Outworld/The Silver Cross

“Because I’m the most famous Margin Driver on the bloody planet right now! Everybody who watches the bloody broadcasts knows my face and my name and therefore knows your bloody name as well! You wanted a bloody Markowitz dynasty, here you go, silver platter and everything! Point is, I’m well aware I’m the best Accounts Exec around, I want to diversify. It’s a brave new bloody world out there, if we don’t evolve we’re going to get left behind.”

“Yes, that means building relationships with Joy Effect, yes with Protean Dynamics as well. It’s for the good of Opportunity as a whole, we have to struggle together for o-”

“No, dad, Scarlet and I are not ‘an item’. Mum, tell him nobody talks like that any more.”

“I don’t care what the gossip rags say! We’re business partners, that’s why you see us together! Mergers, acquisitions, board meetings, strategy, all of that!”

“Mum, we are NOT having the grandchildren conversation again! Shit is going WRONG with the Nexus, I’m still dealing with the Ziggy fallout, the Combine are a law unto themselves and I can’t get hold of half the fucking Penitents! I have bigger things to care about right now! Put dad back on the phone!”

“I wouldn’t have to be rude if you two could focus for more than a minute at a go! I’m trying t-”

“I know, dad, I know, I know, I...”

*click*

“...I swear, orphans don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

Illusory Superiority

Authors: 'Ten Count' Markowitz & Soar Ever Upwards

The benefit of being a Margin Driver was that there was a wealth of history and tradition behind you. There were rules and regulations and, when you ran into a situation where the rules got in your way, you asked around. Somebody else always had a technicality or a loophole they were willing to share and if that still didn’t do the trick, you just ignored the rules entirely. If you were smart about it, nobody was ever going to find out. Even if they did, the odds were good that you’d get away with it.

The drawback of being a Shaper was that absolutely none of that was the case.

Oh, it was undeniably enjoyable being able to warp the world as you saw fit – if power really was an aphrodisiac, being a Shaper could have teased arousal out of a statue – but there were so many irritants Ten Count had had no idea he even needed to consider. For instance, before he’d left for his grand tour, he’d tried to alter the fifth floor at the Cross to cool it off and make it more fit for purpose as a place to come down, get your energy back and generally recuperate.

He’d come back the next morning and it was louder than ever, like a petulant child having a tantrum and refusing to give up their security blanket. He’d asked around and apparently, the territories existed partly as manifestations of the Shaper’s own personality; what that said about Ten Count himself was best left unconsidered.

Something else he’d learned recently was that jaunting all over the Outworld was absolutely knackering and, as Ten Count shambled into the foyer of the Harmony Complex, it would have been charitable to say he only felt like death. “Alistair,” he yawned, greeting the smart young gentleman manning the reception desk, “what’s been going on?”

“Not a lot, Mr. Markowitz, sir. Good to have you back.” Alistair was one of his brighter prospects from the Ten-Step School and at fifteen, he was probably overdue his nickname by now. “Did Valtaria meet your expectations?”

The groan that Ten Count made in reply defied spelling. “It was fine. Send somebody down to my office in a bit, I need...pfh, I need many things, and I want the world’s longest massage. Make it happen.” It was the thought of impending physical comfort that kept him walking down the endless stairs, his legs and knees complaining every aching step of the way.

Besides the pair of thugs standing guard at the door, the Tenth Floor was unsurprisingly deserted. With the master of the house not in attendance, there was no reason to keep his inner sanctum locked down especially tightly, particularly since the spectacular failure of the neuronetwork in the Sub-Chamber that the effervescent Scarlet Crave had been kind enough to set up down here. “Battersby, Beaufort.”

Judging by the look one gave the other, Ten Count would have bet most of his arsenal that if he’d come down the stairs in quieter boots, he’d have caught one of them asleep on the job. Probably the boy, if he’d been pushed into a decision: he looked less alert than she did. “Sir! Welcome back, welcome back,” stuttered the boy, trying to stand straighter without it being obvious. “It’s an honour to see you here!” “It’s an honour to see me here, Beaufort?” replied Ten Count, in as long-suffering a tone as he could muster. “Outside my offices, at my establishment, where you’ve been standing guard, it’s an honour. How’s the sister, Battersby?”

