A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I always love reviews. :-) Thank you also to my fantastic beta reader, Rosalie!
Several people made good arguments for writing this chapter from Tobias' perspective, even though Veronica Roth already did that and my "Divergent" fanfics are consistent with that particular short story of hers. So, I went ahead with his POV. I tried to stay true to the short story while also making the chapter flow with my story so far; plus, I tried not to just copy all of Roth's copyrighted material. Hopefully, my efforts paid off, and this chapter works without being too much like the original. If not, you can always re-read the short story...
By the way, for those who wanted this chapter to be written from Al's POV, I'll post that as a separate fic at some point.
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"Divergent" Chapter 13 – Knife-Throwing
"Congratulations," Max says with a wide smile as he joins me at breakfast. He doesn't do this often, but there's a certain status associated with winning capture the flag.
"It was the initiates who won," I tell him plainly. "I try not to interfere."
He chuckles. "Coming from you, I believe that." I know what he means. I can't imagine Eric following that rule.
"How are the initiates doing overall?" he asks before taking a bite of his muffin.
"They're surviving." Despite Eric's efforts. "Some of them are doing better than others, of course."
"Which ones are best?" It's not a surprising question, coming from Max.
"Edward," I answer without hesitation. "He has a lot of skill." Max nods, and I debate stopping there, since it's harder to decide what to say about the others. They're less likely to end up factionless if they have his support, but I don't want him watching them too closely either.
"And Tris," I finally add. "You know, the first jumper. She climbed the Ferris wheel last night and used the height to locate Eric's team."
Max's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, that's bold," he comments. I just nod, yawning as if I'm too tired to pay much attention to the conversation. I don't want him to think I'm biased.
"Peter's probably next," I add. "In terms of skills anyway. But his attitude is a problem. He's cocky and a bit of a coward."
Max grunts, taking another bite of his breakfast. "I guess we'll see how he does in the simulations, then."
"Yeah, I suppose so." I eat some of my oatmeal before adding, "Most of the rest are okay, but not exceptional so far."
Max nods, finishing his muffin with a last, large bite. "Well, I'm sure you'll turn some of them into good members," he comments through his full mouth. He rises, thumping me on the shoulder. "Congratulations, again."
As he walks away, I notice Eric behind him, sitting at the table next to mine. He's frowning as he glares at his bran muffin, and it's obvious he heard everything we said. That's not good, since I didn't want him to know that Tris is the one who beat him. But still, maybe it's just as well he heard Max's reaction. He's less likely to try to kick her out if he thinks Max is on her side.
I just hope it doesn't make him pay more attention to her.
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The training room smells of metal and dust and sweat, as it usually does, and I breathe it in deeply. This room is the first place I ever felt strong, and the scent always reminds me of that feeling. Maybe it will help me deal with Eric today.
He's pacing in irritation as we wait for the initiates to arrive, and I know he's still fuming over his loss last night and over the way Max asked me for an update on the transfers. But at least it keeps him quiet, and that makes it easier to ignore him until everyone is here.
They filter in slowly, still tired from being up so much of the night, and as usual I struggle to keep myself from watching Tris too much. It's getting harder and harder to fight that impulse.
As soon as the last initiate walks through the door, Eric begins. Clearly, he's not interested in letting me take the lead today.
"Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one," he tells them. "You will resume fighting then. Today, you'll be learning how to aim," and he gestures at the table that is covered with throwing knives.
"Everyone pick up three knives, and pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them."
I know he's assigning that duty to me as a way of rubbing in the fact that he's in charge, but it doesn't bother me. We both know my aim is better than his.
"Now!" Eric adds, his anger practically vibrating through the air.
They scramble for knives, desperate to avoid his wrath. All except Tris. She collects hers smoothly, with deliberate movements, her blond head slipping easily between the shoulders of the taller initiates. I'm not surprised by her calmness, not after last night. It seems to be impossible to rattle her.
Eric walks by me, his expression unusually murderous, and I have to force myself not to back away instinctively. I know I can beat him in a fight if it comes down to it – I certainly have before – but that's not the way he's most dangerous. No, the risk with him is that he's smarter than he should be for this faction. Smart enough to notice how much I stare at Tris, and vicious enough to harm her to get to me.
I turn toward the target, using the excuse to avoid his gaze, as I prepare to throw. I can feel everyone's eyes on me, but I ignore them, focusing on my breathing the way Amar always taught me.
I actually requested that the knife-throwing be removed from this year's training, since it serves no real purpose. No one here will ever use it except to impress someone, the way I will impress them now. But Eric insisted that dazzling people can be useful, and he used that as an excuse to deny my request. In reality, he probably did it simply because I'm the one who asked, but it doesn't really matter. Either way, it sums up everything I hate about this faction.
