A/N: You guys wanted to see me write more in Eric's point of view, and it's actually some nice inspiration to write from his perspective, so here's another scene just for you lovely readers! I know I don't really need to explain it, but this is another one-shot scene, however, this one is prior to the one I posted yesterday, enjoy!
Knife Throwing Scene – Eric's POV
The next morning, the initiates shuffle one by one into the training room. I stand in the middle of the room and wait for the last person to come in.
Four stands by the table of knives. Light dances off one of the blades he is twisting between his fingers.
We are target practicing today. Some look exhausted, but attentive, after last night's game of Capture the Flag. Others stare at the ground in disappointment from their loss. My team lost—to Four's scrawny pack of toothpicks. Shameful, pathetic. Second to the Stiff again. My blood boils thinking about it.
"Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one," I say, "you will resume fighting then. 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." The last thing Max or the other Dauntless leaders want is an initiate to lose their eye...
At first, no one moves. So I make sure they know my order wasn't optional. "Now!"
They scramble toward the table at the tone of my voice, each taking three. I notice Peter tries to grab a fourth one before the Stiff can, but the Candor girl to her left shoots him a harsh look.
Four stands unmoving, like he isn't paying any attention at all. I was surprised this morning when he didn't boast about his team's victory... sometimes he still acts like the Abnegation, regardless of his choice. He isn't really one of us though, he chose us out of fear. Not very Dauntless of him...
I notice the Stiff watching me. She and the Candor girl talk quietly amongst themselves, but I don't pay them anymore attention once everyone has gathered their weapons. My initiates are waiting for me.
Four straightens up, like he has just woken up from his daze, and he throws the first knife. Another one after that, until the last knife sinks into the rubber material. Each one hitting the target in the center. I think if not for his focus and accuracy, or his record of four fears... or perhaps, Amar's favoritism, he never would have ranked higher than me in our year.
"Line up!" I order.
The initiates form a crooked line, with some standing much closer than necessary, while the show-offs stand farther away. I reckon they'll either hit fairly close from their range, or they'll hit the floor being too far away. I let them figure it out themselves—pacing behind them, observing each one down the line.
I notice the Stiff doesn't throw her knives right away. She practices without them first—smart tactic, but she's wasting time. No real target would ever give her that time to be accurate.
Peter speaks up, taunting her, "I think the Stiff's taken too many hits to the head!" He smirks, "Hey, Stiff! Remember what a knife is?" She doesn't turn to face him, she barely even acknowledges him. She could make it here—if she can keep that kind of focus up.
After a moment, she throw the first of her knives. It doesn't stick, but she is the first one to actually hit the target.
I notice Four is watching her, maybe a little too closely. He glances over the other initiates from time to time, but he never looks at them as long as he looks at her. I almost want to ask him what's so interesting, but I won't ask him now—not yet, anyway.
Peter misses his target again; the Stiff speaks up.
"Hey, Peter... remember what a target is?" She retorts triumphantly. Some initiates snicker, some glare. Four coughs behind me, but when I look back at him he is smirking.
"Something funny, Four?" I ask him. His face contorts, and then his expression is cold again.
Some time later, the only initiate that has not hit their target is the boy from Candor, Al. His knives don't hit anywhere close to it, and I wonder if he's even trying. If he's giving up, I'll show him the door. There are plenty of other initiates willing to kill for a spot in the rankings—one failing out just means a new spot has opened up.
He misses again, and this time I stand right beside him, towering over him despite his size. "How slow are you, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?" His face turns bright red, and he tries to throw another knife. This one hits the floor—pathetic, and unfocused. "What was that, initiate?" The others become silent immediately, waiting and watching.
"It—it slipped." He stutters lamely.
"Well I think you should go get it." I say, then turn to the others, "did I tell you to stop?" Knives soar towards the boards once again. The leaders don't want to see an initiate lose an eye... but that can't be helped if the initiate puts themselves in harm's way.
