𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝟎𝟐𝟏

"Discourse?" you asked, looking up at him. Of course there was going to be discourse. You were all competing for your lives for the chance to live inside a massive cinderblock where you'd spend the rest of your lives fighting to survive day to day.

He jerked his chin, the veins in his neck bulging as he ground his teeth together. "Rumors," he clarified, cautiously.

"Oh?" You'd been somewhat left out of the drama loop ever since you were admitted. It didn't make sense to you how this issue concerned you in the slightest. But then you remembered Peter and his stupid tablet and all of the stupid lies that someone had fed into it. Lies regarding a certain stoney-faced instructor and Amity student duo. "Oh."

"So," Eric exhaled, glad that he didn't have to explain what he already knew of the tabloid article. He could only hope it never reached Max's desk. He didn't exactly have the best defense for himself. "I politely informed him that I have a solution."

A solution.

A solution is what the Amity council found for Sawyer Pritchett after he was caught red-handed stealing hens right out of one of the faction representative's barn. A solution was a midnight train to the factionless colony on the outskirts of Abnegation territory. A solution was a departure with no goodbyes and an unspoken rule that your name could never come up in conversation again without consequence.

"I..." you gulped, ignoring the way your ankle wobbled as you turned the corner. "I understand."

"Do you?"

You could only bite down hard on your bottom lip and nod. With a heavy sigh, he planted his feet in front of the wide-open entrance of the training pavilion, gesturing with his leather-gloved hand for you to enter in front of him.

Gaping, you took slow and careful steps into the dark warehouse. Your entire class was there. Their faces looked gaunt and pale underneath the single spotlight pointed at the sparring mat in the very center of the room where an obscured figure was chalking his hands — broad shoulders flexing with his back angled toward you.

You caught Four's eye and for the first time since you met him, he didn't look vaguely disappointed in you. Behind you, Eric cleared his throat and nodded. Four returned the gesture and pushed his back off of the cement pillar he was leaning up against. Everyone immediately devoted their attention to him as he spoke.

"Last fight of the day," he bellowed, arms still crossed in an attempt to sound unphased. "Peter and (Y/N)."

A few concerned murmurs arose as you processed what he just said. "Wh-What?" You sputtered, whipping your head around just to be met with Eric's impassible presence. "Me? Fight? I can't fight."

"Yes, you can."

"Since when?" It felt like your heart was beating right up against your ribcage, trying to break free. You pointed to the faded bruise on your jaw, frustratedly. "Good fighters don't end up like this."

Eric squared his shoulders, glowering down at you. "This isn't about scores. I'm giving you a chance to beat the bullshit out of the guy who made you look inferior. Don't make me do it myself, because I will."

Like a bullet in the chamber, the reality of your situation finally clicked into place. You weren't getting kicked out of Dauntless, but the alternative had the potential to be so much worse. 

Upon hearing your name, Peter stiffened under the single swinging bulb and turned to seek you out in the crowd. His eyes were round and heavy with what you could only assume was guilt. You knew he must've regretted what he said to you immediately after he opened his mouth, but the damage was done. And it couldn't be undone.