Author's note: This chapter is about twice as long as normal installments. Consider it a double feature, idk. (Or a very lazy ploy to keep my original intended chapter count intact.)

Chapter 4: Analysis

Tris

"So what do we have here?"

Cara tries to snatch the file from my hands before I can finish reading it, and I have to wave her off before I feel ready to pass it on. Back in the day, I'd have dropped it the moment somebody else needed it. She'll get her turn.

"It's a report on - radiation levels in crops harvested in the Upper Midwestern territories. Caleb?" I had heard the word, but not in conjunction with the few other words that I could recognize as my eyes skimmed over the pages - sampling, data, contamination, damage. The letterhead at the top reads Bureau of Genetic Welfare, Illinois Branch - and classified.

The stack of papers before us is up to my eyes - not an impressive measurement, sure, but it's a lot to go through with a headache. All of it had been salvaged from desktops and file cabinets across the compound. Somebody had tried to burn it, the same way they'd tried to render the computer network unusable, but Cara's hooked up the monitor salvaged from the lab and scrolls through a list of names. Something catches her eye, but she clicks through too fast to see.

"What we have here is an abandoned science lab with a bunch of samples of genetic material. They're all labeled, some of them have bar codes for organizational purposes. This is clearly an organization with a plan and considerable means. A repeated phrase in all of these papers is genetic damage."

Christina raises her eyebrows. "Genetic damage - does the phrase mean anything to anyone?"

"It's what the people on the outside need our help to heal. The intention was to send for us and our insight as soon as we were ready. They've been waiting here for our input. We came too late." Cara presses the heel of her hand against her eye and leans against the computer terminal.

"Great. Then what does genetic damage look like?"

The first words to nearly leave my lips are, it doesn't look like anything. Thinking of Divergence, how none of the other Divergent I've encountered have looked alike - no more alike than me and Uriah. We both have two arms, two legs, and a head, but that's about it. "It can't be how you look, or they wouldn't need samples. It's got to be how you think, how you act-"

Caleb interrupts me, chiding as a schoolteacher. "The things that dictate your faction, perhaps. Don't ignore the obvious possibility."

One of the first things we all learned in faction history was that your faction had nothing to do with your basic appearance - the Candor dressed for business, and Dauntless had their piercings and plenty of scars, but it wasn't about the color of your skin or how big you were. I wish I'd remembered that during Dauntless training, when I'd felt so puny and small just for being female. That can't have been how it always was.

"What bearing does it have on how you're born?" Christina asks.

Some factions had bigger families than others - I just figured it was a matter of their principles. Erudite families for the most part had only children, when they had any at all; there were always rumors about that, about how they kept their numbers up despite that, but it seemed more likely to me that their work kept any potential parents apart. Dauntless used protection, every time; any resulting children were raised by the group almost more than the individual parents. Candor usually had two children, and some Abnegation families had as many as three, though that was frowned upon. Too wasteful. Self-indulgent.

At the top of the stack sits a paper on fertility that I can't make heads or tails of. I tear off the top six or seven pages, revealing the next section of text contained in this wad of paper. Early childhood development in children of the reintegrated. It looks just like a bunch of so-called case studies, experimental results typed in tight columns and jargon I can barely make out. I fold the report up in a thick square before I can get much further than that and jam it in my pocket. Nobody even notices.

"At the end of each report, they state the goal of their work has been to foster an understanding of genetic integrity. Was that what the killers came here for? To shut them up, or so the shooters could get their hands on whatever their conclusion was? How do we know the shooters won't double back to clear us out?" Christina asks.

This is enough to make Uriah speak up. He's been jumpy since we got here. "Whatever it was, we can't stick around to find out. This is too much to go through in a day or two on-site."

Cara swivels around the computer screen to show us an irregular outline: a map. "That's the thing. There's another outpost about a week's drive from here. It's marked on every map in the computer system, and with an active pass card you should be able to at least get close."

