I'm so sorry, all, please don't kill me for the late update! I was away at camp which turned out very well, thank you for asking, and then was dead tired. This chapter was written in an hour, which I tried not rush, but really, it was begging to be written.

This chapter goes more in-depth with Tobias, and explains (how I think) why he is who he is in Insurgent, and why he made some of the choices he did.I don't want to screw up anyone's interpretation of him, this is just how I see it. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer; Haven't we been over this a few times already?

I dread what I will see when the extinguished lights sputter back on. Usually, this fear is either Marcus or shooting the innocent woman. Ending an innocent life. But somehow, today, I know something is different, pure instinct sending me on edge. Something is wrong.

Not wrong with the simulation; the Erudite would never live that down, the perfectionists. No, something is wrong with me. The usual terror that pulses through me is not there, and it has been replaced by a new sensation, one that makes me feel like I can say anything, do anything. It scares me.

I recognise the feeling as power.

I turned down the job of Dauntless leader-in-training because I have seen first-hand what authority does to people. It corrupts them, robs their judgement, and, at the risk of sounding like an Amity, it taints their very souls. It is what has turned Eric into what he is. It is what controls my father.

I never wanted to become a leader. I was always the quiet, unassuming boy from Abnegation, who, by some freak fluke of nature, had four fears and ranked first in initiation. Power scares me, and always has.

I suppose, after confronting Marcus with Tris, the simulation has relegated that fear to a lower priority. And it has instead brought out my fear of power. Minor, but easily twisted into something far more sinister.

It is an odd sensation, to feel invincible and scared at the same time. I suppose that's a bit of an oxymoron, says my befuddled brain. However, to beat this, I must be as fearless as I can, and the least scared as possible. So I lift my chin and stare forwards, like I have so many times before, and clench my fist around the stick in my fist. The stick?

And that's when things start to go horribly, horribly wrong.

As the lights shimmer into existence, my eyes adjust to perceive the scales of Candor set into a tile wall in front of me, startlingly white against coal black. Truth and lies. Good and evil.

I am in one of the Candor's truth chambers, the boxy rooms designed specifically for meditation and reflection. They send wrongdoers down here to repent and confess, and the stark furnishings supposedly help them concentrate. According to the textbooks I have read. Perhaps they just depress them into telling the truth.

A heap of ragged cloth is slumped in the middle of the room, and I squint closer. The dim blue lights floating overhead make it hard to make out any details down here, and the cold air makes me shiver, and clutch at my arms for warmth.

I take a step closer to the bundle, and recoil as quickly as a cat in water. The limp rags are not simply clothes. They are a decrepit human being. He is a decrepit human being. He is my father.

"Tobias," he croaks, his voice gurgling with what I suspect, with growing horror, is his own blood. I take another step back, disgust filling me, both for who he is, and for what has happened to him.

Much as I may despise his actions, and hate his treatment of me as a child, blood is blood. He is my father. And though I would choose Tris over him easily, I would not, could not leave him here to die. I clutch the stick tighter, and for the first time, I look down. What I see repulses me.

A steady stream of crimson blood is dripping from the end of the metal baton I am gripping, and it is not my blood. The steady trickle drips down, spiralling in an almost graceful dance, to splash onto the ground, staining the Candor's white tile floor palest pink. My knuckles turn whiter, and I slowly raise my gaze. Then I gasp, the sound pulled from my lips and throat.

Marcus's body is a map of bruises. Green, blue, brown, and a myriad of other gruesome colours speckle his body. Lacerations and cuts drip blood onto the floor. Broken bones jut out of his skin, grinning, awful white. I force myself not to vomit. These injuries are something only a sharp, metal rod like the one I am holding could make.

"Why, Tobias, why?" Marcus wheezes, with his dying, rattling voice, stretching out a trembling, emaciated hand. It falls to his side, and he crumples in on himself, his last vestiges of energy spent. My gaze flicks down to the bar in my hand, and realization slowly dawns on me. No. Surely not. . .

"Who did this to you?" I demand. My voice rings out in the empty stone chamber, echoing and bouncing through the space. The voices overlap, so that the room resonates with the disharmony of, "Who? Who did this to you? Did this to you? You! You!"

For a dreadful second, my voice sounds almost like Eric's. Cruel and uncaring. Unfeeling. I shudder, and this time, it has nothing to do with the chilly air.

Marcus sighs, an almost gentle gasp that carries like a breath of wind. "Why? Tobias, my son, why have you done this to me?" The feeling of power has withdrawn from me, leaving only numb shock. I did this. To my own flesh and blood. And the worst part is that I would do it, too.

And then I steel myself. Who knows when this scenario might actually happen? I need to be ready, to protect Tris, to protect Dauntless, to protect myself. I will not strike Marcus again.

And that's when I finally realize the fear that is represented here. I am not afraid of power. I am afraid of the responsibility, the consequences that come with it.

"With great power. . ." Marcus chokes out painfully, "comes great responsibility." His breaths are coming in grating, rattling, choking gasps now, and I know that this simulation will not, cannot last much longer.

I know what I need to do. I need to accept what I've done, which is easier said than carried out. What will Tris say when she finds out that I am a cold-blooded murderer, even if only in a simulation? This is a worse fear than shooting the woman and being beaten by Marcus combined.

But I can beat it. For Tris.

Even if I decide not to tell her.

Marcus heaves a breath, and somehow, I know it's his last. I can feel him departing, somewhere inside of me. A dozen Candor burst into the room, armed. That is the first time I have ever seen a Candor armed. And that is the thing I need to remind me that this is a simulation. A little thing.

They point their guns at me, and gesture for me to raise my hands above my head. This is the moment of truth. Do I accept that I have killed my own father, and defeat this simulation? Or do I repent, and cling to the last shred of humanity I have left?

My arms lift, seemingly of their own accord, but I know better. I know that my subconscious has just let go of another tendril of my fading dignity. But I also know that I have conquered another fear. Maybe next time I come through here, I will be Three. Somehow, Three and Six doesn't sound quite right.

Maybe, a little voice inside my head whispers, maybe, that's because it isn't quite right. And a niggling bit of guilt remains in the pit of my stomach; fear is human. I am becoming less and less like the boy that I used to be. This is what war does to you.

I push the thoughts roughly aside as the wails of sirens and the gunfire and the grasps on my wrists fade into nothing. For Tris. This is all for Tris. I pacify myself with that thought for now. But somehow, it still just doesn't seem worth it.

So, long chapter for you. I hope it didn't drag on. Please leave a review telling me what you think, because this is one of the chapters I'm really not too sure whether it's accurate/well written or not.

Cheers!