[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}
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.]