"Really well, thanks sir. Being a total savage because I told her she’s not allowed to start at the school until next year.“

“Glad to hear it. If I catch you sleeping on the job, you’ll need a plastic surgeon, my lad.” Patting Beaufort’s cheek gently, Ten Count slid open the door and stepped through into the cool darkness of the Tenth Floor. He didn’t like to go in for open threats against graduates from his school. But it had to be done sometimes to remind them who was boss. There were reputations to uphold.

---

The casual viewer, perusing holovid security footage of “Ten Count” Markowitz’s office, would have taken a moment to admire the décor. They’d have appreciated the extensive yet tasteful collection of projectile weaponry hanging from the walls, the well-polished oak desk, and the poise and quirky dress sense of the young man who rifled at speed through the desk drawers. They might, on the other hand, have winced at the sound of the desk drawers slamming shut, or at the man in question’s cheerful but entirely tuneless humming. And if, by then, they weren’t beginning to feel a modicum of sympathy for the office’s proper owner, the sight of his wayward guest adjusting the height of his desk chair would surely have moved them to it.

But at that point, this entirely theoretical viewer would have found themselves slammed bodily to the floor. Groaning in confusion, they would have felt helpless as a pinned butterfly, held in place by steely and inhuman strength. Still, not having had the time to pause the holovid, they would have heard the unmistakable sound of someone climbing on top of the desk. The following sound – being somewhat more ambiguous – they would have been unlikely to have placed correctly as that of a seasoned acolyte of a monastic order bouncing up and down while stood on one foot, humming Karli’s “I don’t hate your beautiful soul (except when I do, baby)”.

And, as cold steel plunged into that luckless viewer’s throat – as they felt their lifeblood drain out onto the stained, metaphorical linoleum – they might have glimpsed movement in the far corner of the holovid. They might even have noted (their vision blurring all the while; thoughts of their charming partner and three small children flashing desperately through their mind) that the movement was accompanied by the creak of an opening door.

Then all would have faded into the cold listlessness of death.

For the past seventy two and a half minutes, Soar Ever Upward’s grin had become increasingly fixed. At the sound of his quarry’s approach, it lost that quality. He drummed his feet on the desk and clapped his hands together. “You said there’d be gelato, Mister Markowitz! Only I couldn’t find any!”

---

The only way to properly render Ten Count’s lack of speech would have been through a series of unchained single letters. The sight of Soar, the Penitent he classed as a teenager and knew had to be at least four times his own elder, sitting on his desk wiped all of the complete words from his mental dictionary for a few moments. “Battersby? Would you mind joining me in my office, please?” he shouted over his shoulder.

"Here, s-” The young woman cut herself off, obviously seeing Soar for the first time.

“I feel I should make some introductions. This,” Ten Count started, slipping straight into his teaching tone, “is Soar Ever Upward.” Sitting on the desk, Soar’s grin widened and he waved frantically. “I know the Penitent look is extremely in fashion these days, but Soar here is a real-life Penitent. One of the...Hellions, is that it?”

“A Hellion?!” Soar sounded almost convincingly wounded at the implication. “Markowitz, how could you? After all the letters! The promises! The declarations of undying love!” He recovered himself in time to add, “I am of course an Adjutant, ma’am. Behind every great person, we stand.”

“Of course you do,” said Ten Count indulgently, clapping a hand on Battersby’s shoulder. “This, Soar, is Alison ‘Assault and’ Battersby. Graduated with colours from my Ten-Step School of Margin Driving, with a distinction in- remind me of the course, child.”

“Brute Force Trauma, sir.”

“That’s the one. I was quite impressed by her general lack of scruples and willingness to go for the eyes, so I kept her on retainer.” Ten Count patted the young woman on the back. “I am, however, questioning why I decided to do that when she seems to have let an intruder from another nation altogether into MY PRIVATE QUARTERS.”