The feeling doesn't affect my aim. I hold the extra two knives in my left hand while I balance the one I'm throwing in my right, gripping the blade between my fingers. I inhale, staring at the center of the target. I exhale, and throw. The knife imbeds itself firmly into the center of the target. I hear a few of the initiates draw breath at the same time, but I simply continue with the next knife, throwing one after another into the dead center, keeping my focus strong. The other factions call us brutish, as if we don't use our minds, but that is all I do here.
After I throw the last one, Eric yells, "Line up!" and the initiates jump to obey. I leave the knives in the board to remind them of what is possible while I move to the side wall to watch.
From here, I can see the entire group at once, which makes it easier to look at Tris without getting caught. Her arm is clumsy, and I wish I could get away with showing her some real tips instead of expecting her to magically absorb everything from a demonstration. But at least she's no worse than the others.
Knives are flying, but most of the time, they're not spinning. Even Edward hasn't figured that part out yet. It's almost reassuring that there's something he's not good at, since he certainly shouldn't have been able to practice this skill in Erudite.
"I think the Stiff's taken too many hits to the head!" Peter yells, and I cross my arms to hide my balled hands. I dislike that particular Candor more every day. He's too much like Eric, trying to shrink others to make himself seem better. Too much like my father.
"Hey, Stiff!" he continues. "Remember what a knife is?"
Tris doesn't bother answering, refusing to let him ruffle her calm. Instead, she just picks up a knife and throws. It's not a great throw, by any means, but it's the first one besides mine to hit the target, even if it bounces off.
"Hey, Peter," she calls, mimicking his tone. "Remember what a target is?" I have to bite my tongue to suppress a laugh.
Gradually, the others begin hitting their targets after that, and I watch their techniques. I have to admit that Christina is good, though I don't like giving credit to Candor smart-mouths. Unfortunately, so is Peter, though I hate even more to give credit to future psychopaths.
Al is a problem. It's bad enough that he's been deliberately losing his fights, but today he seems to be nothing more than a walking, talking sledgehammer – all power and no finesse. He hasn't hit the board yet.
It's a shame that Eric notices too.
"How slow are you, Candor?" he spits in Al's face. "Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?"
Al tenses, his face turning red, but he attempts to continue despite the taunting. Unfortunately, he fails utterly, his next throw sailing into the wall.
"What was that, initiate?" Eric asks quietly, his tone filled with menace as he leans closer to the Sledgehammer's face.
"It – it slipped," Al mumbles.
"Well, I think you should go get it."
By now, the whole room is watching this scene unfold, and no one is throwing anymore. That catches Eric's attention.
"Did I tell you to stop?" he demands fiercely, looking around the room with an almost rabid expression. The other initiates immediately resume launching knives, and a cold feeling sinks through my stomach. This is not good.
"Go get it?" Al asks, his eyes wide. "But everyone's still throwing."
"And?"
"And I don't want to get hit." Typical Candor – too honest for his own good.
Eric's voice is deadly calm, and there's a cruel smile on his face as he says, "I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you. Go get your knife."
"No," Al responds firmly, setting his wide jaw and glaring right back at Eric. The response is stubborn, which by itself isn't a problem since that could pass as bravery. But it lacks strategy. There's no way Eric will accept it.
"Why not?" Eric asks, his eyes burning holes into Al's head. "Are you afraid?"
In that moment, I wish that Al had a little Erudite in him, but his next words make it clear that he doesn't.
"Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife?" he asks in an almost panicked tone. "Yes, I am!"
"Everyone stop!" Eric yells. "Clear out the ring." His eyes turn to Al, and I know what he's going to do before he says it. "All except you. Stand in front of the target."
The others drop their knives and move to the edges of the room as Al steps forward, gulping in obvious fear and trying to control the shaking in his hands. He lumbers to the target, clumsy and bulky as always, and takes his place in front of it. I have no idea why he ever picked Dauntless in the first place; it can't possibly have been his aptitude.
I step away from the wall where I've been standing, wondering if I can get away with interfering before this ends with a lost eye or a pierced throat. With horror, as every fight I've witnessed has, each one driving me further and further from the faction I chose as a haven.
It's almost a relief when Eric says, "Hey, Four, give me a hand here, huh?" At least I know how to aim, which reduces the chance of this day ending in injury. But I don't want to throw knives at an initiate. It's a level of cruelty I refuse to embrace – something that is too much like my father.
I try to act casual, scratching my eyebrow with a knife point while I watch, despite how tight my chest feels.
