Abolition

Chapter Eighteen

A nurse checks me over, making sure that it's safe for me to leave in the time that Weston is away. Finley is unhelpfully helping me wrestle a sweater over my head when he returns; I can't see him, but his chortle alerts me to his presence. "I'm really not this inept," I say as Finley finally manages to force my head through the hole. "She just thought I was taking too long."

"He was," Finley confirms as she starts to force the sleeves over my arms.

Weston laughs. "You don't seem to be much help, dear, so let the boy figure it out himself and let's go."

I finish getting the sweater on in less than the time it took to get it over my head. Finley abandons me as soon as we enter the hallway for one of the people that's been sent to get us, a girl that she calls Mitsuki. They leave me five steps behind, awkwardly sandwiched in between Weston and our other guard. Weston talks enough for the three of us, explaining all of the structural and technological advancements that went into the Puppeteer's building and how much time it took. It's all really impressive, but the monologue is marred by the tinge of sadness in Weston's tone.

He worked on this building, that much is obvious. But if he's so proud of it, why would it make him sad?

Apparently the line abolitionists spared no expense to get the sketchiest, most obtrusive means of transportation possible. The van that we're led to is olive green and it doesn't have any windows apart from the front windshield, the back window, and the windows in the driver and passenger in the front seat. Mitsuki opens the back door and Finley climbs in, followed by Weston and I. We settle into our seats as Mitsuki and the other guy take their places up front, buckling up.

I can't hold back anymore. I look at Weston and then wave a hand in the direction of his face as Mitsuki turns us onto the open road. "So. What happened with all of...that."

Weston taps the patch covering the eye that, presumably, isn't there anymore. "This?"

"Yeah."

"I had an ocular implant, Kirk, remember? Unfortunately, an ocular implant can be tracked if people know how to do it, so it was better to get rid of the whole thing altogether. It's going to take awhile before the artificial eye is all ready to go, considering our current—limitations. But this is really just temporary."

"Oh," I say, queasy.

Weston doesn't sound nearly as tense as he had while telling me about the Puppeteer, and there's even a small smile on his face. He doesn't seem troubled at all by the fact that I just asked him about his missing eye, or that he's been exiled from his own company and forced to go on the run. He's acting like there's nothing unexpected about the situation, as inconvenient as it is.

Like everything is going according to plan.

"I'm sure you have questions more questions," Weston says. "Especially if the Puppeteer really didn't tell you that much. I am sorry about the secrecy. Finley had restrictions on what she could and couldn't tell you, and there's other things she doesn't know altogether."

"It's okay," I say, shifting into a mildly more comfortable position. It does nothing for my aching head, but at least my lower back is no longer screaming. "I mean—yeah, answers would be nice, but I understand what's going on." A beat. "I think."

Weston says, "What do you want to know?"

And that—that is a good question. There are bigger questions here other than the trivial ones that Finley was okay with answering, the ones like where was he on Friday and why he didn't just take the file off his computer when he ditched, before he wiped it, but there's more at stake, here. How the hell have I gone over a day discontent with my complete lack of answers without figuring out what exactly I wanted answers to?