“I-”

Ten Count put his hand up to silence her. “Don’t want to hear it. Now get out before I forget myself and treat you as hostile.” As Battersby scurried to the safety of outside, the grumpy and tired Shaper rounded the desk and slumped down into his chair. “Right. So, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Few people could mime being stabbed in the heart with quite such realism. Especially while rotating themselves through one hundred and eighty degrees. “Didn’t you miss me at all?” Soar asked, in some consternation. He continued without waiting for a response. “Man, maybe I’ll just hang out with your kids, instead. They’re way cooler than you are, when they’re awake – probably – and I bet they keep more interesting stuff in their desks.” As was usual for Soar, this was spoken as a monologue that was more or less impossible to interrupt. As if to punctuate, he dug the heel of his right shoe into the surface of the desk. It made a noise suggestive of scuff marks.

“Feet off the desk,” said Ten Count.

Soar rocked delightedly backwards. “Man, this place is awesome! You have, like, guards, and everything! Kids these days, am I right?” Without any warning, he launched himself from the desk, landing just behind Ten Count’s left shoulder. Then he draped himself over him like a very enthusiastic monochrome shawl. “Got their aethernet, designer drugs, cultural identities…“ He checked off these properties on his fingers. “And they reckon the spiritual’s just some kind of a fad.” The grin softened into something that displayed fewer teeth, and he poked Ten Count in the chest. “Makes you wonder why we keep ‘em around.”

About the only thing Ten Count bothered to dignify this with was a grunt, which Soar was free to read as he liked. He yanked open the drawer of his desk, and found the contents only lightly rearranged. “Reminds me,” he said, by way of explanation, locating a packet of brightly coloured powder and emptying it into his mouth.

“You think that stuff’ll rot your brain first, or your soul?” Soar asked, curiously.

“With a bit of luck, I'll be dead before I start noticing either.” Ten Count felt a muscle in his neck flex involuntarily - in about a minute, Vitamin Glee would kick in and help soften the world's hard edges down. “So I know, how did you get in here? Do I have to replace anybody you've killed?”

As though his disapproval would make any difference, Soar grimaced exaggeratedly as Ten Count turned back to him. Not a second later, his smile returned, and he rocked back on his heels. “You know me.” He removed his arms from Ten Count’s shoulders, holding his palms up flat in the universal sign: no weapons. He wiggled his fingers. “Total pacifist. Redemption doesn’t come cheap, you know?” He folded his hands behind his head. “I was probably getting too reliant on that stuff, anyway. It’s kind of a big deal, taking a life, even if it does save you twenty minutes of sneaking.” The question duly dodged, he added, “It’s all free range sneaking, now. I’m an ethical sneaker.”

“I don’t... you’re not- you’re not making any sense. Ethical sneaking, what does that even mean?” Ten Count sighed, lacking the energy to even attempt to keep up. “Soar, dearest, I’m too tired to threaten you properly. Can we just...” He made the universal gesture for ‘get to the point’. “Why the stealth? Why the intrusion? Why th- hold on, did you adjust my chair?!” Soar’s innocent expression was answer enough. “You cheeky little shit!”

“Maybe,” said Soar, smoothly interrupting the noises of anguish that followed, “I just wanted to say ‘hi’.” His tone was equal parts amusement and condescension. He leaned in again to rest his arms on Ten Count’s shoulders, and his chin on the top of his head, and sighed dramatically. “Didn’t you wanna see me? …Dearest?”

Flailing to shake Soar off him, Ten Count ducked down to put his chair back the way he damn well liked it. “’I just wanted to say hi’, he says”, muttered the narked Margin Driver, “after he sneaks into my private establishment and pokes his nose in my bloody business. I didn’t do that when I went to chat to Crooked, I didn’t do that in the Wyrdwood and I didn’t do that in Combine space, no matter how tempting it was, because I bloody respect personal property!” It probably wasn’t intentional that his voice got quite as high as it did.

