Welcome Back, Helly :)

Milchick in Severance on Apple TV

Background: I spent this weekend submerged in Severance on Apple TV, one episode bleeding into the next until I lost track of time. But my mind keeps returning to Milchick. Milchick serves as one of the main antagonists, where he is a manager of the Severed Floor. He is the middle man between the evil boss, Cobel, and the 4 workers. But Milchick is a loyal member of the company, and willing to go to extreme lengths to climb the corporate ladder. What strikes me most is how little he allows himself to feel, or at least, how little he shows. He wears a bright smile and maintains a robotic manner. I wonder what's behind that smile. What is he like underneath? I tried writing a scene from his perspective. Here we go:

Ding, the elevator door rings as I step in. I adjust my tie. It’s perfectly centered, just how Ms. Cobel likes it. My shoes are shined and polished, like they had to be back when I was at the academy. Smudges meant questions. That usually leads to attention. “Attention is never good for a young black man” my mother would say, or something like that. It’s been too long to remember. All I know now is that when you keep things running clean, no one will look too closely at you. I've learned that loyalty is the strongest form of invisibility.

I walk into my office, where I stand in front of the surveillance console on the severed floor. My hand hovers above the touchpad. Great, all green lights. I give my best work smile. Looking at the cameras, I see Helly wandering the hallways. That one has been giving me problems recently. Ever since she got severed a week ago, Helly has been trying to leave. She’s already tried slipping a note into the elevator, stuffing one into her waistband, and even swallowing one. It’s not very surprising; almost every new hire does something like that in the beginning. Since I took over the severed floor a year ago, not a single employee has made it through orientation without testing their boundaries. It’s part of the process; they don’t understand the rules yet. If only they knew that severance protected them from the outside harm and heartbreaks. Who would ever want to leave? Still, I get this cold feeling every time someone steps out of line, like a smoke alarm beep in the middle of the night. It’s small, but enough to make you stop. Every time someone tries something, I try to remind myself that it’s normal. Eventually, they all figure it out. They see the system for what it is and settle in. Thankfully, no one’s ever made it out on my watch. If someone did... Well, Ms. Cobel wouldn’t give me a second chance. Resistance is always the first step in this severed world. I know that. But, Helly, something about her feels different because it feels like she’s resisting not because she doesn’t understand. She seems to have so many questions that I am not allowed to answer, of course. And she won’t stop asking or trying to understand. Frankly, I don’t even know the answers to many of her questions.

I take one more sip of my Lumon-branded coffee. I press my lips together, then exhale slowly through them. I tap my cup in rhythm with my shoulder rolls as I chant, “It’s time for another beautiful, beautiful day here at my dream job at Lumon. The first thing on my checklist today is checking on the Macrodata Refinement Department. The hallway lights flicker. My shoes echo sharp against the floor.

I’m halfway to the Macrodata Refinement department when I feel a sharp buzz vibrating through the fabric of my pants. I pull my phone out. It’s Mark. His voice crackles through, tight and shaken. “Have you seen this? Helly… she’s hung herself. In the elevator.” Everything goes still. For a moment, I cannot move. I stare into the hallway lights to a flash of cloth, and a tie pulled too tight. I see legs swaying gently. My mother’s feet. I shut my eyes for just a second. Then I say: “Get her out. Now.” My voice sounds sharper than I mean to. I catch myself and then clear my throat. “Follow protocol. Activate our Floor Response 2B Protocol,” I say in my steady Lumon voice.

I run towards the elevator to help, fast — faster than I should be in these polished shoes. 

My breath is quick but shallow. The coffee churns in my stomach. My tie feels too tight now, like a snake squeezing hard against my Adam's apple. I round the corner. The elevator’s just ahead.

The doors are still open. A cluster of security huddles near the entrance, blocking my view. I push through them. And there she is. Helly, limp, eyes rolled just barely open. The tie’s mark is red against her neck. She’s breathing. Barely. But she’s breathing. “Back up,” I bark. “BACK UP. Give her air.” I kneel down beside her. She doesn’t know what she’s done. But I do. I stand a little straighter. I reset my posture. “Take her to the infirmary.”

Two workers from the medical department lift her gently. She moans and then goes quiet again. I follow them until they turn the corner, where I stand alone. Then I stop. My hands are still shaking, where at this moment, I can only ball them into fists and hide them deeply into my pockets. If I lose control, even for a second, they’ll see it. And Lumon doesn’t forgive slip-ups, not the corporate kind or the personal kind. “This cannot go in the report. Not the way it happened. Not the fact that I froze,” I think to myself.

I walk back to the console where I begin to review the footage. The image glitches once as she steps into the elevator. Despite the hardest I try, I cannot stop myself from freezing the frame. The tie. Her legs. For a moment, it’s not Helly I see. It’s my mother. The same sway, the same silence, and the same hopelessness. I shut my eyes and think, “Why do they always try to die under me?” Then I scrub the whole file. All of it. Just gone. According to Lumon policy, I have to write an incident report. I write, “The subject experienced an adverse psychological reaction during transition week but the employee recovered in stable condition. Emergency response executed as per Protocol Floor Response 2B.” I don’t want to elaborate. I don’t want to give context. Vagueness is survival. Specificity only leads to more questions.

 I lean back in my chair and stare at the blank wall across from me. My reflection stares back in the darkness of the monitor. My tie is still straight. My shoes are still polished. No one escapes under my watch. Thankfully, once Helly wakes up, the memory will be gone, a clean slate, because the chip removes any traumatic memories. She’ll open her eyes in the infirmary and wonder why her throat aches and she won’t know what she tried to do. That’s the brilliance of it, isn’t it? Maybe a bit cruel, but Lumon does it to protect them. I file the report and then move on to the next task. To do the important work that I do, control must be constant. I must always look perfect, act flawlessly, and do intentionally because if everything is kept polished, nothing will ever slip through. Not my fear or her memory. I must be perfect.

I check my tie. I smile. “Welcome back, Helly,” I rehearse.