I wouldn’t have volunteered to
train the initiates if not for the smell of the training room—
the scent of dust and sweat and sharpened metal. This was the first place I
ever felt strong. Every
time I breathe this air I feel it again.
At one end of the room is a slab of wood with a target painted on it. Against
one wall is a
table covered with throwing knives—ugly metal instruments with a hole at one
end, perfect for
inexperienced initiates. Lined up across from me are the faction transfers, who
still bear, in one way
or another, the marks of their old factions: the straight-backed Candor, the
steady-eyed Erudite, and
the Stiff, leaning into her toes so she’s ready to move.
“Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one,” Eric says.
He doesn’t look at me. I hurt his pride yesterday, and not just during capture
the flag—Max
pulled me aside at breakfast to ask how the initiates were doing, as if Eric
was not the one in charge.
Eric was sitting at the table next to mine at the time, scowling into his bran
muffin.
“You will resume fighting then,” Eric continues. “Today, you’ll be learning how
to aim.
Everyone pick up three knives, and pay attention while Four demonstrates the
correct technique for
throwing them.” His eyes fall somewhere north of mine, like he is standing
above me. I straighten up.
I hate when he treats me like his lackey, like I didn’t knock out one of his
teeth during our own
initiation.
“Now!”
They scramble for knives like factionless kids over a spare piece of bread, too
desperate. All
except her, with her deliberate movements, her blond head slipping between the
shoulders of taller
initiates. She doesn’t try to look comfortable with the blades balancing
on her palms, and that is
what I like about her, that she knows these weapons are unnatural yet she finds
a way to wield
them.
Eric walks toward me, and I back away by instinct. I try not to be afraid of
him, but I know
how smart he is and that if I’m not careful he’ll notice that I keep
staring at her, and that will be my
undoing. I turn toward the target, a knife in my right hand.
I requested that the knife-throwing be taken from the training curriculum this
year,
because it serves no actual purpose other than fueling the Dauntless bravado.
No one here will
ever use it except to impress someone, the way I will impress them now. Eric
would say that
dazzling people can be useful, which is why he denied my request, but
it’s everything I hate
about Dauntless.
I hold the knife by its blade so the balance is right. My initiation instructor,
Amar, saw that I
had a busy mind, so he taught me to tie my movements to my breaths. I inhale,
and stare at the
target’s center. I exhale, and throw. The knife hits the target. I hear a few
of the initiates draw
breath at the same time. I find a rhythm in it: inhale and pass the next knife
to my right hand, exhale
and turn it with my fingertips, inhale and watch the target, exhale and throw.
Everything goes dark
around the center of that board. The other factions call us brutish, as if we
don’t use our minds, but
that is all I do here.
Eric’s voice breaks my daze. “Line up!”
I leave the knives in the board to remind the initiates of what is possible,
and stand against
the side wall. Amar was also the one who gave me my name, back in the days when
the first thing
initiates did upon arriving in the
Dauntless compound was go through our fear landscapes. He was the sort of
person who
made a nickname stick, so likable that everyone imitated him.
He’s dead now, but sometimes, in this room, I can still hear him scolding me
for holding my
breath.
She doesn’t hold her breath. That’s good—one less bad habit to break. But she
has a clumsy
arm, awkward as a chicken leg.
Knives are flying but, most of the time, not spinning. Even Edward hasn’t
figured it out,
though he’s usually the quickest, his eyes alive with that Erudite
knowledge-craving.
“I think the Stiff’s taken too many hits to the head!” Peter says. “Hey, Stiff!
Remember what
a knife is?”
I don’t usually hate people, but I hate Peter. I hate that he tries to shrink
people, the same
way Eric does.
Tris doesn’t answer, just picks up a knife and throws, still with that awkward
arm, but it
works—I hear metal slam against board, and I smile.
“Hey, Peter,” Tris says. “Remember what a target is?”
I watch each of them, trying not to catch Eric’s eye as he paces like a caged
animal behind
them. I have to admit that Christina is good—though I don’t like giving credit
to Candor smart-
mouths—and so is Peter—though I don’t like giving credit to future psychopaths.
