Trigger warning: depictions of blood, brief mention of suicide (nothing gory, I just don't want to make anyone uncomfortable)

Hiding in Plain Sight

07

Descending

The morning after Edward leaves is a dismal one. I couldn't sleep more than a few hours and when I force myself up and out of the dormitory, everyone else is just barely waking up too. Looks like no one slept very much. It's like Edward is still lying there on the floor, calling out for help but we went blind, suddenly can't see him. I yawn in the crook of my arm as I trudge to the dining room. There's not many people inside, but the ones who are already seated are talking loudly as usual between the clinking of cutlery. That's good. Now I won't have to leave early.

There's an empty table near the end of the cafeteria and I move toward it but on the way there Brandon sees me, surrounded by friends and waves me over. My forehead aches from the long restless night, but their company could be nice right about now and I don't feel uneasy about entering their social circle. Not too much. They greet me when I approach, the light in their eyes a stark contrast to the transfer class. The space on Brandon's left on the far end of the bench is free so I take it. Allison sits across from me, absently pushing around crumbled bits of whatever was served on her plate with a fork.

No one says anything for a little while. I rest my temple against my curled fingers and idly pick at the wood table top with the other, and the only sound that goes around is the scratch scratch scratch of my nail against the splinters. Even the previous motions of silverware seems to have stopped. I don't mind it. I'm not alone now but I don't have to talk either.

"Haven't seen you in a while," Brandon points out as if that's out of the ordinary. I'm surprised they've noticed but I guess I have been hanging around them more and more lately. "We heard one of you got sent to the infirmary. What's going on? Someone get the sniffles?"

I shake my head slowly, still staring and scraping at the table. "He got stabbed."

"Stabbed."

I drop my hand from my temple and pick up Brandon's unused dinner knife, the tip razor sharp and clean. I hold it up, the handle pressed flush against the wood and everyone at the table goes mute. They keep on chewing, but just gawk.

Then Brandon clears his throat. "He still alive?"

I nod. "He quit, though, and someone else went with him. Left without saying goodbye." I don't know why that fact sticks out in my mind; maybe it's because I've been through it before.

"Jesus tap dancing Christ," Danny mutters with a note of disgust but I don't know if it's because Edward was attacked in such a gruesome way or because two people dropped out because of it. "Nobody told us that."

"I guess no one's supposed to know."

I skim the heads huddled at every table and see that the rest of the transfers have trickled in and are sitting among each other. Peter and Drew are also present and their usual loud conversation is tight-lipped today, expressions uncharacteristically serious. The more I study them the faster images of last night flash in my thoughts. I turn back around. It feels like the cut of my arm is about to bust open and bleed again, and I can't help but think about Christina's words about the attackers, the percolating knowledge of who hurt Edward and the fact that nothing was done about it. Except the wrong person chose to leave.

"Probably better off that way," Brandon comments quietly. "Wonder who's next."

Alison, who lifts her fork like she's about to eat the first bite since this morning, lowers it with a clatter to the plate. "Do we have to talk about this again?"

"What?" Brandon frowns back at her reaction. "We all knew not everyone would make it this far. Stop freaking out. At least it wasn't one of us."

"I heard that," Safiya hums in agreement.

Alison rolls her eyes but says nothing else and she stares down at the remains of breakfast without touching it again. The rest of them resume eating after that, chewing with more thoughtfulness than before and some just pick at what's served on their tray, deflated. I guess what happened to Edward must be pretty ghastly if it colored a fraction of the Dauntless borns speechless. Or introspective. But despite their quietness now, their own morale doesn't seem killed. Not like ours. I wonder how they do it... I wonder how they do anything.

"Look at it this way," Noah suggests, eyes flitting around to every face before landing on mine. "If he was one of the stronger ones, that means less of a threat for you. You're as good as in now."

I wanna see the bright side of that, but it's bleak. If Peter wasn't around, then maybe it'd be true but they don't know what he's capable of. Even after last night I still can't imagine what he'd do to ensure a safe ride through stage two.

"I used to think me not being close to any of them was a good thing," I confess after a beat. "Now I'm not so sure."

"What do you mean?"

I think of the first jumper and the close knit band she hangs with, their individuality and sincerity; Peter and his two henchmen, following him closer than his own shadow. Neither are perfect yet they've made it this far and that has to count for something. Doesn't it?

"If I'm not their friend, then why would they want me around?" I say. Some of them already don't want me here anymore. The healing cut on my arm is a reminder of that.

Brandon frowns and turns his head a little to his shoulder to stare at the rest of the transfer class sitting at different tables. His eyes are rigid like a stone that's been hollowed out, and he looks away sharply like something visually insulted him. "You don't need them," he says firmly. "You have us."

I don't say anything. There's nothing really to prove if that's right or wrong.

A few minutes before breakfast officially ends, I decide to tour the halls for a little while until Four calls us to the next training room. Whatever it is. I can get some alone time and with the echo of distant laughter, residual booming of people in the Pit carrying through walls it's like I'm not really by myself. I don't know what it is but something about Dauntless feels different, and a part of me thinks it's anticipation of what's to come. Or the fact that Edward is gone. Did we even get enough time to process it? When I stop and reflect about it, the bloody figure of him on the floor, the shadow hovering over me and the disconnection from our instructors... it seems like a forced effort to make things go back to normal.

But grief is weird like that, I guess. Not in a deep way when somebody dies but a similar sense of loss and shock; in Edward's case, an example of strength and success, he left just as abruptly. My feet eventually take me to the training room and it looks so out of place with the lights turned off like this, the lines of punching bags stagnant and without initiates in front of them. Even the mats look cleaner, like there hasn't been any blood stains on them. I'm about to turn to the door but a faint reddish glow from the far corner catches my eyes and I look closer to see the board still pulled up with our names. Stage one rankings. I can hardly believe it was only yesterday.

