Disclaimer: One day, I will take over the world, steal Divergent from Veronica Roth, and bring Will back to life. Until then, I own nothing.


I run, my fingers wrapped tightly around the gun in my hands. Several yards ahead of me is an alley, and in the alley is a person. I know there is. There is a person there, a person I have to kill.

I am not thinking. I can't think. I don't know why I'm doing this, or where I am, or even who I am. I only know that I have to find them, and I have to kill them. Kill them all. Anyone who is not like me.

I know that there are people here who are not like me, not like us. And I know who they are, how to spot them. But I have no idea how I know this, and a tiny, far-off part of me is bothered by this. That part of me has a need to know, to understand. To find and process as much information as possible. And suddenly I am grabbing onto that one tiny part of myself, holding to it as tightly as possible. And then it isn't tiny anymore, it's growing, becoming a real part of me, and then I stop running.

I stand still, still holding my gun out, because I still I have to find them, I still have to kill them. But now, somehow, that isn't the only thing I have to do. I have to figure myself out. I have to know. I have to know who I am.

As I stand there, the word Erudite surfaces somewhere in my mind.

I don't know what it means, but I know it's important. It forms a part of my identity. There's something terribly significant about this word.

Erudite.

Then there's another word. Dauntless.

This one, too, is significant. And something about it scares me. It feels sharper, less familiar than the other word.

I hear a gunshot from near the alley, and it reminds me of what I need to do. I need to find whoever is in that alley, and I need to shoot them and kill them. I begin running again, and then, again, I stop. There's another word—but not just a word. A name.

Tris.

Is that the name of the person in the alley?

And while I'm standing there, more words—more names—begin to surface.

Cara.

Al.

Peter.

Molly.

Eric.

And one more. It feels more familiar than the rest, as though I have known it for a very long time.

Will.

That's my name, isn't it? It must be. It has to be.

Then I hear footsteps, and I begin running again. I have to kill them. I have to kill them all.

I reach the alley, and I stop running and put my gun up, because, as I knew before, there is a person there. A girl. She is not like me, and I am going to kill her.

I slide my finger over the trigger of the gun and squeeze it, but not hard enough to fire. Looking at the girl, I feel as though I know her. As though I should not kill her after all.

Then there's that name again. Tris.

I know that name. And I know that girl.

No. I can't kill her. I know her. She is—was?—my friend. I won't kill her.

I take my finger from the trigger. But it's too late.

I hear a bang, and suddenly I'm being overwhelmed by searing, white-hot pain. I fall backwards, hitting the ground hard, and I can't breathe, can't think, can only lie there, trying to grab onto any sort of thought. I can't die like this, not thinking or feeling, not knowing who I am. I have to know something. I have to think.

Then I manage to grab onto something. One of the names from before.

Will.

That is my name. I'm sure of it now.

My name is Will.

Then a number.

Sixteen.

My age.

Then there's one more name, one I didn't manage to grasp before.

Christina.

It's accompanied by an image—a tall, dark-skinned, beautiful girl, smiling at me. I have a distinct feeling of knowing her well, of being very close to her.

I am in love with this girl.

My name is Will, I think desperately. I am sixteen years old. I am Erudite. I am also Dauntless. I don't know what either of those words mean, but I know that I am both of them. I am in love with a girl named Christina.

I am satisfied now. I was able to think something, and that's all I needed.

And now everything fades out, and there is nothing.

I am nothing.