"Go get it?" Al asks. "But everyone's still throwing."
"And?"
"And I don't want to get hit." He protests, shaking his head.
"I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you," I say, keeping my voice low. I can't help the smirk, "Go get your knife."
"No," he says firmly. I scoff. He shouldn't have said that.
"Why not? Are you afraid?"
"Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife?" Al retorts, "Yes, I am!"
This could be fun. I hold up a hand, and shout over the noise, "Everyone stop!" And they do. At least some people know how to obey my orders. "Clear out of the ring. All except you," I say to him. Al stands terrified, while the other initiates step out of the way.
"Stand in front of the target," I say. He does as I tell him, his hands shaking as he crosses the room. "Hey, Four. Give me a hand here, huh?"
Four tries to look nonchalant, but I know he doesn't like what I'm going to make him do. He gives me a tired stare, but otherwise doesn't comment. He wouldn't dare argue with me in front of everyone here. I turn back to the initiate, "You're going to stand there as he throws those knives... until you learn not to flinch."
"Is this really necessary?" Four asks, trying his best to look bored. However, I know his question is a challenge because he is a terrible liar—I know what test result he didn't get. I give him a stern look, but he doesn't look away. Infuriating.
"I have the authority here, remember?" I hiss, "Here, and everywhere else."
I see his expression falter for a moment; he knows I am right. I'm not afraid to remind him how he refused to take up Max's offer when it was presented to him. His fingers tighten around the knife, and he looks past me at Al.
"Stop it!" A voice cuts through the silence. And then all eyes on the Stiff—to which I notice Four gives her a particularly cutting glare. Like a papercut. He looks as if he is trying to tell her something. Interesting... She looks to me, "Any idiot can stand in front of a target. It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sigh of cowardice."
She should have left it at stop.
"Then it should be easy for you, if you're willing to take his place," I challenge. For a moment, I am sure she will decline. She wants to—but she doesn't. She starts toward the target, and Al slips away all too quickly.
"There goes your pretty face," Peter sneers, "Oh, wait. You don't have one." The Stiff takes her place, her head just above the center of the target. She sucks in a deep breath, and keeps her hands behind her back as if to make herself smaller.
Four turns the knife over in his hand, "If you flinch, Al takes your place. Understand?" He speaks to her, and only her. His voice is calm, almost reassuring her, and it sickens me. Is he going to go easy on her? Because I certainly won't allow that.
She nods once.
Four raises his arm, and the knife is poised between his fingers, ready. The first knife is almost invisible as it soars through the air, sticking into the board about a foot away from her cheek. She breathes a sigh of relief.
"You about done, Stiff?" Four asks. The word sounds dull in his mouth, like he doesn't actually mean the insult. I yawn. Four can aim—I'm disappointed in him, he didn't even try on that one. That won't scare her at all. He's giving her a break.
"No," she says, firm.
"Eyes open then," Four orders. She gives him a stubborn look, and before she even realizes he's thrown another one, the knife sticks just above her hair. Four shakes his hand out, then says, "Come on, Stiff. Let someone else stand there and take it."
"Shut up, Four!" She snaps. He rolls his eyes, and this time I know he is aggravated by her outburst. Maybe even a little bit excited. Four throws the last knife, and this time the Stiff tenses up a bit. She doesn't flinch, but I know that last one hit her.
I am disappointed that he didn't aim somewhere better. Her ear will heal in no time, and I look at Four, he looks a bit complacent. Like he is telling her something again. What is it with these Stiffs?
"I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is," I say, "but I think that's enough for today." I give her shoulder a hard squeeze—it would look to them as if I'm congratulating her, but I know she understands her place now. "I should keep my eye on you," I tell her.
The initiates head for their dorm, but the Stiff doesn't move and I notice Four stalking to the other side of the room. He rests on the palms of his hands. I'll have to question him on his little mind game later on—right now, I have more important matters to tend to.