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.
"Over what?"
"The fact that I have a brother."
Mama looks down at her hands, rubbing her left thumb over her right, before she says, "Keaton was the sweetest child, and he was made to be a big brother. He'd treat his little action figures like they were a brother following him into an adventure. You were probably the best thing that happened to him, to us. You completed our family Kirk in all of the best possible ways, Kirk."
Things were perfect for a year, but then they all went to shit.
I start to lower the bag of peas, but put it back into place when Mama shoots a glare at me. She's grateful for the change in focus, I think. "Do you want that eye to swell?"
I'm thankful for it, too. "No ma'am."
"That's what I thought."
A week passes, and then another. I'm no expert at hand to hand combat but I'm starting to feel reasonably competent, and I wonder if they've forgotten about the mission—or, better yet, if there's not going to be a mission at all. Maybe they've figured out another way to get the intel and we won't be needed.
When I get shaken awake before the sun's up one morning, though, I know that's not the case. I'm awake immediately—years of Jan only giving one warning before pulling me out of bed has taught me well—but Oliver is not quite as good at waking up. He uses words that I'm pretty sure aren't English as he fights with the covers and the person that's been charged with getting him conscious, but he has no luck. Eventually, the person grows tired with the fight, and there's a splash followed by indignant sputtering.
"Time to go," Barrowman's deep voice says. "You've got fifteen minutes to be at the van."
We've been ready for this day for two whole weeks. We're at the van in five minutes.
Mitsuki drives again. Barrowman, again, sits in the other front seat. "Will we ever graduate to the front seats?" I ask as I climb into the back; Oliver, who is following me, is only awake enough to grunt in agreement.
"Nope," Mitsuki says as we all buckle up. She turns on the van, and then turns back to face us. "Before we get going, in the back of this seat there's a compartment. Open it up and take out the two ear pieces."
"Hear that, Oliver," I say under my breath as I search for the panel, and then slide it open, "we get ear pieces. Just like real spies."
Oliver grunts again. I roll my eyes and take the two tiny circular ear pieces off their pedestals and put one in my ear, and the other in Oliver's. "Alright," I say. "They're in. What now?"
Mitsuki starts driving. A voice in my ear says, "Now we update you on the plan," and that voice is enough to wake Oliver enough that he can use English.
"Finley?" he asks.
"Yeah, Oliver. Finley."
"Not that I'm not happy to hear from you, because I am, but why are you in my ear?"
I can hear Finley's smile. "I'm basically your handler," she says.
"See, Oliver," I interrupt. "Just like real spies."
"Oh, shut up, Kirk," Finley says. "I'm here because you guys need to know where to go and what to do and Weston seems to think that you will listen to me best. Do you think he's right?"
"Yes," Oliver says immediately. I frown and cross my arms.
"Kirk, don't be an idiot," Finley says.
"Fine," I say.
"Excellent!" Finley claps her hands once. "Okay. There should be a cooler at Barrowman's feet. There's sandwiches and fruit and bottles of water and whatever in there."
"Whatever?" I ask as Barrowman hands back the cooler, Oliver immediately starting to search through it.
"Yeah," Finley replies, "the people in the kitchen packed it so I'm not too sure what's in there, but they promised me you'd be well fed, so."
"Holy crap," Oliver says, pausing, and I follow his gaze to the inside of the cooler. There's different fruits and sandwiches and drinks and pastries and it's more than enough to feed twenty people, not just the four of us. I clear my throat.
"It appears that food won't be a problem," I say, and Finley laughs.
"The people in the kitchen are good at making sure we're taken care of," she says. "Grab what you want and tell me when you're ready and I'll explain the plan while you eat."
I don't take much; my rolling stomach will only be able to handle an apple, a granola bar, and water, if that. Oliver, apparently, feels no such nerves, and he's halfway through his first cherry strudel before he says, "Alright, Finley. We're ready."
"Excellent," she says. "So, the only reason we got you up so early is because we want to get this done as quickly and as early as possible. We needed to figure out when we could nab him when he wouldn't be missed by anybody; that is, when he wasn't on his way to a class or appointment or meeting or work or whatever. This was hard to do—he's a pretty busy guy."
"Why'd you pick him, then?" Oliver asks through a mouthful.
"Because he's closer to the top of the middle, and we're pretty sure he's one of the conformists main communicators. Also, that was gross, Oliver."
Oliver swallows. "Sorry."
"No, you're not," Finley replies, "but whatever. Today is a rare day off for our target; we're going to nab him on his way to a local bookstore. It should be simple; he walks through a pretty quiet part of town, so there shouldn't be a lot of witnesses, but remember that the Puppeteer is taking care of that so don't freak out if you see any. Mitsuki and Barrowman are going to be parking the van on the next side street next to where you'll meet our guy, and once you have him restrained or knocked out or whatever they'll come in and take over."
"Finley," I ask, granola bar half finished and apple not even touched, "how are we supposed to know when to grab him?"
"I'll tell you," she says. "There's a bench right beside where you're going to grab him, so you two will be sitting on that. I'll tell you when to go—we have to wait for the Puppeteer to do their thing, of course—and then you guys will have three minutes."
"That's it?"
"We can't give you forever, Kirk," Finley says, but she sounds apologetic. "You're just getting in, and then out. The end. Given your apparent proficiency at hand to hand combat, it shouldn't be that much of a problem."
"But Finley," I say, slightly panicked, "what happens if he runs?"
"Don't let him," Finley says simply. "You guys will be okay. This will be a rousing success. And not just because I'm guiding you."
"Yeah, whatever," I say.
"Do not 'whatever' me, Kirk Hawthorne."
"Yeah, Kirk," Oliver says through a mouthful of apple.
