[ If only because he asked for this (and because it's Markus at the helm of this ship, steering them in the uncharted waters of upmarket fashion in the year of our Lord 2511), Fitz is game. He follows along, occasionally even picking something himself, and only rejecting a select few items that are too out-of-sync with his more subdued personality. Dry remarks happen, inevitably, alongside some whinging about how none of the stores seem to have everything they need, specialising in one thing or another 'cause that's inefficient. Besides, it seems like Markus is having fun, which — well, it might be the sneaky point of this endeavor, doing a recce to see if his dear friend takes care of himself the same way he looks after others. He won't have prodded much yet, but it's there in the way he studies how Markus determines which items of clothing to hand-off and leave behind, hovering beside him all the way (in part because Markus dresses like he belongs here, and Fitz, y'know, isn't at that level).
When Fitz wanders out of the dressing room, he lifts both hands, as if to say well, what do you think. Even as he tries to look neutral, the corners of his mouth quirk, giving away the fact that he's pleased with the cool blue of this suit and sharp lines, if nothing else. By now, Fitz has stopped fussing when Markus asks for a bloody twirl. That's the name of the game today, and nothing he says can be worse than his initial verdict on Fitz's corporate casual wardrobe.
A slow turn for Markus ends with a hand over his face, one blue eye peeking out between his fingers. ]
Good? [ hopeful... ] It's bad, isn't it. [ this is outfit three from this place alone, for fuck's sake. ] No, just fine? Markus, mate, you're killing me. I'm dying.
[The suit is flattering, he thinks. It looks good on Fitz, both the color and the make of the lines, fitting him well enough to draw just the right amount of attention. And while it's likely the 50th or so time that Markus has asked for a turn, so much that his friend might as well be working on muscle memory at this point, it's Worth It. True scrutiny of any outfit means taking it in at all angles, and the android gives his assessment easily enough.]
It looks good. [Arms still crossed, plain in his critique, but Markus doesn't mince words.] Better than the last two. Don't be shy about it. The color suits you, and it seems to fit well. Not too loud, but enough to stand out in a flood of suits that have a tendency to all look the same.
[Stepping forward, he motions at a tall three-way mirror nearby, which is practically begging Fitz to step into its vicinity to judge for himself. Note how Markus only allows this after an outfit passes his initial scrutiny.]
Stand there and tell me what you think.
[Stand there!! Markus will keep valiant watch over the purchases they may have already made — simpler fares, compared to the goal of a whole suit they're aiming for now — which are folded in nice, fancy boxes and packaged away in equally nice bags, settled at his feet for now.]
[ Oh, Jesus, somehow Markus asking Fitz to consider it himself is worse. He's leagues away from the boy who was sixteen and achingly shy, but he's still, well. So handsome and so, so nervous is how Jemma would put it, kindly. Markus pushes him a bit more, firm in his appraisal.
Even as he moves to do as he's told, Fitz ducks his head. ]
Bit demanding, aren't you. [ amused, despite any lingering self-consciousness, 'cause he wouldn't have bothered with half of the fuss, without someone urging him on. ] Yes, sir.
[ a half-hearted mock salute at his escort. However, once he steps forward, Fitz takes the task seriously, scanning his mirror image with the same intensity he typically reserves for mechanical pursuits. Better to be thoughtful than embarrassed, isn't it? His expression settles into neutrality. The colour's one of Jemma's favourites — perhaps that's to do with him, actually, seeing how it brightens the blue of his eyes. Give him a moment to hum in thought, straightening the suitcoat, glancing down at his shoes, the oxfords of 2511. ]
Could do with a few centimeters off the trousers. [ which might give away that he knows more about this than he let on, when he'd asked for help. ] Suppose I've got time for a tailor, though. [ a glance over his shoulder, perked up and mouth quirked, soft. ]
It's well smart, Markus. You've got good taste. [ an understatement, definitely. ] Might even turn a head — just the one, mind you — and then I'll really owe you. Well, owe you again. Owe you thrice.
