Chapter Three

"Well it's late, and you know I've been up drinkin,
Talkin to myself up and down the hall.
Ain't it great, another fabulous disaster.
Well I can't wait, for the next hammer to fall.You may have won this battle baby,
But it don't mean I won't win the war.
And you, you don't even know what it is that you're fightin for."

-"Fighting For", Cross Canadian Ragweed

There's a knot in my stomach when I wake up the next morning. I hate this first stage of initiation, I really do. There's nothing harder to me than watching a group of kids—who are mostly friends, no less—leave each other with cracked ribs and bloody noses and black eyes. At least in simulations and landscapes, it's the initiate inflicting the pain on themselves.

I forgo breakfast and instead head down to the arena. On the green chalkboard in the corner, I write out all the initiates' names and then cock my head to the side, studying them. I try to make the pairings as fair as I can on the first day.

I pull back from the chalkboard, reading through the pairings once more. Something doesn't feel right about them, though. My eyes roll over Tris's name, and I know, as much as I don't want to admit it, that I've found the problem. I erase her name from next to Myra's, and replace it with Drew's, moving Edward up with Peter and her down to the bottom of the list, unaccompanied. It's not as balanced, and I try to rationalize it in my head—she's the smallest, the weakest, the only Abnegation, she has no idea what she'd be getting into—but it's all talk. I just don't want to see her get beaten to a pulp. There's a difference between pushing her through her fears and pushing her straight into someone else's fist.

Eric arrives just as I set down the chalk, and I stifle a groan. Of all the six leaders, they really had to pair me up with him? It's a general practice to have a member of the leadership circle oversee training, but this just seems like overkill.

I have three guesses as to who decided which leader would oversee my group, and all three of them are standing in front of me, pierced eyebrow raised.

"Careful, Four," he says mildly, jutting his chin towards the board. "Some people might see that as favoritism."

I shrug, crossing my arms. "We have an uneven number. One would have to sit out anyway."

"Then why wouldn't you pair the two girls up and have a boy sit out?"

"Well, when you decide to take a step up from your current position and become a trainer, then you can decide who's paired with whom in the fights. But until then, I'll just relieve you from that duty, your highness."

The sneer on his face falls into a glare. "Don't you mock me, Stiff." He takes a step closer, and then we're standing toe to toe in the middle of the arena. "It might come with some unwanted consequences."

I snort. "You know Eric, for an Erudite, you really have a hard time coming up with intelligent insults."

He lunges forward, hand wrapping around my collar. I smirk. Down the hall, I can hear the initiates making their way towards the training room.

"Careful, Eric," I say quietly. "I might just decide that the leadership in this faction is rapidly declining, and that it might be a good idea for me to take that position that Max keeps offering. Then your sorry ass would be out of a job, wouldn't it?"

The rage that contorts his face is instantaneous, and I can't help but chortle. He shoves me back roughly.

"You watch yourself, Eaton," he growls as the first initiate makes his way into the room. "You remember what I said about those unintended consequences. Then we'll see who's laughing."

I just roll my eyes. I can take whatever it is he thinks he can dish out.

"Since there are an odd number of you, one of you won't be fighting today." My eyes flicker over to Tris on their own accord, and I see her face brighten in relief. "I need the first pair, Will and Al, to step into the center of the circle. Everyone else, move out of their way."

The two boys move into position, and begin shuffling around each other, hands raised. I watch them carefully, making a mental note of flaws to correct. Al is a monster, a huge beast packed with muscle. But Will is quick, agile, and smart. It should be a good pair up. Al throws the first punch, hitting Will square in the jaw. My eyes narrow; Will's hands are too low, hovering down around his chest. Will counters by hooking a foot around Al's legs and knocking him to the ground, but doesn't pounce quick enough. In the next second, Al is on his feet again. They circle around each other for a couple minutes, and their hesitance grows as the time stretches on.

"Do you think this is a leisure activity?" Eric shouts from my right. "Should we break for naptime? Fight each other!"

He shakes he head, falling back against the wall. "Damn, this is boring."

A bubble of disgust rises in my stomach, and I stare at him.

"But..." Al pulls my attention back to the center of the room. "Is it scored or something? When does the fight end?"