Seemingly unperturbed, Soar perched back on the edge of the desk. "Huh," he said, as though a great deal had just been revealed to him. "Dawnie did say you'd get mad if I showed up."

"Dawn talks about me, then. I bloody hope so, the amount of work I did for her last time ou- WHY IS THERE A SCREW MISSING?" Ten Count ground his teeth and tried to tamp down his desire to headbutt the edge of the desk. Soar was bloody irrepressible, like the younger brother he'd never had and didn't especially want to begin with. "To the hells with it. Come on, we're leaving," he said, standing up and grabbing Soar by the shoulder. "You wanted gelato, let's find some bloody gelato."

"Really?!" For an instant, it was entirely possible to believe that Soar was both as young as he looked, and as carefree as he acted. “Like, really-really?” Ice cream, it seemed, had quite the transformative effect.

---

"Look, I'm sure I said this in the last letter, I don't understand the point of Extreme Celebrity Postal Delivery Worker. Why do celebrities have to be jammed into everything that's fun or new on the networks?" The promise of gelato had almost made Soar behave himself on the journey up to the Harmony Complex - there had only been three delays where Ten Count had had to grab the Penitent away from some interesting sight or fascinating person or piece of shiny metal – and, as Scarlet's narcotic masterpiece had taken hold, Ten Count began to feel almost… cheerful. "Take something like... like, Hazard Court! I could watch really talented players play full-contact badminton and dodge swinging buzzsaw blades really well, or I could watch celebrities do it and be terrible at it. I don't understand why people want celebrities in everything, I just don't."

Soar nodded sagely. "I probably shouldn't say this, but I do prefer Extreme Professional Postal Delivery Worker. Amateur is pretty good, too, but they never do the hardest routes." He stopped in his tracks. "Hey- hey, Mister Markowitz! Do you think I'd look good in this?"

It was a question uttered by very few people when presented with a row of souvenir baseball caps. The stall featured designs in a variety of flattering shades, from neon green to bright magenta. Many were encrusted with glitter; each one sported a slogan. Soar was eyeing a tie-dye piece emblazoned with 'I <3 SILVER CROSS'.

Ten Count pinched the bridge of his nose. "You try to embrace the Joy Effect style, you bring some colour into your look and this is what happens. Put it down, it looks hideous. You wouldn't even get Chain Dog to endorse these."

"It's great!" Soar insisted. "Oh, man. You're right, though. I'm not allowed colours anymore, am I?" He retracted his hand quickly, like touching the fabric might have violated some sacred Order tenet, and instead fiddled awkwardly with the buckles on one very white fingerless glove.

"That, and it looks repulsive." No Margin Driver was a stranger to using their body as a billboard - hell, Ten Count had been the public face of Torgue Armaments for years - but there were limits. He read one of them out loud. "'My Best Mate Got Mugged At The Silver Cross And All I Got Was This T-Shirt'. I am going to find whoever produces this and make a suit out of what's left of their skin. This is grotesque! I run a high-class establishment – this is the tackiest thing I've seen in forever!"

At that, Soar's expression switched straight back to 'irritatingly chipper' - like flicking a switch. "Let 'em be," he said, indulgently. "You don't know how much I missed this kind of stuff." More earnestly – resting a hand on Ten Count's arm – he added, "It's important, okay?"

"Fine." The sudden change in tone was jarring, but Ten Count knew full well there was more to Soar than the 'hyperactive madman' persona and assumed this was merely his hidden depths breaking the surface for once. Pointing at the man behind the stall, he growled, "Find somewhere else to sell this stuff or I'll drop you off Harmony's roof, clear?" Without waiting for a reply, he strode back into the foyer of the Harmony Complex for the second time in less than an hour.

This time, Alistair at the reception desk was a lot less calm. "Mr. Markowitz, sir, you have a visitor. Back office, back office. Demanded your time rather urgently, sir."

"Alistair, I'm busy," Ten Count said, gesturing at Soar, who was looking around the foyer, face unreadable. "Entertaining a member of another nation has to take precedent over... who is it, anyway?"