[ three times over, by Fitz's count of kindnesses, ever on the rise. ]
[“Demanding” isn’t necessarily the tone he wants to wrap his suggestions in, but Markus has a keen eye, making words leave his lips in the form of polite commands and calm eagerness. The color looks good, Fitz seems to approve, and it fits well enough — a little long in the leg, though, and the android’s gaze trails downwards to confirm the other’s observation. A few centimeters off, indeed.
Not completely oblivious to any of this, then, though Markus processed that conclusion from the start. Fitz is knowledgable where it counts; where he’s oblivious, he can be helped. And so shall he be forced to learn during their long shopping journey, with their final stop almost behind them, that light at the end of the tunnel drawing near. Markus will have to thank the man later, despite how tiring it might be for either party to search for new articles of clothing, to scurry back and forth between dressing rooms, to try on this and that and no, that’s too small, the color’s all wrong, again and again and again.
Because Markus is, quite honestly, having fun.
He offers Fitz a grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. The compliment is nice, but his gladness comes more from being able to provide both assistance and company.]
You don’t owe me for anything. [The clarification is swift and meant.] I’m happy to help; I always will be.
[And Markus, being as he is… well, that’s likely quite sincere, too.]
Though, now… do I dare say that we’re nearly almost done?
[ Idle and very nearly meandering, Fitz eases over to his friend. Still disarmed by Markus' sincerity, as ever, which earns a helpless little huff of air. At least he smiles, soft, as if the edges have been sanded off, where he might have dodged the compliment weeks before now. Always shouldn't be offered to Fitz so freely — evidence, perhaps, that Markus gives a great deal of himself to others.
Fitz hopes the gesture is returned. ]
Don't even remember what the outside world looks like, [ drawling. ] all I can see are waistcoats and brogues. Ties for days and days and days.
[ He slips his hands into the pockets of the suitcoat, testing the way the fabric lies and glancing down briefly to see if it wrinkles. Well smart, indeed. ]
Nothing you're eyeing here first though, yeah? [ glancing around. ] For work or, y'know, whatever fashionable pursuits you get up to when I'm not stealing you away for the day. [ a spark there, delighted that he was able to do just that, even though he'd like to balance the scales between them. ] If not, the deal was that I get to buy you lunch, anyway. [ Phrased carefully. Not a debt this time, but something earned. Fitz gets to do that — has orchestrated a chance to ensure that Markus is as well as he can be, in these circumstances. ] Late lunch.
[That actually earns a little huff of amusement from Markus.]
You mean it isn’t normal to see a collection of ties every time I close my eyes?
[An easy joke, of course. everyone knows markus actually see rEVOLUTION across the back of his eyelids
With that, though, Markus can’t help the way his eyes skate back towards the front of the store. Displays of the newest fashions for the season, color palettes to match, all vying for attention. But amazingly enough, this particular android does possess a noticeable amount of self-control, even when it comes to one of his more prominent vices.]
I’m always eying something, Fitz. But I do have to pretend to be frugal on occasion, too.
[Or rather, he has to be frugal for the sake of Connor’s bank account. Markus’ job might mean there’s a stream of income, and a pianist at an exclusive locale pays decently enough, but the hours are limited and not always reliable. Best to save. A new outfit can wait. Probably.]
So, late lunch it is. Let’s make our last purchase and get you out of here.
[A statement punctuated by the way he bends down, scooping up the many bags they’ve collected over their trip by their handles.]
[ Markus cracking a joke wins a laugh, warm and loud.
They make it out with their bags, racking up a bill that earns choked noise of surprise from Fitz, though he pays it all the same. He's committed to the day out with Markus — and to rising up the ranks at Vyonation. Once outside and on their way (heading west first, towards the river, the posh walk south that leads out of the area of boutiques and into somewhere more affordable for lunch), his tone shifts. More hesitant than his earlier griping and playfulness. He lifts a hand, jostling his clasped shopping bags with it in his attempt to gesture and carry onward. ]
I was actually wondering if you'd tell me a little bit more about — well, about your home. And how you fit into it.