Eric speaks up before I have a chance. "It ends when one of you is unable to continue."

I roll my eyes. The way he says it makes it sound so overly dramatic, so barbarian.

"According to Dauntless rules," I amend, "one of you could also concede." As much as he wishes the new bylaws were already in place, they're not.

Eric glares at me. This is the second time I've undermined his authority in less than an hour. "According to the old Dauntless rules," he snaps. "In the new rules, no one concedes."

I meet his eyes evenly. "A brave man acknowledges the strength of others."

He knows I'm not talking about Will and Al anymore, and he bristles.

"A brave man never surrenders."

Neither one of us show signs of backing down.

"This is ridiculous," Al finally pipes up. I'm not entirely sure whether he's talking about us or the fight. I shake my head to clear it. "What's the point of beating him up? We're in the same faction!"

Will grins, crouching low, hopping from foot to foot. "Oh you think it's going to be that easy? Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke."

I can't help but grin. The kid's got balls to egg on someone like Al, that's for sure.

Al tries a few hits, but Will has found his weakness—his slowness—and darts around them easily. It's entertaining—until I see the switch go off in Al's eyes that turns him into that fierce predator that he's capable of being. I grimace; the fight won't last much longer now.

Sure enough, less than thirty seconds later, Will's crumpled on the ground, unconscious. Al taps his cheek, eyes wide. The rest of the initiates fall silent, waiting for Will to come to. When he does, there is a collective breath taken around the room.

"Get him up." Eric's eyes glint sadistically, and that bubble of disgust grows larger in my gut. I turn to the chalkboard and circle Al's name.

"Next up—Molly and Christina." Christina doesn't stand near as much of a chance as Will did, and I can hear the excitement in Eric's voice. Sick bastard.

Al drags Will over to me, and I wrap his arm around my shoulder, taking over the support.

"It's all right," I assure Al, who looks as though he could burst into tears at any moment. "He'll be just fine. You did well, Al. Your technique was good."

Will groans into my ear and coughs a couple times, weakly. I look over at him, frowning. His eyes are unfocussed, unseeing. I had planned on just setting Will down in the corner, getting him something to drink, but looking at him now, I see the telltale signs of a concussion.

"Damn," I curse under my breath. I glance over at Eric. The last thing I want to do is leave him alone with these kids, but it doesn't look like I have a choice. Will needs to go down to the infirmary, and there's no way he could make it by himself.

"Come on," I tell Will, pulling him forward. "Let's go."

He blinks, stumbling against me. "Where're we goin'?" he slurs, head lolling to the side. "'Re we spinning?"

"We're going to the infirmary," I say, hauling him up straighter. "You got hit pretty good."

The rest of the walk is full of similar questions—why is the wall blue? Are we inside of a rock?-and by the time we reach the infirmary, I'm about sick of it. I drop him down into the first bed I can find and grab the chart on the footboard to start filling in the information. As soon as the nurse arrives, I head back up to the training room. When I get there, though, Eric is the only one there.

"There's no way everybody finished," I say.

Eric turns to me, dusting the chalk from his hands. Behind him, on the board, I see Molly's name circled.

"I had to cut training short today. One of your initiates decided maybe she wasn't as brave as she thought she was."

My mind instantly flashes to Tris, but I know that's not who he's talking about. I frown.

"One of my initiates did what?"

He smirks. "She decided to go...hang out. Down by the chasm."

I stare at him, uncomprehending, and feel the unease begin to settle in the pit of my stomach. "Hang out," I repeat. "By the chasm."

His smirk widens into a dark grin. "Well, more like hang off, if you want to be more technical."

The blood turns to ice in my veins, and I take a step closer. "You did not hang one of my initiates over the chasm." My voice is low and even, but my hands are shaking.

"I did nothing but supervise. It was actually quite impressive. I didn't think she would make the whole five-"

My hands slam into his chest, cutting him off. His eyes flash up at me, but I get right down in his face.

"And what reason," I bite out, "did you have for making one of my initiates dangle over the chasm?"

He looks me dead in the eye. "She didn't finish her fight."