I don't know what sounds less inviting, using a dead woman's keycard to raid her workplace under fraudulent pretenses, or showing up on the doorstep to find all her friends have regrouped and are waiting there for us. Or enemies.

Christina pushes back her chair and stands up, hands on the tabletop. "People in the city deserve to know what this was all about. We can't help these people if we're unprepared, and we don't even know what we're dealing with."

"This is proof that there's other people still out there, other cities, other settlements - are we just supposed to turn back now? We can't do that." Caleb's voice is achingly fervent. I'd forgotten he could even sound that way. I want to know what our mother fought for. I want to know what we are.

"It's not like it has to be one or the other. We're not going to run out of gas if we double back, we can do both. We can come back here, take back the computers for a more detailed analysis, nobody would even need to know."

"Sit down, Christina." Cara's voice rings out sharp. "I didn't bring you all here for the purpose of splitting you into smaller groups."

Christina barely comes up to Cara's shoulder, but she rises up onto her toes to lock eyes with her and for a moment I think she's going to pounce. "But you did bring us here to push us around? Aren't you guys all about people having their own say?"

"Fine, then we're going to take a vote. Anybody who wants to go back to the city can escort back these documents. It's up to you to decide what to do with them, but people need to know. Anybody who wants to leave gets the rest of the supplies and our best wishes. Who's ready to head back?"

Christina raises her hand, and I feel like I could cry. But what else am I supposed to hope for her? I can't compel her to risk her life on account of my curiosity. "People deserve to know the truth. That's my responsibility."

Christina has a mother and a little sister back there. She's proven herself. She's proven what she's ready to do to protect them.

Cara's own hand is nowhere to be seen, but she practically vibrates with intensity. Her eyes drill into Uriah from across the tabletop. But Uriah isn't looking at her; he's staring at the papers in front of him.

There's an awful pause. He swallows sharply, Adam's apple dipping in his throat.

When Uriah speaks, his voice is practically breaking from the strain. "You know, I'm as excited to know what's out there as anyone, but I'm less excited about the whole suicide mission thing than I used to be. Whoever's out there is armed and dangerous. I'll catch up later, but not without reinforcements."

I'd never have thought of Uriah as a coward. If he abandons the party, the number of Divergent drops by one. Four and I are that much closer to being outnumbered. Overwhelmed. I can't keep holding my tongue. "And who wants to keep going the way we are?"

My own arm is hoisted so high that my shoulder aches. Slowly - tentatively - my brother raises his hand. Four does not hesitate in raising his at all. They require no explanation.

If I have Four, then I have everything I need. I wouldn't trade Four for a thousand soldiers. There's no one I'd rather risk my life with.

Peter's hand is raised. He must catch the kind of looks he's getting, because he pushes his thick dark hair out of his eyes, like he's annoyed. "If you guys don't mind, I'm going to get the hell out of here. Have fun while the factions descend into cannibalism."

"And you, Cara?"

Her hand is not raised, but her eyes are on me, hard as glass.

"Don't think I won't catch up with you, Tris. Are we agreed?"

Christina hugs me more tightly than ever before - her lipstick's no longer smudged. She looks like a real warrior.

"It's not - we're not trying to ditch you out here. I'm sorry, Tris."

"Take care of yourself, okay? That's all I ask, I want to come back and have you all be alive. Keep an eye on Uriah."

"You're asking me to keep an eye on anyone, it must be pretty serious."

"I mean it."

"Now get over here."

Christina presses her lips to my forehead, and scruffs the back of my neck.

"Don't die out there. Come back to me."

Uriah hugs us both tightly. Fortunately he doesn't seem to take offense at earlier remarks. It doesn't feel like we're parting ways for good, that's for sure - if we're lucky we aren't, but I don't know what saying goodbye for good ought to feel like. Thinking that way will get both of us killed.

"Don't drink too much, okay?" I admonish him, more jokingly than I really feel like at the moment. "That stuff will rot your insides."

"All right, all right. Don't pine away out there for love of me." His hand presses against my side, lingering for one weird moment, and I feel something heavy drop into the pocket of my coat.