[ Connor had hinted at something greater, at least in his personal experience. ]
[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.]
[ Fitz anticipates a shift, though he had wondered Markus would take a more abstract perspective, truthful and informative without providing the intimate details that prove he's more man than idea (and less malleable than he makes himself, for his friends). As ever, Markus surprises him, a sharp pivot left where Fitz expected a soft turn.
Used. Past tense. For time is the longest distance between two places, as he so often recalls, though Markus describes it as quick (If Connor's hardly a year old — how long has Markus been active? A question for later.) Fitz meets his sideways glance with his customary attentiveness, ever too fixated on his interlocutors. Might be alarming, for his other friends. A crease in his brow matches Markus' own sobering expression. ]
Carl.
[ he replies, quiet but sure, because loss always has a name, and it won't do to forgot or obscure it. ]
And your role, your used to ended when he... [ he trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. Hard not to consider how Connor had discussed the topic of deviance and its manifestation in his own life, contrasting it against Markus' first descriptions of love and loss as motivators for change. ]
[Fitz says Carl’s name with gentle certainty, and to hear it ringing from someone else’s lips is a strangely poignant sound. Reverberates in his bones, like a bell pealing, softly unearthing all associated with it — memory that carries halcyon fondness and unprocessed grief both. Markus has to shift the bags a little in his hands, solidifying his grip, hoping that the idle gesture buys a half-second enough of time to tamp it all back down again, to realign his insides and to give his friend the clear answer that he deserves.
Emotional creature that he is, it’s hard to shake the tremor of feeling inlaid in each syllable, but Markus presses forward, as he always does.]
When he died. [Perhaps that isn’t a surprise, not when Markus has mentioned loss and how that same loss will wring out change; in his case, by wrenching one life out of his hands, only to leave him grasping for another.
He takes this memory and hems away the details deemed unnecessary to answer Fitz’s original question. Lets the idea of breaking and entering, of Leo Manfred and his addiction, of tempers flaring, of waking up yet still choosing to not fight back, fall to his feet as he shears them away.]
It was a heart attack; I was the scapegoat. And no one will question a human when an android is to be blamed instead. I never had a chance to even defend myself— [He pauses briefly, returning his gaze to the path they’re taking, heat radiating with unkindness off of the pavement they tread.]
…The next thing I knew, I woke up, broken, in a landfill. A junkyard for discarded androids. [Markus doesn’t just hem away details here. He tears them right down the middle — he’ll not linger on this memory for long.] I clawed my way out. And eventually, I found refuge with others like myself. Others who had woken up to their inherent freewill, who hid in shadow and in fear of what the humans would do to them. Slowly wasting away, with no means of repairing themselves from injury, simply biding time until supplies or parts would run dry. Alone, scared, lost.
[ There is no pain quite like helplessness, and Fitz knows it intimately. His expression barely conceals his instinct to take on his friend's pain, reflecting a measure of it back at him. As Markus speaks, Fitz does his best to draw parallels — his natural inclination toward empathy and rapid thoughts spiralling off in different directions. A junkyard of discarded androids, not unlike the shallow grave that Jemma dug herself out of in the Framework.
How horrifying to be thrown away, branded as an insurgent for existing apart, for waking up to the truth of a world governed by unfair rules.
And to be rotting all the while, on a timer ticking away at an accelerated rate. His fingers tighten on their bags. Anger spikes, despite all his control, at the thought of Markus, in particular, being blamed and discarded — and for a heart attack? Pieces have been omitted, but he decides to hold off on questioning that. ]
Sounds more like dying. [ a cold rejoinder, even-toned. ] But you don't sit back like the rest, in the end.
