All Of Us - Part 1: Summer

Chapter 31 - Ian

Trigger warning: violence

- Evangeline -

My feet tap softly on the floor as I calmly make my way into the training room, my long braid swinging behind me. Suddenly, as I step onto the mats carpeting the room, my footsteps become silent and I move through the room like a white panther. The rebels training inside pause and turn to me as I walk in; I politely ignore them. Most haven't gotten used to my presence yet, and I regularly get what I call the "oOo" face: owl eyes, tiny round mouths, eyebrows arched so high they almost fly off foreheads. The face that screams: "What is she doing here ?" Then again, I'll choose the "oOo" face to what happened the night of Hope's birth any day.

It's been a week since I stood on that rock and hurled my words into the air. A week filled with meetings and discussions. I've talked with every single one of the rebels who attacked me, and, as a whole, I think I was quite successful. Except for one. Ian. He refused to talk to me for an entire hour and three minutes, just staring blankly at the wall behind me. At first, I tried to coax something out of him, but his stoic face remained unflinching, and I ended up abandoning. It was weird, seeing him so eerily silent and so... out of character, I suppose.

I bend over and pick up some leather strips that were lying on the floor. Strapping them to my knuckles, I shift my feet into a fighting stance. The homemade punch bag in front of me doesn't look quite sturdy, but I've seen it get pummeled without a scratch. Its looks are deceiving. I grit my teeth and pull my right arm back. Using the momentum, my fist shoots through the air and hits the bag with a muffled boom. My knuckles twinge with dulled pain, but I ignore it and hit the bag again, harder. My kick that night was satisfactory, but I know perfectly well that if I had tried punching my assailant instead, I would be in the infirmary right now.

"Hi, Evangeline," someone greets me from behind. I startle and spin, meeting them head on. My eyes scan their features: sharp jaw, long nose, brown hair....

"Thet !" I exclaim. "How are you doing ?" I move towards him and try to look friendly, even though I am intensely aware of the dagger in my sleeve. "Better," he smiles gently back. "What about you ?"

"Ah, I'm fine."

We stand for a while in semi-awkward silence before he gestures towards the bag. "What'ya doing ?"

"Oh, just practicing my left hook." He nods and asks, "You're a rightie ?" I bob my head. "Yeah. I'm really struggling with my left hand."

He runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up further. "I get it. I had the same problem a while back. The important thing is your feet," he explains, pointing at my stance. "It's way harder to throw a powerful hit with your left fist if your right foot is back." I glance down at my feet and notice that he's right. I curse myself under my breath. It's an elementary mistake. I shift positions as he goes on: "Then, you need to bend a little at the knees. It makes you more flexible." I do as he says and he smiles encouragingly: "Yeah, that's it. Now lean your left shoulder a little bit more back..." He leans forwards and reaches for me with his hand. Immediately, I tense up and skitter back. His eyes go wide, his arm falling back at his side, as he murmurs a repentant "Sorry".

"No, it's me," I interject, but I don't move back forwards. "My shoulder more back... Like this ?" I ask, eager to change the subject. He nods. "Ok, now try again. It should be better."

Burrowing my left heel into the carpet, I pull my arm backwards and then forwards with surprising force. The punch bag reels back at the impact, and I hear Thet mutter off to the side of me :"Yeah, that's it !"

I drop my arm and pause for breath. The bag is swinging around on its chain, spinning around in demented circles, but I spot a dent in the worn leather. A fist-shaped dent. I can't help my smile.