It isn't until he's already walking away that I realize it's a flask. He's given me his flask. My fingers twist on the metal cap, and the weight of it is hard as a bullet.

Cara comes last, after the others have cleared away for one last pass of the barracks and greenhouses. I don't see her making any heartfelt goodbyes to the rest of the group; whatever she'd said to Four before he left, it just seemed to piss him off, though Peter seemed perfectly complacent. She corners me while I'm boxing up files, and thrusts a plastic sheath full of papers into my hand. It's all very low-tech compared to where we came from.

Atop the folder sits a stiff fabric box. Unzipped, it comes open like a clamshell to reveal a dull gray rectangle.

"I copied you a map; it seemed like the least I could do. This is a copy of the hard drive - keep it safe, somebody might need it some day." I don't know if she means me, or somebody on the outside - this might be a bargaining chip. This slim rectangle might save my life one day.

She'll have to forgive me if I don't quite trust her motives, not with all the things that can too readily happen - but coming from Cara, this kind of offering is a windfall. No reason to be rude, just because somebody's entire mode of operating is incredibly questionable.

"Thank you." I slip both disc and folder away in my bag. Cara doesn't need to know what else I'm taking with me.

"I've got something else for you, Tris. It was Tori's; she wanted you to have this before you set out. It's a location transmitter - don't look at me like that, it's not a simulation, not that that'd take. It'll just show us where you are. And if things get out of hand, or you get too far off the beaten track, no matter where you go we'll come find you. With reinforcements."

There's only one of them, a metallic bead smaller than a grain of rice. Cara gestures for me to sit down on the steel table and holds it out in the palm of her hand for me to look at it. It certainly looks like something Tori would have put together, or that she could easily have reverse-engineered from the examples of existing technology Erudite so generously peppered us all with. But I can't imagine she'd have handed it over to Cara willingly; she had too strong a sense of ownership over the things she made. Like she was proud.

"Won't you need a needle?" Or a dart. The thought of being stuck with anything resembling the simulation inducers is not inviting. I picture little wires slithering free of that thing and locking around an artery, or jamming into a major nerve.

"Actually, no," Cara says, tipping the transmitter out of its plastic pouch. "Unfortunately for you. Roll up your sleeve."

"Oh, no. No way."

Smaller than a grain of rice. I can barely see what she's doing, but before I know it, she's made an incision with a silver pocketknife smaller than my thumb. Blood begins to well from the soft part of my upper arm - soft being a relative term on my small, wiry body, but it doesn't hurt any less for it. I grit my teeth, and bite my tongue in the process.

Time to breathe. Her fingertips press the transmitter in between strands of muscle. The sensation is excruciating, moreso because I can make out what's actually going on through the discomfort. Getting jabbed with anything sucks. Getting jabbed with an electronic transmitter of unknown provenance is not an experience to repeat.

"Can't I just carry it in my pocket or something?" Another shudder of pain rips through me and I grip the table's edge more tightly.

"Won't work; it relies on nerve impulses. Now relax. If you don't want it, carve it out."

"Don't think I won't do it. If this thing does anything else other than what it's supposed to-"

"It won't. Tori knew what she was doing. I'm just sorry it had to be like this. Are you planning to tell Four, or should I?"

"I'll tell him myself." Cara's head bobs low as she bends down to stick with a bandage. It's one of those wrap-around bandages, like after you donate blood. My father donated blood often; who knew how many of the more reckless citizens of the city had his eminently sensible blood pumping through their veins even now. When I roll back down my sleeve, the shape of the bandage disappears, but not the pain.

Cara straightens up. For a moment I think she's going to take me by the hand, or try to pat me on the back or something, and I'm pretty sure if she did I'd have to knock her to the ground. But she just looks me over, like she's considering something.

"Be careful, Tris." How dare she echo Tori at a time like this. How dare she turn coward at the first sign the outside world isn't all peaches and cream and prepackaged answers.