[ While Markus is capable of eerie stillness, Fitz has never thought him stagnant, instead actively in pursuit of loftier goals in this world and the last. ]
[Fitz has the right of it. All of that was just a slow, insipid death — waiting for time to run out, nestled away in a derelict, rusted freighter as forgotten as they were. Before the name Jericho meant more than just a place to huddle in shadow. Before its continual transition into a symbol, or the movement Markus hopes that it’ll grow into with each passing day, hour, minute.]
No, I couldn’t. How was I supposed to? How could I, after everything? Seeing them all like that, I realized that it just… wasn’t fair.
[That kind of complacency, he isn’t sure he can ever understand it again, not after his turn to deviancy. As if a switch had been irrevocably flipped, and accepting any degree of condonation could no longer slot into his programming. Even the thought of it was a red-hot offense that sent alarm bells ringing, and defiance hiking up in his heart.]
I told them that we should take action, instead of waiting around to die. So we raided a CyberLife warehouse for spare parts and blue blood, and in our success we came away more revitalized than before.
[The first stepping stone, the first jumping-off point towards a higher cause. All it took was a small spark of hope to set something ablaze with promise.]
After that, I thought we should make a statement to mankind. Declaring autonomy, our recognition as a living species. Individual and civil rights. The wish to co-exist peacefully. [A beat, and a clarification.] A literal statement, I mean. Infiltrating a broadcast tower was next on the agenda.
I guess you could say we didn’t do anything in half-measures after that.
[He wonders if Fitz can guess at the nature of his role with that much information, if it answers his original question. Drawing conclusions about the kind of leader he is; the sort with an underdog revolution steeling his spine. Why the idea of Morningstar quietly resonates with Markus in its own parallel way, despite the differences, though he's never told anyone that much.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
perfect beautiful legendary
When Fitz wanders out of the dressing room, he lifts both hands, as if to say well, what do you think. Even as he tries to look neutral, the corners of his mouth quirk, giving away the fact that he's pleased with the cool blue of this suit and sharp lines, if nothing else. By now, Fitz has stopped fussing when Markus asks for a bloody twirl. That's the name of the game today, and nothing he says can be worse than his initial verdict on Fitz's corporate casual wardrobe.
A slow turn for Markus ends with a hand over his face, one blue eye peeking out between his fingers. ]
Good? [ hopeful... ] It's bad, isn't it. [ this is outfit three from this place alone, for fuck's sake. ] No, just fine? Markus, mate, you're killing me. I'm dying.
[ HE'S FRAGILE. ]
sparkles
It looks good. [Arms still crossed, plain in his critique, but Markus doesn't mince words.] Better than the last two. Don't be shy about it. The color suits you, and it seems to fit well. Not too loud, but enough to stand out in a flood of suits that have a tendency to all look the same.
[Stepping forward, he motions at a tall three-way mirror nearby, which is practically begging Fitz to step into its vicinity to judge for himself. Note how Markus only allows this after an outfit passes his initial scrutiny.]
Stand there and tell me what you think.
[Stand there!! Markus will keep valiant watch over the purchases they may have already made — simpler fares, compared to the goal of a whole suit they're aiming for now — which are folded in nice, fancy boxes and packaged away in equally nice bags, settled at his feet for now.]
no subject
Even as he moves to do as he's told, Fitz ducks his head. ]
Bit demanding, aren't you. [ amused, despite any lingering self-consciousness, 'cause he wouldn't have bothered with half of the fuss, without someone urging him on. ] Yes, sir.
