So is (was) Newpest, and Milisport, and Bay City, and Contendta and Saeyda, and the others he can't or won't remember. For spending so much time in the places, Kovacs would like to label himself a creature of cities as well. But cities have never been his mother, and his mother was always too distracted in her kindness to truly garnish the comparison with sweetness. When a man kills his father, he is son to no one, and what of mothers?
Characters in these stories never have mothers, dummy.
Venice is a city. Kovacs is cleared from the anthropomorphic urge, so he does not see a strong woman stretched out on rooftops, or a paternal naval power waiting in the bay. Kovacs is a people-watcher, his triumph and his sorrow, and he sees their bustle. Some happy, some haggard, beggars and brutes, maidens and militiamen, faces he recognizes through race and dress and time. They are alive. They make the city around them-- open rooftops promising nothing but their continued existence, and some not even that-- alive.
There is no answer that will satisfy Ezio. It's his dream, and Kovacs is no dreamer. He steps through the illusion, tentative for half a moment, before his pace breaks into a fool's run. Catch me if you can.
Ezio lets that sea air sink right to the bottom of his lungs, his eyes momentarily on the city ahead. He is momentarily decades younger, clean-shaven and foolhardy and up to his nostrils in fluids most days of the week. If there were ever happy years in his adulthood, they were here. They have been here for many people.
And then Kovacs bursts ahead.
There couldn't be a more perfect reaction.
Ezio chuckles to himself, pushing himself into an easy run. He'll see if it is to be a sprint or a hunt.
The objective, of course, is to hide. Kovacs knows he's at a disadvantage-- this is Ezio's city, he practically screams it-- but that's why the trial is worth it. The attempt. He doesn't intend to win. If anything, as always, he intends to make losing ugly.
Over one ridge in the roofing, like a giant snake refusing to coil, and around a corner- Kovacs stops on a balcony, and shuffles into a strangely decorated room. Its upholstery, fashion, everything, is entirely unfamiliar to Kovacs, but that doesn't mean it's useless. He begins pulling the blankets off the nearby bed, knowing he has little time.
Running feels good, a comfort on his soul after day upon day of living in this sleek, artless vessel. His senses come alive with a flicker of focus, the sound of Kovacs' footsteps on the rooftop tile ahead, the pitch of his body as it careens around the corner, and his mind fills in the next: where Kovacs is going, even after he's slipped from sight.
He drops onto the balcony railing, feet finding the narrow stone rail by rote.
Kovacs takes thick blankets and throws them toward Ezio when he appears. It's an old fool's trick, and Kovacs doesn't expect much of it when he uses the momentary confusion to punch Ezio's still-healing nose.
Before the blankets have settled, Kovacs is back out another window, scampering up the wall to the sea of rooves awaiting him.
Ezio has to respect Kovacs' improvisation, even as thinks of him as a piece of shit for going for such cheap tricks in the first place. When the blanket flies at him, he jumps to hang from the balcony's awning, lifting his knees to catch the blanket and block a swing. By time Kovacs is off again, Ezio kicks the blanket down and carries on upward, onto the roof to resume the chase, his sense guiding him right back onto Kovacs' trail.
Kovacs runs, turns back, waits. How much can Ezio hear, underneath? How well does he know these rooves? Hiding behind a chimney, Kovacs aims to observe.
As he does so, he works carefully to take off his shoes as silently as possible.
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So is (was) Newpest, and Milisport, and Bay City, and Contendta and Saeyda, and the others he can't or won't remember. For spending so much time in the places, Kovacs would like to label himself a creature of cities as well. But cities have never been his mother, and his mother was always too distracted in her kindness to truly garnish the comparison with sweetness. When a man kills his father, he is son to no one, and what of mothers?
Characters in these stories never have mothers, dummy.
Venice is a city. Kovacs is cleared from the anthropomorphic urge, so he does not see a strong woman stretched out on rooftops, or a paternal naval power waiting in the bay. Kovacs is a people-watcher, his triumph and his sorrow, and he sees their bustle. Some happy, some haggard, beggars and brutes, maidens and militiamen, faces he recognizes through race and dress and time. They are alive. They make the city around them-- open rooftops promising nothing but their continued existence, and some not even that-- alive.
There is no answer that will satisfy Ezio. It's his dream, and Kovacs is no dreamer. He steps through the illusion, tentative for half a moment, before his pace breaks into a fool's run. Catch me if you can.
no subject
And then Kovacs bursts ahead.
There couldn't be a more perfect reaction.
Ezio chuckles to himself, pushing himself into an easy run. He'll see if it is to be a sprint or a hunt.
no subject
Over one ridge in the roofing, like a giant snake refusing to coil, and around a corner- Kovacs stops on a balcony, and shuffles into a strangely decorated room. Its upholstery, fashion, everything, is entirely unfamiliar to Kovacs, but that doesn't mean it's useless. He begins pulling the blankets off the nearby bed, knowing he has little time.
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He drops onto the balcony railing, feet finding the narrow stone rail by rote.
Mere seconds now, Kovacs.
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Before the blankets have settled, Kovacs is back out another window, scampering up the wall to the sea of rooves awaiting him.
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no subject
As he does so, he works carefully to take off his shoes as silently as possible.