"One of us, sir. "Blue Eyes" Zielinski, he came needing you directly."

Why Alistair was so concerned about it he had no idea. Ten Count's little slice of Opportunity Knoxx was full of Margin Drivers he'd worked with or against on the other side of the Breach. It made sense that they'd been reconstituted into his creation. Admittedly, "Blue Eyes" Zielinski he'd have happily left behind: the man was a maniac that somebody had made the mistake of giving power – and, worse, he was a smart maniac. If there was a chance the people he terrorised had the money to put a contract on him, it wasn't happening. Old Opportunity was full of poor people to brutalise.

"Raincheck?" Soar asked, sounding like a man in mourning for whatever sugary monstrosity he had been planning on ordering.

Ten Count waved his hand dismissively. "This won't take long, come on. Thanks, Alistair." The Driver they called Blue Eyes had made himself at home in the back office, picking dirt from under his nails with an unnecessarily-large flensing knife and making a show of ignoring them both as Ten Count and Soar came in. "Zielinski. This is a sentence I'm saying rather a lot today. What do you want?"

"Well, Mark-" Zielinski began, accent from the gutters, before looking up.

"Hey there!" said Soar. "I'm Soar Ever Upward!"

"Answers my question. What the fuck is a Penitent doing in Opportunity, Markowitz?" the Driver said, not even attempting to hide his growing sneer. "Fraternising with the enemy?"

"None of your business, Blue Eyes, it's Shaper matters." Somebody paying better attention would have spotted how Zielinski's distinctly un-blue eyes widened just a fraction at that. "What do you want that's important enough to bug me?"

Zielinski dropped his knife on the desk. "Nothing I need from you, apparently..." he replied, drawing an equally-oversized pistol out of his shoulder holster and leveling it at Soar. "You brought me a spare."

That same somebody, still watching very closely, might have noticed Soar's expression falter, his smile replaced by something else entirely. But it was gone in a moment, transformed into the kind of grin most often seen in ads for dental biomancy.

"This guy is great!" he exclaimed, in obvious delight. "Can I keep him, Mister Markowitz? Please?"

Ten Count allowed himself a laugh. "Only if you promise to feed and water him and take him for walks. Seriously, Zielinski, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Alright, you got me," the other Driver said, shrugging. "Cards on the table, I was gonna murder you back here and take your powers, but I don't need to kill you now, do I? We can BOTH have these powers and we can make people really fucking scared of the organisation. Makes sense, right?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, I see." Light was beginning to dawn for Ten Count. "Sorry, Soar, I should have explained. The rumour's gone around that if you kill a Shaper, you take their power and you become a Shaper yourself. So he kills you, he takes your power, he and I terrorise the Nexus when the engines tune up. Makes sense, it's a good plan. Thing is, Soar wants gelato."

"With chocolate sauce," Soar added, helpfully.

Ten Count nodded wisely. "With chocolate sauce. And since he's been talking about it, I realised I want it now as well. Hazelnut or lemon, I haven't decided, so this isn't a fantastic time. We're a bit busy."

With his mouth hanging slightly open, Zielinski looked every inch the uncomprehending thug he was, confused beyond reckoning at why they weren't quailing or begging for their lives. "Are you not understanding? I'm gonna shoot him in the head."

"Holy magnolia!" said Soar, "No one's ever done that to me before." He turned his head very slightly to fix Ten Count with a wide-eyed expression. "You know I can't fight back, right? My life is in your hands!"

"Oh no," replied Ten Count, voice flat and leaden. "Such responsibility. However shall I carry this burden."

"Right. I'm gonna count to three, then I'm pulling this fucking trigger and then I'm shooting you as well." Zielinski broke into a wide grin as the potential of absorbing the power of not one, but two Shapers percolated into his head. "That'll be sick."

"Mm, it will," agreed Ten Count, sounding bland as possible. "You'll have quite the time with it. Shapers can create almost anything - I mean, take this," he added, holding up his communication cube for Zielinski to see. "My comms cube, a great little device. Pair it up to a similar gadget somebody else has and you can keep in contact wherever you are. It's also useful for something else."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, it's a great distraction." Zielinski had paid far too much attention to Ten Count's left hand to spot him drawing his pistol.