He says the words like we're discussing meal choices in the dining hall. My stomach churns and I feel the bile rise in my throat. There are so many things I'd like to do to him—so many ways I could hurt him, even just with my bare hands—but I know if I made a move on him, I'd be good as dead.

I grab his collar and pull him closer. His breath washes over my face, hot and rank, and the metal in his eyebrows glitters in the light.

"You will not take anymore radical disciplinary action over my initiates," I growl through gritted teeth. Rage pulses through my body, clenching my fist tighter around his shirt, and I feel the fabric begin to give way under my fingers. "If you have a problem with the way they're being taught, you bring it to me, and I will address it. And until your new bylaws are voted into action, we're still governed by the old code of conduct. Which means if my initiates want to concede in a fight, they sure as hell can, and it would do you well to remember it."

I shove him back, and he doesn't even stumble, just stares at me like he has been for the past few minutes. If I wasn't so outraged, it would make me uncomfortable. Then, the corners of his lips turn up in a sneer, and he leans in again.

"You watch yourself, Eaton," he says quietly. "You better keep an eye open all the Goddamn time."

He straightens up, and I meet his eyes evenly. "Go to hell, Eric."

I take the long way around to the dorms, instead of just cutting through the Pit. I have to work off some anger. Half of me is still in disbelief; what the hell kind of sick bastard makes a second day transfer initiate hang over the damn chasm because she couldn't finish her first fight against a girl twice her size?

A voice in the back of my head whispers that it's my fault for pairing her up with Molly; she should've gone against Tris.

I reach up and run a hand through my hair. God, this girl is going to make me loose it.

When I get to the initiate dorm, I don't knock—they are co-ed dorms, after all—but I do ease the door open slowly, to give whoever is inside some notice. I peek my head around the door, and, sure enough, Christina is lying in the first bunk, eyes closed. Al sits on the bed next to her, and he looks up at me when I enter. I nod at him in greeting.

"How is she?" I ask quietly, but Christina's eyes flutter open anyway.

"I'm not asleep." Her voice sounds hoarse and strained, and when she opens her mouth, I see that her gums are stained red with blood.

I step inside and close the door behind me. She tries to sit up, but Al presses her back into the mattress, and she falls back, wincing, without anymore protest.

"You look like you've seen better days, kid," I say. The entire left side of her face is swollen, and there are splits in the skin of her eyebrow, cheek, and lip. A purple bruise blossoms up the side of her neck, and, as I step closer, I can see that the skin of her palms is peeled away, flecks of black paint embedded in the raw flesh.

She snorts. "I think that would be a pretty accurate statement."

My hand hovers just over her shin for a moment; I should reach out and pat her, do something to comfort her. But I pull it back. No—I'm not cruel and sadistic like Eric, but I won't baby them.

"I'm not sorry you lost, and I'm not sorry you're hurt," I say, and it's true. Mostly, at least. "You're a Dauntless now. You have to expect things like this."

I can see Al's face redden, and he opens his mouth to protest, but I hold a hand up to stop him. "I do want you to know, however," I continue, speaking just as much to him as to her, "that the situation with Eric has been addressed. There won't be any more of these kinds of occurrences while you're under my responsibility."

Al deflates.

"It was completely uncalled for," I say, softer. Christina's eyes have fallen closed again.

I turn to Al again. "Do you have access to ice?"

He nods. "That's where Tris is. She went down to the dining hall to get some."

"Good." I hesitate for a moment before adding, "If you need anything else, just let me know. I'm apartment 14B, just across the way."

I should be disgusted that part of me hopes she'll need something, just so I can see Tris again. But I'm not.

Zeke and Lauren are sitting outside my apartment when I get there.

"Eric is a dickwad," Zeke says in greeting.

Lauren nods vigorously, dusting off her pants. "A complete asswipe."

As stressed out as I am, and as pissed off as I still am, I can't help but laugh—a big belly laugh, one that makes me have to lean against the wall for support.

"Oh my God," I half groan, tilting my head back against the rocks. I let my eyes fall closed and let my breathing slow back to a normal rate. "Do you have any idea how fucked up my day has been?"

Lauren leans against my chest, wrapping her arms around my waist, and for once I pull her closer instead of pushing her away. Zeke claps a hand on my shoulder

"Is she okay?" Lauren's voice is muffled by my t-shirt.