I don't rub at my shoulder to ease the mirror ache there; I can't let her see I'm anything but fit to go. Instead, I lower my eyes. "Yeah, well."

What are we hoping to find? I know what I want - I want answers. I want to know what I am. I want to know what I'm capable of.

Tobias' answer is as straightforward as he is. He wants to know if there's another way to live besides this. And I'd wager he wants to be as far from his father's influence as possible.

Peter's treating the trip like it's inconsequential: like a day trip across town, like it's some game he's playing for fun. Not looking for anything in particular, just to see the sights and meet exciting people. Probably the same reason he gave Dauntless training a shot, besides the wanton cruelty.

Caleb's not looking for anything. That way at least he's likelier to get what he's looking for.

The terminology of the papers we'd gone through is still rattling around in my head. I wish somebody could have explained it to us. Whole genes, intact genes. Was this Divergence, or its opposite? I didn't feel like a whole person, a healed person, a better person. I felt worse than just a small part. Is Four an intact person? A complete person? What Marcus did to him runs deeper than I can ever know. Four has all the strengths that make Divergents threatening - he is versatile, he is perceptive, he is incredibly brave. He's also proud, controlling, vengeful, miserable. Who can tell what he'd have been grown up to be in another household, with parents who weren't monsters? The knowledge that Marcus' influence has maimed him somehow even now is too much for me.

We're setting out on a mission where we know we may die. That's about all we know - even with a map in hand, we don't know who or what exists between us and the next printed dot on our map. Gaping chasms, wild animals, insurmountable walls. There's no way of knowing what happens if we keep driving, or when we'll be too far to turn back. I need to know. I need to know where I came from.

Tobias is getting edgy too, though he's better at hiding it than I am- he hasn't shaved, and he's barely eaten, even when the rest of us were passing rations around. He hasn't slept, and the smell of burned flesh still sticks to the canvas. Looking out the window, you can still see the black smoke, rising behind us in a greasy pillar.

"It won't be long until we're clear of it," Four remarks to me when he catches me looking, in a low voice that's not yet a whisper. He sounds hoarse with exhaustion. "The total distance isn't that far, objectively speaking. The roads are just worse."

"I'd feel a lot better about this if we wouldn't be having to babysit Peter the whole way."

Four's brow furrows. "He still feels like he owes you, Tris; we might as well take advantage of that. And he knows things that are going to be useful."

"How long until he doesn't think he owes me any more?"

I want to get out, but I don't know if I want to get out that badly. I focus my eyes on the horizon, and try to calm my roiling stomach. My fingers worry at the edges of the folded-up case study, working out the metal staple.

The truck veers, so sharply that the wheels grind on their axles. The body jolts hard in a series of shudders as we hit the road's edge, and it sends me slamming into the edge of the window, lashing out for something to hang on to.

I cry out, calling Four by name before the vehicle grinds to a halt - his eyes flutter halfway between closed and open, irises ringed crazily in white, but he doesn't look at me. Four doesn't look at me.

Caleb scrambles around in the back, where the parcels of supplies have been jolted free of their webbing by the shock of our motion. "What happened? What's happening?"

"Oncoming car-"

"What are you talking about? There's no car -"

Another sharp jolt and we're off the road entirely. Four's gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles stand out white. Nostrils flared, breathing hard - for the first time I notice the sweat on his forehead, wet beads sticking down his dark hair. The complaints rising from the back are just noise; all I can hear is the sound of Four's breathing as he sucks in desperate breaths.

He's seeing things. He's trapped in a tiny metal cockpit that smells like death, no wonder he's seeing things.

"Four," I say, as gently as I can. "Maybe I can drive."

He's been behind the wheel for practically two days straight. He needs rest, and I'll just have to pick up the slack.

"Fine. Everybody out."

I am adaptable. I can learn this. Press on the one pedal to go, press on the other to stop. Easy stuff. The whole vehicle gives a lurch every time I go to take it out of park, and the wheel is much more reluctant to turn for me than Four, but it's not like we've really got other motorists to worry about. By the roadside, Four and Caleb stand watching me under the shade of a spreading tree - Four's bearing radiates grim approval, despite the deep shadows of sleeplessness, but Caleb's expression is unreadable, and the thin light through the leaves puts his face still mostly in shadow.