"Don't-", Soar started, an instant too late and a fraction of a second before the bullet erupted from the back of Zielinski's head, spraying gore all across the back wall.

"That was a waste," he said, in the ensuing silence. "I really wish you hadn't done that."

"What were you expecting? He was completely prepared to shoot you and me both. Doesn't matter that it wouldn't have done anything, the intention was there."

“And I can’t stop you!” There was a note of frustration in Soar's voice that Ten Count had never heard before – though he sounded more miserable than angry. "Don't you get it? I can't affect this world one way or another. You can turn these mortals into paste in front of me, if you like, but I can't..." He stopped, uselessly. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?" Ten Count shrugged, holstering the pistol. "Look, I thought you and your mob were all about making sure this new world doesn't suck out loud. Do you actually think keeping that sack of organs around would have made it any better? He wasn't worth the oxygen he was breathing, Opportunity's better off without a psychopath like him wandering around. You know he got his nickname because he liked blue eyes? He had brown eyes, he just liked blue eyes, used to cut them out of people. What part of that do you want hanging around?!”

There was a long pause before Soar replied. "There are things that you can’t..." Again, he stopped. Suddenly he sounded exactly like a parent trying to explain something important to a child. He caught Ten Count’s gaze and held it with disconcerting intensity, and began again. "This world has a certain kind of a balance. Everything is connected into a spiritual whole that- well, it takes years to learn to see it. But we’re all wrapped up in it, because the whole is contained within each individual just as each individual is contained within the whole. So, when I say wrapped up, I kind of mean that each person is the world-" He stopped. "Taking a life is significant, okay? It isn't to be done recklessly. I don't need or want to be involved in that sort of thing."

Ten Count whistled. Of all the things he could have encountered, deep philosophical theory from one of the last people he'd expected to hear that from was fairly low on his list. "Damn, Soar. The way you talk, it's like you think that worthless bastard actually had value to the world." With another shrug, he stood up. "Look, I can't promise I won't need to kill anybody else today. Will it help if I say I'll try to just... like, incapacitate them non-fatally? That any better?"

It had the opposite effect to what he intended: Soar's expression softened into one of extremely condescending sympathy. Very sincerely, he asked, "Why are you so determined to destroy pieces of yourself?"

"I wasn't joking when I said you made me want gelato as well." Ten Count was deliberately avoiding the question, but there was no reason to let Soar know that. "Are you coming?"

Soar’s smile was far too knowing, but at least he sounded more like himself. "Of course! You promised!"

---

In spite of its name, Harmony Ice was one of three different ice cream parlours within the Harmony Complex. But it was by far the busiest that evening. Myriad casual observers – at least three clad in souvenir t-shirts – watched two men enter. The first strode purposefully to the counter, while the second trotted eagerly behind him. Then the first, with a look of mild embarrassment, ordered one scoop of hazelnut gelato, and one scoop of lemon. Seeing the price of cones, he did a double take, and made a comment about daylight robbery. His companion chirpily informed him it was night, then demanded scoops of chocolate, fudge, chocolate fudge, salted caramel, cookie dough, and green tea gelato, presented atop a pile of waffles and drizzled with chocolate sauce. And a green tea.

Once it was confirmed that the green tea was, indeed, brewed at eighty degrees Celsius (no higher), they sat down opposite one another in a red leather booth. It had a clear line of sight to the door. As a waiter brought their order, the first man said, “Bloody hells,” in genuine surprise. The second collapsed in peels of laughter.

Perhaps an hour later, the first man excused himself. Left alone, briefly, with the dregs of his fourth cup of tea, the second removed something from his pocket and dropped it in the centre of the table. He stood without haste, flicked invisible dust from the collar of his jacket, and left.

On his return, “Ten Count” Markowitz discovered an abandoned table, a sizeable bill, and the missing screw from his desk chair.

Outworld/The Silver Cross

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