Al, however, is
just a walking, talking sledgehammer, all power and no finesse.
It’s a shame Eric also notices.
“How slow are you, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer
to you?”
he says, his voice strained.
Al the Sledgehammer has unexpectedly soft insides. The taunting pierces them.
When he
throws again, the knife sails into a wall. “What was that, initiate?” Eric
says.
“It—it slipped.”
“Well, I think you should go get it.”
The initiates stop throwing.
“Did I tell you to stop?” Eric says, his pierced eyebrows raised.
This is not good.
“Go get it?” says Al. “But everyone’s still throwing.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to get hit.”
“I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you. Go get
your knife.”
“No.”
The Sledgehammer strikes again, I think. The response is stubborn but there is
no strategy in
it. Still, it takes more bravery for Al to say no than for Eric to force him to
get a knife to the back of
the head, which is something Eric will never understand.
“Why not? Are you afraid?”
“Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife?” says Al. “Yes, I am!”
My body gets heavy as Eric raises his voice. “Everyone stop!”
The first time I met Eric he wore blue and his hair was parted down the side.
He was
trembling as he approached Amar to receive the injection of fear-landscape
serum into his neck.
During his fear landscape, he never moved an inch; he just stood still,
screaming into clenched
teeth, and somehow maneuvered his heartbeat down to an acceptable level using
his breath. I
didn’t know it was possible to conquer fear in your body before you did it in
your mind. That was
when I knew I should be wary of him.
“Clear out of the ring,” Eric says. Then, to Al: “All except you. Stand in
front of the target.”
Al, gulping, lumbers over to the target. I pull away from the wall. I know what
Eric will do.
And it will probably end 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.
Without looking at me, Eric says, “Hey, Four. Give me a hand here, huh?”
Part of me feels relief. At least I know that if I am throwing the knives
instead of Eric, Al is
less likely to get injured. But I also can’t be this cruel, and I can’t be the
one who does Eric’s dirty
work.
I try to act casual, scratching my eyebrow with a knife point, but I don’t feel
casual. I feel
like someone is pressing me into a mold that does not fit my body, forcing
me into the wrong
shape.
Eric says, “You’re going to stand there as he throws those knives until you
learn not to
flinch.”
My chest feels tight. I want to save Al, but the more I defy Eric, the more
determined he will
be to put me in my place. I decide to pretend that I am bored by the whole
thing.
“Is this really necessary?”
“I have the authority here, remember?” Eric says. “Here, and everywhere else.”
I can feel blood creeping into my face as I stare at him, and he stares back at
me. Max asked
me to be a faction leader and I should have said yes; I would have, if I had
known that I would
prevent things like this, things like dangling initiates over the chasm and
forcing them to beat each
other senseless.
I realize that I have been squeezing the knives so tightly that the handles
have left
impressions in my palms. I have to do what Eric says. My only other choice is
leaving the room,
and if I leave, Eric will throw the knives himself, which I can’t allow. I turn
toward Al.
And then she says—I know it’s her because her voice is low, for a girl’s, and
careful—“Stop
it.”
I don’t want Eric to turn on her instead. I glare at her as if that will make
her think twice. I
know it won’t. I’m not stupid.
“Any idiot can stand in front of a target,” Tris says. “It doesn’t prove
anything except that
you’re bullying him. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice.”
Dauntless brutes—bullies, Lower Level children—that is what we are, beneath the
tattoos
and the piercings and the dark clothing.
Maybe I am stupid. I have to stop thinking of her this way.
“Then it should be easy for you,” Eric says, pushing his hair back so it curls
around his ear.
“If you’re willing to take his place.”
And then his eyes shift to mine, just for a second. It’s like he knows, he
knows I have a thing
for her, so he’s going to force me to throw knives at her. For an instant—no,
longer than an instant
—I think about throwing a knife at him instead. I could hit him in the arm, or
the leg, no harm
done. . . .
“There goes your pretty face,” Peter says, across the room. “Oh, wait. You
don’t have one.”
I barely register the comment. I am too busy watching her.
