Abolition

Chapter Twenty-One

Hand to hand combat training in between meal times becomes the norm for Oliver and I. Without having any idea of when Weston and Mama will decide when the ideal time to strike is—Finley had managed to put a marker on the specific line they wanted to track after the second day—it's all we can do. We take our meals with everyone but only interact with our smaller group, train when we're not eating, and crash into bed at the end of the day.

It's hard work, reps and reps of the same moves with bonus physical conditioning added in. I accuse Mitsuki and Barrowman of going easy on Oliver because of his injuries, but they deny it wholeheartedly. "He might be fighting with these injuries," Mitsuki says during a water break as we watch Barrowman and Oliver spar. Oliver gets in a good hit but leaves his left side exposed, giving Barrowman the opportunity to take him to the ground. "What's the point in going easy on him?"

"That doesn't mean you're not going easy on him," I say, and Mitsuki sprays water in my face.

We're sore as hell the first few days, but the soreness soon wears off and leaves hard earned muscles in its place. I'm napping on the couch one day when Oliver rushes from the bathroom, towel barely hanging onto his waist, and shouts, "I have defined muscles!" like it's a gift from above.

I glare at him and try to find a comfier position. "Oliver, you're such a nerd."

Oliver frowns at me, and when he marches back into the bathroom I think that's the end of it. I close my eyes and nestle further into the kitchen, and that's the only reason I don't see the damp towel flying towards me. It lands on my face and I sit back up, fully prepared to throw it back, but Oliver's closed the door. "I totally saw you flexing in the mirror the other day, Kirk!" he says, but I don't acknowledge it. Just because it happened doesn't mean anything.

Somewhere in my busy schedule, Mama finds the time to come and talk to me. We'll arrange at breakfast to meet for lunch every couple of days, or she'll steal me away for afternoon coffee right around the time Mitsuki starts to get the most frustrated with me. We don't talk about the past, or about the plan, or about abolitionists or conformists or anything else. We just spend time together, conversation simple, and as the days pass talking to her gets easier to do. Easy like it should've always been.

"What was life like?" I ask her one day in the main hall, flinching as she presses a bag of frozen peas to soothe a black eye caused by a well-aimed Mitsuki kick.

"Sorry," she says but doesn't press any softer, and then to address my question, "When?"

"Before Keaton was taken."

She lifts my left hand to the bag of peas, and then pulls a chair up so she can sit beside me. Her arms are crossed over her chest as her teeth work at her bottom lip. "It was different," she says slowly. "I mean, obviously it was different, but it was different in the best of ways. We lived in a little house in the country big enough for all of us. Your dad worked as an architect, designing homes and buildings and figuring out how to incorporate new technology into old buildings, and I worked in politics."

My expression twists. "Really?"

"Politics isn't bad, Kirk," Mama says. "Some people in politics might be bad, but politics in and of itself are always going to happen. I wasn't a politician or anything; I was a public relations specialist. Never aligning with any single party, lending my talents and abilities to all. I loved my job, and being able to do it from home made it all the more appealing."

"Why?"

"Because I could work and raise you and your brother at the same time."

Brother. The word still feels unfamiliar in my brain, tastes weird on my tongue. "I'm still not over it," I admit.