I'm learning this. I nearly have this. To come back and take another pass by my would-be passengers, I have to pull a U-turn; the tires scrape as I struggle to keep the turn itself narrow, and from the backseat I can hear Peter's laughter. The brakes scream as I slam the pedal to the floor, and the lurch sends my only passenger flying.

"I thought you were asleep!" I have to shout over the awful sputtering of the engine, though it comes out as more of a scream.

"How the fuck was I supposed to sleep through that?" Peter hauls his bruised body up in the rear view mirror, hanging desperately from the canvas straps even now that we're not moving. I've driven us into a ditch. Fantastic.

"Shut up, like you're a better driver." The wheel refuses to turn over any further.

"Put me behind the wheel and find out."

"I'd rather drive this thing off a cliff!" The exhilaration has made me manic. My wounded arm throbs.

"Put it in reverse, for fuck's sake, you're only jamming it in deeper-"

"I know how to put it in reverse! I'm doing it!" Slamming it into reverse frees us from the rut, and I can ease the body of the truck back if I keep my foot on the brake in increments. This thing is massive, and even when I'm confident I've got it centered in the roadway again I can't bear to see what Four's expression must be. There's a knot of sheer mortification sitting in my chest that's as big as my fist.

Peter kicks down the tailgate and sticks his head out to mock me. "Great news, everybody! Tris Prior knows how to shift gears!"

Peter

The first sign of civilization's not so promising. By the side of the road there's a rust-eaten sign that reads, in boxy reflective letters, Keep Our Highways Beautiful. The metal of the sign had been sprayed full of bullets long ago, and now half of it hangs from the posts like a scrap of lace. Even Four had to laugh at that. Whoever lived here had zero self-awareness of what they'd go on to do and what would happen to all they'd made - it left me wondering if this had been a quick war, or a slow one, a lightning-strike that leveled anything taller than a few stories or a prolonged assault.

Four and Tris are sitting in the dust by the side of the road, passing back and forth rations and one water bottle between both of them. We've only got rations for all of three days, so I hope they like sharing.

I snag a quick look over my shoulder at the two of them, deeply absorbed on one another, before breaking out my best stage whisper. "How do we know he didn't fuck up the car back there?" It seems wise to omit Tris' hand in fucking up our one and only ride, given present company and the nauseating memory of her stunt driving routine still fresh in my mind.

Caleb's already rolled up his sleeves. "I don't know, that's not the kind of thing they teach you to spot when you're learning how to drive a tractor. Tris didn't seem to have any problems, besides operator error."

I take a stroll around the perimeter of the vehicle, counting my steps. The opportunity to stretch my legs should be relished, and after Tris' shit parking job there's plenty of room to maneuver on either side. Kick, kick, kick, kick. "Tires are fine." And after a cursory look beneath, "Undercarriage too. It's scraped up to shit from running off the road, but if we picked this thing for looks it's news to me."

"That's promising. If there were any leaks or cracking under there, she'd need more extensive repairs. I know about engines, though," Caleb says. "Engines are easy."

It pains me a little that he knows something I don't. "If they're so easy, why don't you show me? Just in case you, y'know, get shot in the face or something."

"You sure know how to flatter a guy, don't you."

"I used to be Candor. We can't help it. So tell it to me straight, how does this shitheap actually work? Or - not work."

He pops open the hood. The inner workings of the car are a snarl of wire and tubing, the engine itself sitting somewhere beneath the driver; I can spot the places where the solar power line was rigged up to attach, but this is tech on a level that's beyond me. Give me 20 minutes though, and I think I can pick it up. Electricity or no, the fumes are dizzying, and when Caleb bends over to check the connection plates a thick splatter flicks forth and lands squarely on his shirtfront. It looks so much like a bloodstain that I have to laugh, and his complaints are muffled around the roll of electrical tape between his teeth. His shirt wasn't always the dirty gray that it is, I realize as I lean in closer - it used to be blue. That's clever - it's a surprise there haven't been more people dyeing over their old clothes to make them new, trying to pass for one faction or another, declaring their new allegiances. It must be unimaginable.