I roll my eyes at Oliver and say, "Yes ma'am," as sarcastically as I can possibly muster. I'm sure that it's not lost on Finley, but it doesn't appear to bother her at all if her, "Damn right," is anything to go by.
Great. "These are the people I've allied myself with," I mutter as quietly as possible; Finley doesn't appear to hear it, but Mitsuki does.
"You'll get used to it, Kirk," she says, but I'm not too sure I will even if there is a small part of me that wants to.
-
The sun is barely peeking over the horizon when Mitsuki and Barrowman drop us off at the bench. The grass crunches underneath our feet, and there's frost on the bench we're going to be sitting on.
Oliver and I stare at it, missing the warmth of the van even more than we did right after we got out of it. "I know that I said they weren't asking us to be spies," Oliver said, "but if this is what it's like, being a real spy isn't nearly as fun as it was yesterday."
"No kidding," I say, sticking my hands into my pockets.
"Is it always this cold in the morning?"
"No."
"Then why is this cold today?"
"I don't know, Oliver."
"I don't get why Finley gets to do the fun computer stuff," he says.
"I heard that," Finley says.
"Good for you," I reply. "We are not sorry."
"Just get it over with and sit down," she says.
"Finley, that bench is covered with tiny ice crystals."
"Deal with it, Kirk. The longer you stand the more suspicious you look."
I look at Oliver. Oliver looks at me.
"This isn't as great as they make it look in the movies," I say, and then sit down. And it's—shit, it's cold. It's freezing cold. It's like I'm sitting on a block of ice. How long do I have to stay here, again? It'll warm up, right?
Oliver says, "How is it?" He takes a small step towards the bench, like inching closer to it will make the act of sitting hurt less.
It's terrible. It's one of the most terrible things I've ever experienced. But I paste a smile on my face and lean back—it's worse on my back, crap, so bad that it's making my neck ache, I thought jackets were supposed to shield from the cold—and say, "It's actually alright. Kind of refreshing."
Oliver looks skeptical, but he takes another small step forward.
"Seriously, Oliver," I say. "It's great."
Oliver takes a deep breath, and before he can over think it he sits.
And he—
Screeches? That might be the most accurate word for it.
"Damn it, Kirk," Finley says as I lean away from Oliver, who's gone completely still as he stares straight ahead. "You might be able to back away from that, but I got it right in the ear."
"The bench is cold, Finley," I say. "This is what you get."
"Oh, shut up."
Oliver eventually recovers and he simply glares at me. That's it. He doesn't shout at me or try to push me off the bench in retaliation; he just leans back, shuddering as he does, and turns his head so he can glare at me.
If I hadn't survived many years of Jan glaring at me, I would maybe be a little intimidated. I've had many opportunities to develop immunity, though, and Oliver isn't nearly as scary as he thinks he is. He doesn't have enough time to make much of an impact, anyways; we've been sitting for maybe twenty minutes when Finley says, "This is your two minute warning, guys."
Two minutes.
I glance at the sidewalk behind us; there are only a few lines on it. I wonder which one we'll be going for. I wonder which one we'll be abducting.
I wonder which one is against us.
"There's one thing you guys have to do," Finley says. "You have to press the back of his neck firmly when you get him. It'll be the only way you'll be able to get him off his line. You can't remove a person from their predestined path by force—so far, we've only known people to get off their line under extreme duress—so we have to pause the path and get them off it and put them where we want."
Oliver makes a face. I say, "This entire thing is sick. Whose idea was it?"
"The lines were probably a good idea in theory, Kirk, remember that," Finley says. "I don't think the manufacturers and planners meant for it to get this far."
"But it did."
"Yeah, it did." She takes a deep breath. "Thirty seconds."
Thirty seconds. Less than that, now. My heart is racing in my chest and I bounce my knee, unable to keep completely still. I can hear footsteps coming closer and closer, and I try to concentrate on them when I see a little girl playing outside across the street. I almost freeze and blow the entire thing, but that kid is not my problem.
The person who is almost right behind our bench is.
"Now," Finley says, and she hasn't even finished saying the word before Oliver and I jump into action. We stand on either side of the guy, braced and ready to run if he does—he looks barely older than we are, shit—but he doesn't run.
He looks at Oliver and tilts his head, so quickly I barely miss it, and then throws a punch at me.
I don't know how Mama and Weston ended up picking a damn good fighter, but they did. For every punch or kick that Oliver and I have, he has a perfect deflection for it or simply jumps out of the way. Oliver and I end up accidentally hitting each other more than we hit our target in the first moments of the fight, and I'm exhausted thirty seconds in.
Then Finley says, "Are you guys kidding me," and Oliver kicks into high gear.
I don't know where he finds the energy for it, but he goes after our target like he's not even close to being fatigued. I serve as nothing more than a distraction as Oliver starts to take charge, dealing out hits that target the most vulnerable and debilitating parts of the body. Our target starts to slow with his retaliations, slowly sinking into a defensive posture, before one well timed hit to the head by Oliver has him out completely. I catch him, staggering under the weight, and say, "Oliver—the chip."
Oliver squeezes the back of the guy's neck. The crimson red line on the sidewalk disappears.
"We're done, Finley," I say, panting slightly, as Oliver places his hands on his head and takes deep breaths. "We got him."
"Oh, I know," she says, and right after she finishes speaking the van makes a fast turn around the corner and pulls up beside us. Barrowman opens the door and helps us get the guy in, saying, "Quick, quick, come on." After we arrange him in a seat, buckled in, Oliver and I crawl in.
I buckle up my seatbelt, look out the window at the kid across the street. The little girl plays on, oblivious to what happened right in front of her.
"That's messed up," I say, and Oliver nods.
"Yeah," he says, tremor in his voice. "Yeah, it is."