"You're going to stand there," Eric tells Al fiercely, "as he throws those knives until you learn not to flinch."
The ball is clearly in my court now, but I don't know what to do with it. This doesn't quite cross the lines Max drew on punishments, which means I can't stop it outright. The most I could do would be to refuse to participate, but that's not really an option. Eric would just throw the knives himself, and that would be even worse.
I ask the only question I can. "Is this really necessary?" I try to keep my voice bored, so it doesn't sound like a challenge that Eric will feel the need to crush.
He glares at me, but I stare back calmly, as if this isn't an attempt to undermine his power. He knows better. "I have the authority here, remember?" he hisses, his voice barely above a whisper. "Here, and everywhere else."
The heat rises in my cheeks as I know I've lost. And once again, part of me regrets not accepting Max's offer. I would have hated everything about being a leader of this faction the way it is now, but it would have been better than letting Eric get away with dangling initiates over the chasm and forcing them to beat each other senseless and making them stand in the way of airborne knives.
An odd pain in my fingers catches my attention, and I realize that I've been gripping the knives so tightly they've dug into my skin. I make an effort to loosen my hold as I turn toward Al. He's so large he covers almost the entire target, and a sick feeling goes through me. It will be extremely difficult not to hit him, particularly if he moves. But there's not exactly much choice here….
My entire body goes rigid when Tris speaks. "Stop it!" she yells, and I know her Abnegation habits are acting up.
I glare at her immediately, trying to get her to stop now before she ends up in the middle of this. I do not want Eric turning on her.
But she doesn't stop, of course. "Any idiot can stand in front of a target," she argues forcefully. "It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice." A small part of me loves that she just dared to call Eric a coward, but the larger part of me dreads his response.
"Then it should be easy for you," he hisses, pushing his hair back so it curls around his ear, "if you're willing to take his place."
She barely hesitates before stepping forward, her head held high, and I almost groan. I can't possibly throw knives at her. But even as I'm thinking that, Eric turns his gaze on me, the slightest hint of a smile ghosting his face, and I go cold at his expression. He knows. He's seen me looking at her and has figured out how much I'm starting to care. And now he's going to make me do this, just because he can.
For an instant – no, longer than an instant – I think about throwing the blades at him instead. I could hit him in the arm, or the leg, no harm done….
"There goes your pretty face," Peter says as Tris passes him. "Oh, wait. You don't have one." The comment sends a shoot of fury through me. It's yet another way he's like Eric – taunting someone who's braver than he'll ever be. I hate that they're putting her in this position – and me along with her, because there's no way I can leave now. I can't let Eric throw the knives instead.
Tris exchanges a nod with Al as she takes his place, standing with her back to the board and facing the group. Her head barely skims the bottom of the target's center, and the objective voice in the back of my mind tells me it's far safer to throw knives at her than at Al. She's brave enough to hold still and small enough to aim around.
But that doesn't make me feel any better.
I watch as she tips her chin up and looks directly at me with that Abnegation stubbornness I know so well. She may have left them, but they're what's making her strong. Perhaps I can use that to help her.
"If you flinch," I say evenly, "Al takes your place. Understand?" She nods, and I can't help but notice that once again, there's no sign of fear on her face. She's unbelievably brave.
Eric stands a little too close behind me, tapping his foot on the floor. I don't know if he's attempting to distract me or intimidate me, but I can't let him do either. I have to get this right – hitting close enough to satisfy Eric's need for punishment without actually hurting Tris.
Before I have time to over-think it, I throw the first knife, my eyes holding Tris' the entire time. She stays perfectly still as the blade whistles past her, imbedding itself into the board near her cheek. Six inches to the right and it would have sliced her. There goes your pretty face.
But Peter's right in a way. She's not "pretty" as the Dauntless use that word, to describe exposed skin and pierced bodies and flirtatious smiles. She is so much more than that – small but strong, with her bright eyes that demand attention. Looking at her is like waking up.
She closes those fierce eyes now, probably in relief that the knife didn't hit her, and I know I need to remind her again of her selflessness.
"You about done, Stiff?" I ask.
Stiff. That's why you're strong. Get it? But of course she doesn't. Why would she? She doesn't know I'm from the same place she is.
"No," she responds angrily.
"Eyes open, then," I tell her, tapping the skin between my eyebrows. I don't really need her eyes to be on mine, but I feel better when they are.
I inhale deeply of the dust-sweat-metal smell and pass a knife from my left hand to my right. Eric inches closer, but I ignore him, focusing on the part in Tris' hair. I throw with my exhale, watching as the knife slams into the board exactly where I aimed it, brushing against strands of her hair. That's two down.