"Yeah." I nod. "She's more beat up from the fight than the chasm." I grimace sympathetically. "She's going to feel it in the morning, that's for sure."

We fall into a comfortable silence, and I realize how much I've missed my two best friends over the last twenty-four hours. It feels good to have them with me again. Normal. I don't have to be Four, the hard-ass trainer. I can just be Four, the normal guy. Maybe even a little bit Tobias, too.

"We decided to go swimming," Zeke says suddenly, breaking the silence. I open my eyes and look at him.

"Where are you going to go swimming?"

Lauren pulls away from me. "We found a little creek earlier, when we went out for a run this afternoon. We were just going to swim then, since we were all sweaty and stuff, but we decided to come back for you."

Every ounce of sensible inside of me protests, loudly: I haven't eaten dinner, I'm exhausted, I have to get up early for training tomorrow.

And then, inexplicably, my mind flashes to Tris. Or, maybe it's not so unexpected, considering the recent trend. I see her standing on the platform, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. I see her in the training room, hard and fierce. I see her next to the punching bag, less than six inches away from me, exposed.

Exposed. Something I haven't let myself be in a long time.

Something that she makes me want to be, but only for her.

Maybe swimming with Zeke and Lauren is a start.

Maybe it'll mean something to me, eventually.

I leave a note for Tris and Al on my door, referring them to the on call nurse at the infirmary, and don't give it a second thought.

The water is cool and refreshing. It laps in tiny waves all over my body, pulling me downstream. Lauren and Zeke are behind me, shrieking and splashing and wrestling in the faster current, but I am stretched out on my back, floating. My ears are underwater, and I hear the sound of their roughhousing through cotton.

Laying like this reminds me of my mother.

The best memories I have of her—the best memories of my childhood—are from the period of time when I was six or seven, back when Marcus was still trying to work his way into a council position. He would spend upwards of twelve hours at work—twelve hours that my mother and I didn't have to live in fear.

I wasn't allowed a lot of time to play, as an Abnegation child. My mother, who was an Amity transfer, loved being outside, but she couldn't even take me to the park for more than ten or fifteen minutes every day. I wasn't allowed toys past the age of five; they were considered indulgent. One of the only times I was allowed to play was in the bath, as strange as it sounds.

I would spend hours in the tub every night, until my hands and feet were pruned beyond recognition. We would make up all kinds of games to play, involving soap bars and shampoo bottles and washrags. One night, the shampoo bottle would be a submarine; the next, the soap, a whale. Sometimes the rag would be a net, and the suds in the water would be the fish that it was scooping up.

Sometimes, if I was lucky, she would sing to me. She sang me beautiful songs about moonbeams and pirates and dragon tails. One night, I realized her songs sounded even more magical if I held my head underwater. It was after that that she taught me to float on my back; there's only so long a person can keep their head underwater without it being harmful. Floating on my back, though, I could lay there for as long as I wanted, and still listen to the ethereal strains of her voice, beautifully distorted by the porcelain basin.

Laying in the water now, I can almost hear her singing again.

But that was before. Before my father got his position on the council, before he started working a regular eight to five. Before my mother decided she wanted another child, because she thought for some reason that if she was pregnant, he wouldn't hit her, and that another baby might soften his temper. Before that night when she was seven months pregnant that he knocked her unconscious, and the stress from his beating sent her into early labor. Before he yelled at me to run and find a doctor, but I didn't, because I was frozen in place, watching, as my mother convulsed on her bed.

Before she died, and took my brother with her.

After that, bath time became a means to wash the blood from my body, and I didn't get to go to the park at all anymore, because my father kept me locked inside the house.

After that, I never, ever wanted to hear anyone sing again.

A/N: Hi there! If you're a returning reader, you'll probably notice I made a couple of changes to this chapter. Well, more than a couple. I also made a few nips and tucks at Chapter Two as well, just to help the flow. I felt like the old Chapter Three was rather OOC, and didn't do Tobias' character much justice, so I came up with this new and improved one, which I like much better.

And, if you're a first time reader, you won't be any the wiser ;)

Thanks for stopping by, and please drop a review on your way out!

Thanks,

Jennifer