Author Note: I'm on a roll lately with the Sterek. Just posted my first fanfic of them and now look at me, posting another one. So, this one is a semi-fusion with Divergent. I can't say that I've read the books (I've been meaning to though) so I'm kinda going off of the movie and whatever my research turns up. Anything recognizable isn't mine, obviously (just like the Mean Girls reference I put somewhere in here). It's currently unbetaed but I hope to rectify that soon. All mistakes are mine. Tags/Rating are subject to change with the story. And I haven't completely decided on a title yet either.

As a side note, I use the phrase 'God' a few times, and pretty loosely at that. I'm not trying to insult someone or insinuate anything but I figured it would be better to say something now before that could happen. Also, panic attacks.

Later chapters will be much longer, I promise. I'm a bit nervous to put this up but I hope you like it.

Chapter 01: The Choosing

The dagger is a heavy weight in his palm, the silver metal reflecting his panicked face right back at him. He's sweating through his shirt. He can feel it with every inhale. The lights are blinding and the murmuring crowd drowns out, white noise buzzing in his ears.

The five ceramic bowls in front of him sit as a glaring reminder that today is the day when everything changes. His choice today marks his future and if he makes the wrong one - well, there's nothing he can do about that. This moment, surrounded by all these faceless people, defines him.

His breathing hitches and his vision blurs. He's on the cusp of a panic attack but he can't, he can't. Not in front of all the factions. He has to choose what's most important to him: what he wants, what his friend wants, or...what his family needs.

He's only 16 years old. It's so cruel putting that much pressure on him. How is he supposed to know what he chooses now is what he'll want ten years down the road? It's not fair. It's so not fair. His life sucks.

Scott's eyes are burning into the back of his skull. He probably has the whole puppy dog eyes thing going on - which, dude, is even more not fair. But he can also feel his dad's expectant gaze like an arrow through his shoulder blades. His heart jumps into his throat. His stomach feels like it's going to fall out of his butt.

No matter what he chooses, someone is still going to be hurt, disappointed. Stiles is only one guy and they both want so much from him - but he can't completely ignore them either. In their own ways, they both need him. He can't abandon them for a selfish dream, for Erudite. He'd never forgive himself. Though he can't abandon Scott or his dad either. They're both so important to him.

God, why did they make him have to choose?

He knows what he wants to choose - where the test said he'd do well - and he wants to be selfish just for once in his life. But he can't. Every fiber of his being screams in protest even thinking about leaving both of them behind for his own desires.

A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face and he wants to swipe it away but it's another thing he can't do. His rib cage feels like it's going to cave in and the pressure to do the right thing closes around him like a vice. The world is closing in on him and he doesn't know how to stop it and could someone please just tell him what to do, what to choose because he's pretty sure he's having a mild panic attack and he really just can't choose for himself and ohmygodhe'sgoingtothrowupbuthecan'tbecausethisisTheChoosingandeveryoneiswatchingandcouldsomeonepleasejustsavehimlikerightnow?

"Mr. Stilinski, you have to choose."

His thoughts grind to an abrupt halt at the sharp reprimand. His breath is rattling in his chest. He can just feel the concern emanating off his dad. He inhales shakily, pressing the dagger into the soft flesh of his palm. The cold metal digs in just enough to ground him but not break skin. He sucks his teeth, eyes swinging around, looking from beneath his lashes at all the mocking faces surrounding him.

Their mouths are moving behind their hands, watching him fall apart on stage with cruel amusement. And like a lure, like Scott knows he needs him, Stiles finds himself looking into puppy dog brown eyes. His mind numbs and all the chatter fades away. Scott's telling him with just one look that it's okay, I know. Choose what you need to, man. No matter what, you'll always be my brother.

Something unfurls and relaxes in Stiles' chest and he already knows his choice was made the moment Scott told him which faction he was going to choose. He can't let Scott (blood, brother, friend) go against the wolves by himself. Stiles will always have his back, even in this it would seem.

I'm sorry, Dad, he thinks. I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I really do.

Before he loses his nerve, he jerks the blade against his palm. He winces at the bite and watches in morbid fascination as bright red blood immediately wells to the surface, pooling in the curve of his hand.

Gulping, he stretches his arm out, hovering over the burning tinder.

This is it, there's no turning back.

He squeezes his hand, feels the blood dripping and the entire time, he watches his dad. He hopes he sees how sorry he is in his expression. If the small incline of his head is any indication, he doesn't fault Stiles for making his choice. The devastated look on his face says otherwise. It rips Stiles' heart into shreds knowing he's responsible for putting it there.

At the last second he wants to change his mind, hover his hand over Candor's bowl and stay. Stay to take care of his dad and their house and make sure he's eating right but it's too late. He knows it is as soon as he hears the hissing of his blood boiling against the wood.

I'm sorry.

"DAUNTLESS!"

The cheers that rise up aren't loud enough to drown out the sound of his heart breaking. He hears it shattering into a million pieces as regret wells and settles in his belly like a hot coal. Everything's a blur as he's shoved into a seat, Scott's happy babbling and hand clapping on his shoulder barely faze him. All he can think over and over like a mantra is: what have I done?

"FACTION BEFORE BLOOD."

He feels like he's going to be sick.