"Come on, Stiff," I say, knowing that challenging her is the best way to keep her strong and get her through this. "Let someone else stand there and take it."
"Shut up, Four!" she snarls, and I want to yell back that I'm as frustrated as she is, with an Erudite vulture analyzing my every move, searching for my weak points so he can hit them as hard as he can. Particularly when my biggest weak point is her.
Eric moves even closer behind me, and I hear his thoughtful "hmm." And it strikes me again that he already suspects how I feel. Somehow, I have to convince him that he's wrong, that she's just another initiate to me, and I have to do it now.
I breathe deeply and make a quick decision, staring at the tip of Tris' ear, at the quick-healing cartilage.
The fear does not exist. My beating heart, tight chest, and sweating palms do not exist. I throw quickly, before my dread can stop me.
She winces, blood pricking where the blade nicked her, but I'm too relieved to feel bad about it. I did it. The punishment is over, and she's not seriously injured, and maybe, just maybe, it was enough to convince Eric.
"I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is," Eric comments from behind me. "But I think that's enough for today." To me, he mutters, "Well, that should scare them, huh?"
I don't answer, but I don't think he expects me to. Instead, he walks over to Tris, placing a hand on her shoulder in an almost possessive way that makes my skin crawl.
"I should keep my eye on you," he tells her with a metal-framed smile. Between him and the blood trickling down her ear and onto her neck, I have to look away to control the sick feeling going through my stomach.
He leaves, and the others filter out behind him. But I stay to retrieve the knives and put them away, and Tris stays too. I'm not sure why.
When the last footsteps die away, I approach her.
"Is your–" I begin, reaching for the side of her head, feeling the need to have my hand on her again, to make sure she's okay.
But she's in no mood for that. "You did that on purpose!" she yells, glaring at me with a fury that is akin to hatred.
"Yes, I did," I admit quietly. There's no point denying it, after all. "And you should thank me for helping you." The moment I say it, I know it's rotten wording, but surely she understands that this was the only way to keep Eric from doing something much worse?
Obviously, though, she doesn't, because she snarls, "Thank you? You almost stabbed my ear, and you spent the entire time taunting me. Why should I thank you?"
Taunting? I scowl at her. She's so smart about everything else. How can she be so blind about me?
"You know," I say in frustration. "I'm getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on!"
"Catch on? Catch on to what? That you wanted to prove to Eric how tough you are? That you're sadistic, just like he is?"
The accusation makes me feel cold. She thinks I'm like Eric? She thinks I want to impress him?
"I am not sadistic," I manage to say. I lean closer to her, but that's a mistake. Immediately, I feel nervous, like something is prickling in my chest, and I lose the thought I wanted to express. All that comes out is, "If I wanted to hurt you, don't you think I would have already?"
She's so close, and I just want to touch her, to explain, to make her understand that I'm on her side, that I'm not like Eric. But the coldness goes through me again as I realize that if she thinks I am, none of that will ever happen.
Of course she thinks that. I just threw knives at her head. It doesn't matter that Eric gave the orders – I'm still the one who carried them out. I've screwed everything up. Permanently.
My breathing is suddenly quick, and I know I have to get out of here. I cross the room rapidly, slamming the knife that's still in my hand into the table before shoving my way through the door.
Her frustrated scream follows me down the hallway, reinforcing just how angry she is. Eric has taken away the one hope I had, the one person I might have forged a future with.
I reach the quiet spot in the hallway, the one the cameras don't monitor, and I sink into a crouch with my back to the wall. And for a long time, I just stay there, thinking.
Before Tris got here, everything had stalled inside me, and every morning was just moving toward nighttime. I was certain I'd never form a real home here – so certain that I'd decided to leave, to go factionless, after this class of initiates had finished. But then she was here, and she was just like me, putting aside her gray clothes but not really putting them aside because she knows the secret, that they are the strongest armor we can wear.
And now she hates me, and I can't even leave Dauntless like I'd planned, because I can't leave her. I can't leave her to whatever Eric might do.
Unbidden, the memory comes of how it felt to hold her hand last night, to be that close to her – and I know I want that. More than I've ever wanted anything. It hurts to think I'll never have it.
But I stand and make my way toward my room anyway. Even if she hates me, I'll stay here for her sake. I know that now. She matters more than I do, so somehow I'll find a way to keep her safe.
And maybe, someday, she'll no longer hate me for it.
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A/N: Please take a moment to review this chapter and let me know if it worked or not. I know I say this a lot, but reviews make a huge difference for me. They motivate me to write and help me fix things that aren't working before I get too far downstream. I read every review and really, really appreciate them. Thanks!