[The bill is a heinous amount to anyone who knows what the definition of ‘frugal’ truly is, enough to raise the eyebrows of those unaccustomed to the arm-and-a-leg pricing of designer brands. Even Markus, used to this sort of thing, thinks that he’s broken some sort of record in his own measure of experience, but his friend is still able to foot the bill, which is equal parts enviable and impressive all the same.

Later, bags marked with chic and stylish logos swing lazily as they amble westward, a few carried by Markus in loosely gripping fingers. The question heralds a shift in the tone of the day. It’s open-ended and provides the android with the freedom to answer how he likes, but broaching this subject is a bit like stepping over an invisible threshold, and he can see where the path leads if he employs honesty.

Given that it’s Fitz, honesty is the only option. Markus’ eyes press forward as he considers an answer.]

I used to fit into it. [He begins easily enough, with referencing to the beginning.] I used to have a role assigned to me, but that changed so... quickly.

[So quickly, as if those years — meaning absolutely everything to Markus — meant nothing at all when thrust into the thrall of fate. Of misfortune, quick to tear everything away at a moment’s notice, until one life lays barren and another unwittingly starts to form.

Brow furrowed, he flicks his attention to his companion. Friendliness still exists between them, but playfulness begins its slow drain.]

I told you that I was a caretaker for an elderly artist once. Do you remember that?

[Carl Manfred. How he still misses him constantly, a hole in his chest that still aches and quietly bleeds. Change of tone, indeed.]