[ a half-hearted mock salute at his escort. However, once he steps forward, Fitz takes the task seriously, scanning his mirror image with the same intensity he typically reserves for mechanical pursuits. Better to be thoughtful than embarrassed, isn't it? His expression settles into neutrality. The colour's one of Jemma's favourites — perhaps that's to do with him, actually, seeing how it brightens the blue of his eyes. Give him a moment to hum in thought, straightening the suitcoat, glancing down at his shoes, the oxfords of 2511. ]
Could do with a few centimeters off the trousers. [ which might give away that he knows more about this than he let on, when he'd asked for help. ] Suppose I've got time for a tailor, though. [ a glance over his shoulder, perked up and mouth quirked, soft. ]
It's well smart, Markus. You've got good taste. [ an understatement, definitely. ] Might even turn a head — just the one, mind you — and then I'll really owe you. Well, owe you again. Owe you thrice.
[ three times over, by Fitz's count of kindnesses, ever on the rise. ]
no subject
Not completely oblivious to any of this, then, though Markus processed that conclusion from the start. Fitz is knowledgable where it counts; where he’s oblivious, he can be helped. And so shall he be forced to learn during their long shopping journey, with their final stop almost behind them, that light at the end of the tunnel drawing near. Markus will have to thank the man later, despite how tiring it might be for either party to search for new articles of clothing, to scurry back and forth between dressing rooms, to try on this and that and no, that’s too small, the color’s all wrong, again and again and again.
Because Markus is, quite honestly, having fun.
He offers Fitz a grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. The compliment is nice, but his gladness comes more from being able to provide both assistance and company.]
You don’t owe me for anything. [The clarification is swift and meant.] I’m happy to help; I always will be.
[And Markus, being as he is… well, that’s likely quite sincere, too.]
Though, now… do I dare say that we’re nearly almost done?
no subject
Fitz hopes the gesture is returned. ]
Don't even remember what the outside world looks like, [ drawling. ] all I can see are waistcoats and brogues. Ties for days and days and days.
[ He slips his hands into the pockets of the suitcoat, testing the way the fabric lies and glancing down briefly to see if it wrinkles. Well smart, indeed. ]
Nothing you're eyeing here first though, yeah? [ glancing around. ] For work or, y'know, whatever fashionable pursuits you get up to when I'm not stealing you away for the day. [ a spark there, delighted that he was able to do just that, even though he'd like to balance the scales between them. ] If not, the deal was that I get to buy you lunch, anyway. [ Phrased carefully. Not a debt this time, but something earned. Fitz gets to do that — has orchestrated a chance to ensure that Markus is as well as he can be, in these circumstances. ] Late lunch.
no subject
You mean it isn’t normal to see a collection of ties every time I close my eyes?
[An easy joke, of course.
everyone knows markus actually see rEVOLUTION across the back of his eyelidsWith that, though, Markus can’t help the way his eyes skate back towards the front of the store. Displays of the newest fashions for the season, color palettes to match, all vying for attention. But amazingly enough, this particular android does possess a noticeable amount of self-control, even when it comes to one of his more prominent vices.]
I’m always eying something, Fitz. But I do have to pretend to be frugal on occasion, too.
[Or rather, he has to be frugal for the sake of Connor’s bank account. Markus’ job might mean there’s a stream of income, and a pianist at an exclusive locale pays decently enough, but the hours are limited and not always reliable. Best to save. A new outfit can wait. Probably.]
So, late lunch it is. Let’s make our last purchase and get you out of here.
[A statement punctuated by the way he bends down, scooping up the many bags they’ve collected over their trip by their handles.]
no subject
They make it out with their bags, racking up a bill that earns choked noise of surprise from Fitz, though he pays it all the same. He's committed to the day out with Markus — and to rising up the ranks at Vyonation. Once outside and on their way (heading west first, towards the river, the posh walk south that leads out of the area of boutiques and into somewhere more affordable for lunch), his tone shifts. More hesitant than his earlier griping and playfulness. He lifts a hand, jostling his clasped shopping bags with it in his attempt to gesture and carry onward. ]
I was actually wondering if you'd tell me a little bit more about — well, about your home. And how you fit into it.
