A Song of Knives and Crowns

V: Cleaning Montage

"In my maid fit / cute as a daisy / bitches be like / my pussies going crazy"

- Westen Koury

Twenty hours later:

Rev woke up again the exact same way that they woke up in Chapter I. If you don't remember that, please go back and read it again. When they cracked open their upper tarsal plates and their medial and lateral tarsal ligaments eased up enough to let some RBG waves into their cornea (Saens scored within the top standard deviation of her ocular anatomy class in her midterms), the first thing they saw was the blinding sunlight outside the open window. The first thing they heard was her mother banging two oat-cooking pans together, creating an awful ruckus.

"REVTRICE," her mother shouted, "REVTRICE, IT'S 6AM!"

Of course. Waking up late was the government's indoctrination to lull society into a sordid and lazy state where it would care for the working classes even less then it currently did. No Abnegation was allowed to sleep in late.

"COME ON, REVTRICE, PUT ON THE MAID FIT! IT'S TIME TO CLEAN! OR NO OAT BREAKFAST FOR YOU!"

Honestly, Rev could have done without the oat breakfast. They'd had oat breakfast every single day for the past 16 years, and to be brutally honest (candid, even), she was pretty fucking sick of it. The globular chunks of oats sliding out one's throat, plain and unseasoned (with the expectation of dinner oats) was never pleasant, and sometimes her mother would even purposely undercook it so that they wouldn't grow "complacent" and "reliant on gas or electricity", even though they always used wood fires to cook in the kitchen, as gas and electricity were capitalist inventions. So if they'd had the choice, they'd probably say no to the breakfast oats. Unfortunately, without oats, Revtrice would probably starve.

One hour later, Rev found herself sitting at the kitchen table - which was more of a shared area of the floor that they would all sit around, as the house was entirely furniture-less - sitting in a pink maid dress. Cute as a daisy. They gulped down spoonfuls of lukewarm oats. This time, their mother had not undercooked it - rather, the opposite. Allegedly, while the oats had been simmering, Rev's mother had gone to mow her neighbour's lawn, even though this was an Abnegation neighbourhood, and none of their neighbours had lawns (it was too dry here to keep a sustainable garden, and they would never dare use up a limited resources that the wealthy could be using). So while her mother had been pushing the machine up and down their neighbour's dry patch of dust, the oats had boiled until the remains were as globular as the remains of Rev-15's brains from yesterday at school.

"So," Rev's mother began, "you like the oats?"

"They're fucking disgusting."

Rev's mother sighed darkly. "Rev, you know good cooking is Western propaganda."

Her child nodded. Picked up another spoonful of the grey porridge. "Yes, mother. As is salt, pepper, honey, strawberries, and other oatmeal seasonings." The spoon went in. Swallowed. Spoon came out. The mash tasted only a shade above paper mache.

To their right, Rev's brother (Rev had brothers) was constructing a small castle out of his food, the sticky oatmeal somewhat akin to PlayDoh. Overcooked oatmeal was a treasure to him, Rev thought sourly (it was the only sour thing they'd have, apart from the odd overripe fruit that was not fit for anybody but Abnegation). PlayDoh was a rich person thing. "That's just what you say," he scoffed as a turrent crumbled under its saggy oaty weight. "We all know you and dad make absolute BANK in the cartel - ARGH!"

Rev's mother swiped Rev's brother over the head with the oatmeal spoon. Fortunately, the spoon was drenched with oatmeal to the degree that it would have felt more like being bludgeoned by a melted marshmallow or a partially dissolved pillow, or a lump of severely overcooked oats. "Stop talking nonsense. What cartel? I haven't heard of any cartel? Money is for the bourgeoisie. We're Abnegation. We live to serve."