Caleb's straw-colored hair falls in his eyes. Concentration has made them beadier than ever. He passes off the roll of tape to me and straightens up to make a point. I try to follow where his line of sight points and where his gestures indicate as he walks me through the standard diagnostic checkup for a converted engine. These things connect here, and these turn over here, what performs what task. They've solved the overheating problems that used to be rife in old cars, but it's still eyebrow-raising to see Caleb manhandling these parts directly.

He brings two wires together and a spark jumps - the flicker of a smile crosses his face, where anybody else would have grinned.

"Are we good?"

"We're good."

The truck's back on the right side of the road with the help of a few good shoves, and the low-beam headlights surround it in a pool of dull yellow. In the dying light of day, the electric light's already attracting insects. Tris sits on the hood, swinging her legs, and Four stands next to her like a good guard dog. Caleb sits on the ground.

"So how exactly are we going to divide the watch?"

Four has to withdraw his hand from his girlfriend's so she can check her watch. "There's four of us, aren't there? Two per shift; two of us rest while the other two stay up and keep watch. Six hours at a time. Unless it's daylight and we're actually on the road, in which case two of us trade off driving and two of us keep an eye peeled for someone tailing us."

"Tris and I will take first shift." It's Caleb who volunteers himself; he's dopey-eyed again, not like before, compliant. The heels of his shoes leave scuff marks on the dusty road. "Four?"

"I'll keep an eye on Peter."

"Oh, nice." Keep an eye on me, like I'm some kid.

"You've got to admit, you need it, Peter." Caleb's voice is infuriatingly calm, though it can't make Tris' stiffness any less conspicuous. "It was Cara who wanted you in the original search team. You'd better not try your luck out here."

"This is bullshit." I punctuate the exclamation by striking the canvas side wall, and Tris jumps where she sits."Four, don't you want to double up with your lady friend? You can cover for her."

"I already am."

"What if I'm not tired?"

"Then help keep watch. Twiddle your thumbs, count road signs, I don't care. That's your problem, not mine."

This is the recipe for a fucking mutiny. Four can make me stow my gun, sure, but I'm keeping my knife sharp.

"Get some shut-eye." Four's already bedding down in the passenger's seat, with the flimsy partition between him and me. His folding knife sits on his lap, within reach of his loosely curled hand. If he's as exhausted as he looks, I could probably take it off of him, but I don't think I want to try. "You'll be out there patrolling in less than five hours. You're going to wish you had."

"Can't fucking make me."

I lean back with my head against the partition and my feet up on Caleb's bookbag, digging black dirt from under my fingernails with the tip of my own knife. Just because we're on a day trip across a blasted hellish wasteland doesn't mean you've got an excuse to be gross. Using the same blade for personal hygiene, food preparation, and flaying the skin off anybody who messes with us isn't gross - it's just practical.

We burned a dozen people yesterday. We looted their personal belongings and stripped their corpses. I didn't feel a thing, except disgust. A person should feel more than that, I think.

The blade slips. A red bead of blood begins to well up on the pad of my middle finger - on my tongue, a bright burst of copper. It tastes clean.

I don't know when it is that I do fall asleep. Can't say I like that; somebody in this convoy of dumbasses has to keep their eyes peeled for an ambush. But I do, and it ghosts over me like a different kind of waking, so fast that I don't even notice.

In my dreams, I'm with mom again. We're in the lab where I practiced dyeing serums purple; it was the morgue when I worked there, who knows what it is now. My father's body is there on a rolling gurney, covered with a black tarp, but without lifting it I know that the body has been burned.

My mother is crying. My hand is on her shoulder, and I can feel her shake. I don't feel anything else.