𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝟎𝟎𝟐

"𝙏𝙤𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙞𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙖𝙮
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙛𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙮
𝙔𝙤𝙪'𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙗𝙤𝙮
𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙪𝙣, 𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙪𝙣."

𝘙𝘶𝘯 𝘉𝘰𝘺 𝘙𝘶𝘯 - 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘬𝘪𝘥

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A riot. That's all you could think to describe it as.

Nearly every Dauntless rose to their feet—creating a rippling wave of red and black fabric in the stands—and began to shout and clap. A few brought their fingers to their lips and whistled wildly. Their voices, strained and aggressively cheerful, shook the platform you were standing on.

The Erudite mumbled weakly to one another and the Abnegation were glancing nervously back and forth between them and the Amity, who all seemed to have their heads cocked to the side in mixed confusion and terror.

One of their own defecting to Dauntless? Not only was the thought alone petrifying, but it had never happened before. At least, not that you were aware of.

As the commotion filled your ears and fizzled inside your head, Marcus reached out across the table and handed you a clean gauze bandage to hold against your still-bleeding palm. In a low voice that you could barely recognize over the still-cheering Dauntless crowd, you hear him murmur;

"Good luck."

His words weren't spiteful. It was a genuine display of sympathy. It only hit you once you were halfway down the steep slanted ramp—you just defected to Dauntless.

Dauntless, the polar opposite of Amity.

Dauntless, the cutthroat faction of soldiers and warriors.

What have you done?

Dread fills your gut and pools in the back of your throat, making you squirm as the Dauntless welcoming committee surrounds you on all sides. Older kids, all smiles and daring glances. They pat your back encouragingly and shout their congratulations over the roaring voices.

Marcus commands the room and within another handful of seconds, everyone gathers their remaining composure and takes their seats. You are guided into one of the last open chairs on the very end of the first row, next to a pale-faced Abnegation girl who refused to look up from her bandaged hand.

There was only a half-hour or so left of the Ceremony, and it seemed that the rest of the choosers were just as eager to get it over with as you were.

You felt the collective, steely gaze of Erudite shift your way almost instantly after sitting down. The smarter half of you knew that you shouldn't meet their judging eye, that it would only make you even more nervous. But your curious nature was desperate.

Desperate for their approval. Desperate for someone—anyone—to tell you that you made the right choice.

Choice? You caught yourself with a bitter scoff. What choice? This wasn't your choice. It was an accident. A mistake. And a grave one at that.

So instead of ignoring their whispers, you raised your head toward the stormy ocean of blue collared shirts and blouses. Judgment wasn't lacking in their expressions, but it didn't describe the bulk of what you saw in the eyes of the Erudite blinking back at you. They wore concerned looks on their faces as they chattered back and forth. They were scared.