She stands with her back to the board. The top of her head skims the
bottom of the target
center. She tips her chin up and looks at me with that Abnegation stubbornness
I know so well. She
may have left them, but they are what’s making her strong.
I can’t tell her it will be okay, not with Eric here, but I can try to make her
strong.
“If you flinch, Al takes your place. Understand?” I say.
Eric stands a little too close, tapping his foot on the floor. I have to get
this right. I can’t
throw the knife to the edge of the board, because he knows I can hit the
center. But a clumsy throw,
an inch in either direction, and I could hurt her. There goes your pretty face.
But Peter’s right, she’s not pretty, that word is too small. She is not like
the girls I used to
stare at, all bend and curve and softness. She is small but strong, and her
bright eyes demand
attention. Looking at her is like waking up.
I throw the knife, keeping my eyes on hers. It sticks in the board near her
cheek. My hands
shake with relief. Her eyes close, so I know I need to remind her again of her
selflessness.
“You about done, Stiff?” I say.
Stiff. That’s why you’re strong, get it?
She looks angry. “No.”
Why on earth would she get it? She can’t read minds, for God’s sake.
“Eyes open, then,” I say, 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 breathe the
dust-sweat-meta smell and pass a
knife from my left hand to my right. Eric inches closer.
My view of the room narrows around the part in her hair, and I throw with my
exhale.
I hear Eric behind me. “Hmm” is all he says.
“Come on, Stiff,” I say. “Let someone else stand there and take it.”
“Shut up, Four!” she says, 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.
I hear that “hmm” again and I’m not sure if it’s Eric or my imagination, but I
know I have to
convince him that she’s just another initiate to me, and I have to do it now. I
breathe deep, and make
a quick decision, staring at the tip of her ear, the quick-healing cartilage.
The fear does not exist. My beating heart, tight chest, and sweating palms do
not exist.
I throw the knife and look away when she winces, too relieved to feel bad for
hurting her. I
did it.
“I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is, but I
think that’s
enough for today,” says Eric. To me, he mutters, “Well. That should scare them,
huh.”
I think—I hope—that means he’s not suspicious of me anymore.
He touches her shoulder, and gives her a metal-framed smile. “I should keep my
eye on
you.”
I watch blood trickle down her ear and onto her neck and feel sick.
The room empties, the door closes, and I wait until the footsteps disappear
before starting
toward her.
“Is your—” I start to reach for the side of her head.
She glares. “You did that on purpose!”
“Yes, I did,” I say. “And you should thank me for helping you—” I want to
explain about
Eric and how badly he wants to hurt me and everyone I even remotely care for, or
about how I
know where her strength comes from and wanted to remind her, but she doesn’t
give me a chance.
“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.
“You know, I’m getting a little tired of waiting for you to catch on!” I say.
“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 lean closer to her and suddenly I feel nervous, like
something is
prickling in my chest. “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have
already?”
She’s close enough to touch, but if she thinks I’m like Eric, that will never
happen.
Of course she thinks I’m like Eric. I just threw knives at her head. I screwed
it all up.
Permanently.
I have to get out. I cross the room and, at the last second before I slam the
door, shove the
point of my knife into the table.
I hear her frustrated scream from around the corner, and I stop, sinking into a
crouch with
my back to the wall.
Before she got here everything had stalled inside me, and every morning I was
just moving
toward nighttime. I’d thought about leaving—I’d decided to leave, to be
factionless, after this class
of initiates was done. But then she was here and she was just like me, putting
aside her gray clothes
but not really putting them aside, never 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 to join the factionless,
like I was
going to, because Eric’s eye is on her like it was on Amar last year, right
before he turned up dead
on the pavement near the railroad tracks.
All the Divergent end up dead except me, because of my fluke aptitude
test result, and if
Eric is watching her, she’s probably one, too.
My thoughts skip back to the night before, how touching her sent warmth
into my hand and
through the rest of me, though I was frozen with fear. I press my hands
to my head, press the
memory away.
I can’t leave now. I like her too much. There, I said it. But I won’t say it
again.
