name of the woman her company is holding hostage?

Quicker than he ever thought possible, his lust morphs back into an all-too familiar fury; this time, directed right at Helena Eagan. She is Lumon through and through. More so than anyone he’s ever met. She’s the company’s crown jewel, and he wants to smash it to pieces.

It takes all of his energy to keep a straight face and stand up to leave, which she does as well. When they’re standing face to face, Mark’s body and mind begin to conflict again. He can’t help but stare at her face, peer into those doe eyes. His attraction to her is undeniable, just as much as his hatred for everything she represents. 

When it comes to women who aren’t Gemma, his gaze has always been lowered. Until tonight. Until every cell in his body begins to scream at him, telling him one thing. That Helena Eagan belongs to him.

Mark all but runs out of the restaurant and to his car. He can’t possibly want anything to do with Helena, right? He doesn’t even know her. So why, when he closes his eyes and hyperventilates, is she all he can see?

He feels nauseous, and it isn’t because of all of the food. His vision begins to blur as he panics alone in the car. He has to act fast. Seeing Helena has only cemented the urgency of his situation. There she was, all smiles and jokes, essentially mocking his wife. Why should she be allowed to do this? Why should they, Lumon, be allowed to ruin people’s lives and breezily laugh it off? How is it fair, not just to Mark, but to anyone? For them to parade Helena around, their shiny trophy, soon to take control over the company in all its glory? They don’t deserve something so perfect, so squeaky clean, so virginal. Lumon is dirty, and to get Gemma back, Mark has to be dirtier. But how?

As if the universe itself is listening to his pleas, none other than Helena exits the restaurant, her expression strained, a rigidity in her footsteps. She crosses her arms over her chest as she walks away, a curious sight. He would have assumed she traveled everywhere with a driver, but there she is, walking alone, a precious diamond with its display case wide open. 

All Mark has to do is grab it.