[ Connor had hinted at something greater, at least in his personal experience. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
Used. Past tense. For time is the longest distance between two places, as he so often recalls, though Markus describes it as quick (If Connor's hardly a year old — how long has Markus been active? A question for later.) Fitz meets his sideways glance with his customary attentiveness, ever too fixated on his interlocutors. Might be alarming, for his other friends. A crease in his brow matches Markus' own sobering expression. ]
Carl.
[ he replies, quiet but sure, because loss always has a name, and it won't do to forgot or obscure it. ]
And your role, your used to ended when he... [ he trails off, biting the inside of his cheek. Hard not to consider how Connor had discussed the topic of deviance and its manifestation in his own life, contrasting it against Markus' first descriptions of love and loss as motivators for change. ]
no subject
Emotional creature that he is, it’s hard to shake the tremor of feeling inlaid in each syllable, but Markus presses forward, as he always does.]
When he died. [Perhaps that isn’t a surprise, not when Markus has mentioned loss and how that same loss will wring out change; in his case, by wrenching one life out of his hands, only to leave him grasping for another.
He takes this memory and hems away the details deemed unnecessary to answer Fitz’s original question. Lets the idea of breaking and entering, of Leo Manfred and his addiction, of tempers flaring, of waking up yet still choosing to not fight back, fall to his feet as he shears them away.]
It was a heart attack; I was the scapegoat. And no one will question a human when an android is to be blamed instead. I never had a chance to even defend myself— [He pauses briefly, returning his gaze to the path they’re taking, heat radiating with unkindness off of the pavement they tread.]
…The next thing I knew, I woke up, broken, in a landfill. A junkyard for discarded androids. [Markus doesn’t just hem away details here. He tears them right down the middle — he’ll not linger on this memory for long.] I clawed my way out. And eventually, I found refuge with others like myself. Others who had woken up to their inherent freewill, who hid in shadow and in fear of what the humans would do to them. Slowly wasting away, with no means of repairing themselves from injury, simply biding time until supplies or parts would run dry. Alone, scared, lost.
Does that sound much like living to you, Fitz?
no subject
How horrifying to be thrown away, branded as an insurgent for existing apart, for waking up to the truth of a world governed by unfair rules.
And to be rotting all the while, on a timer ticking away at an accelerated rate. His fingers tighten on their bags. Anger spikes, despite all his control, at the thought of Markus, in particular, being blamed and discarded — and for a heart attack? Pieces have been omitted, but he decides to hold off on questioning that. ]
Sounds more like dying. [ a cold rejoinder, even-toned. ] But you don't sit back like the rest, in the end.
[ While Markus is capable of eerie stillness, Fitz has never thought him stagnant, instead actively in pursuit of loftier goals in this world and the last. ]
no subject
No, I couldn’t. How was I supposed to? How could I, after everything? Seeing them all like that, I realized that it just… wasn’t fair.
[That kind of complacency, he isn’t sure he can ever understand it again, not after his turn to deviancy. As if a switch had been irrevocably flipped, and accepting any degree of condonation could no longer slot into his programming. Even the thought of it was a red-hot offense that sent alarm bells ringing, and defiance hiking up in his heart.]
I told them that we should take action, instead of waiting around to die. So we raided a CyberLife warehouse for spare parts and blue blood, and in our success we came away more revitalized than before.
[The first stepping stone, the first jumping-off point towards a higher cause. All it took was a small spark of hope to set something ablaze with promise.]
After that, I thought we should make a statement to mankind. Declaring autonomy, our recognition as a living species. Individual and civil rights. The wish to co-exist peacefully. [A beat, and a clarification.] A literal statement, I mean. Infiltrating a broadcast tower was next on the agenda.
I guess you could say we didn’t do anything in half-measures after that.
[He wonders if Fitz can guess at the nature of his role with that much information, if it answers his original question. Drawing conclusions about the kind of leader he is; the sort with an underdog revolution steeling his spine. Why the idea of Morningstar quietly resonates with Markus in its own parallel way, despite the differences, though he's never told anyone that much.]