What a strange thing, colonialism without unsettled worlds, without cryo. How would that even work? Yet, the word had to come from somewhere. колонијализам certainly doesn't have the rhythm of the languages he grew up speaking.
"Falconer wanted liberty from everything," he says. "It's a nice dream."
Ezio breaks his gaze on Kovacs to look down at bracer. He gets a twitch of a smile while he laces the strap through the buckle, the thin metal sheath clasped to the underside. That delicious little confidence –– he's right, isn't he?
"A dream that persists, if people still talk about Envoys," he replies.
A hard scoff, and Kovacs is too tired to be angry about it. "It's a fairy tale," he says, harsh. "The glorious victory of CTAC over vicious terrorists."
And Ezio, buoyed by the transformations he's seen of shattered brotherhoods, firm: "And you believe that? In your heart, the dream is little more than a fairy story, and if Falconer arrived tomorrow, you would tell her so with this same frustration?"
The question shocks jagged laughter from Kovacs. He shakes his head. "If Quell was here? Right now?"
He turns his head, hand over his eyes. All sounds feel distant. Even Quell's image, haunting him from a distance of inches, feels mournful. The laughter peters off.
He leans against a stone wall, feeling the cold seep into the skin of his back. He hopes his sweat stains the marble.
"That's a good taunt. Try it again when I'm paying less attention."
Ezio watches for a second, and that raw little note –– Quell, a nickname –– makes Kovacs' dismissal of the cause feel that much more desperate. It is not lost on him that in other circumstances, they could kill each other. Here, that cause is the thread Ezio must cling to.
"And a good deflection," Ezio replies. It was a taunt, too, but they both know it; it doesn't need to be said. It also doesn't need to be re-asked. He just heads back off into his mothers' old quarters. Dinnertime.
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"Falconer wanted liberty from everything," he says. "It's a nice dream."
And that's all it fucking is.
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"A dream that persists, if people still talk about Envoys," he replies.
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He turns his head, hand over his eyes. All sounds feel distant. Even Quell's image, haunting him from a distance of inches, feels mournful. The laughter peters off.
He leans against a stone wall, feeling the cold seep into the skin of his back. He hopes his sweat stains the marble.
"That's a good taunt. Try it again when I'm paying less attention."
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"And a good deflection," Ezio replies. It was a taunt, too, but they both know it; it doesn't need to be said. It also doesn't need to be re-asked. He just heads back off into his mothers' old quarters. Dinnertime.