My gut sinks when I see the altered names.

2. Peter

1. Charlotte

I replaced Edward's spot and Peter replaced mine. It's not an accomplishment.

It feels like a death sentence.

The first day of stage two is spent sitting and waiting. I didn't know what to expect when Four told us to hold up on these lines of seats nailed to either side of the wall and I still don't; it feels like it's been hours since he called in Molly and she hasn't been seen since. I can't even hear anything from the other side of the door, much less imagine what's in there. I cross my arms and lean my head back against the wall, the shiny bright ceiling so different from the natural darkness of Dauntless' hallways I have to shut my eyes for a second. The first twenty-four hours of Edward's attack didn't feel this long. It's almost unbearable.

I can hear the other transfers fidgeting and jostling their legs in the chairs and it makes that butterfly of anxiety beat their wings faster in my chest. It's kind of comforting to know I'm not the only one nervous about this. But that won't carry over once that door opens for me.

After so much time, the knob twists and pulls open to reveal two Dauntless members escorting a languid Molly out. Her eyes are half closed and she stumbles over her feet like she grew up without them and someone just now twisted them on.

"What did they do to her?" Christina murmurs, eyes following her form. No one answers.

Four looms in the doorway. "Tris."

The first jumper stands up then and disappears behind the white door. Only the second person to go in and if the rate goes on like the first, we won't be done until it's dark. I try not to think about it. About how long we're stuck here, what's waiting for us behind that door, any of it. If I do, my mind will spin and spin and I don't think I'd be able to stop it. I don't wanna start the new stage on a bad note... since Edward left, things have already flipped upside down.

Time passes slower the more the other initiates get called in. The first jumper wasn't in there very long but everyone after her eats up time to the point where it feels like days are skipping. Eventually, I lose track of the hours and people around me until the door swings open again.

"Charlotte."

I'm alone now.

I blink and rub the weariness from my eyes, sitting up straight. When did the last few initiates go in? I could have sworn just a few minutes ago I was surrounded by three other people.

Four waits by the door as I push myself up and trudge inside. The room is long but narrow with a reclining chair in the center like the ones they use for the Aptitude test. A small station is pushed to the right side, equipped with a computer screen with an assortment of wires and gadgets. It's cold.

"Sit," Four orders and he strides over to the screen.

There's these metal blocks on either side of where your head is supposed to lay - to keep yourself from thrashing around, I guess but it's a little unsettling to look at. I do what he says and sit back on the long, firm seat and try not to let my nerves show. My hands won't stop shaking and I try to hide it by shoving them in my shirt pockets but it feels awkward and I end up squeezing them between my knees instead.

"I'm gonna inject you with this serum," Four says and taps his fingers against a clear plunger.

"Yeah, the needle kinda gave it away."

He rolls his eyes then and I would have missed it if he turned away at the last second. "It'll trigger a hallucination of one of your fears. It could be any of them, depending on how many you have."

"This is kind of like the Aptitude test, right?" I ask and Four looks up from the syringe in his hand at that. "You'll give me something to see stuff in my head? Only it's coming from my imagination, and not something preset?"

Four sighs through his nose, glancing down at the needle in his hand before back at me. He must be tired of the questions, tired of being stuck here with us all day. Can't say I blame him.

"It's exactly like that," he responds, then approaches my chair, serum in hand. "Ready?"

Am I ready? The question repeats in my head, burns and scars itself there. Am I?

"No."

I stare at a reflection on the floor as the cold tip of the needle pierces my neck, the serum shooting through my veins making it feel like my blood is ice, bones dirt. The lights in the room look brighter but the objects out of reach as if they're slowly being sucked into a vacuum. Maybe I'm falling away from it. Or they're running away from me.

The light fades out.

I switch off.

The dormitory air is so frigid that I can see warm pockets of steam my breath makes when I exhale, waking with weary clarity. Lights are off. I'm lying on my front, still in regular clothes and my arms feel senseless from sleeping on them for who knows how long. When I uncurl myself from the pillow and sit up, my head swirls around like a draining sink and I take a second to shake off the sudden dizziness; everything is woozy... I guess those simulations really tapped into me. Or out of me. Scrambled stuff in my head where I need to remember how to think again. Did I really ever? Maybe not and the simulation just kind of confirmed it.

Rubbing my eyes, I scan the barracks and notice a few things off about the other transfer's bunks. They must have been here at some point and it weirds me out that I didn't wake up from the noise of it - I haven't been sleeping particularly heavy lately. Not in the dorm anyway. Commotion wafting under the door sounds fairly loud too, exclaims from the Pit, clatters in the cafeteria and everything else these walls pick up from other levels. It's like it's all happening in front of me. I yawn into my hands and move sluggishly to the door, wondering how long I've been out. It can't be too late since most people in the compound are still awake.

I press my palm to the cold knob and turn it to step out.

And freeze.

I'm in Candor's halls.

...

What? Is all I think to myself, cluelessly, blankly.

It's exactly how I remember. The walls, dark and charred looking compared to the while tiled floor, rows of spotless squares like bared teeth connecting all the way to the end of the corridor. It's the apartments, I think to myself and I realize this is the floor I live on. Used to live on. Used to.

How the hell? Another thought pops into my head as I wander further down the hall, feeling comfort, dread and confusion all at once for being back home. But no. Dauntless is home, isn't it? Where I wanted to be, where I transferred. I thought I woke up there. I know I did. Didn't I?

The door starts to creak shut on it's own and when I glance back at it, it suddenly stops and through the small gap in the frame I see nothing but blackness on the other side, where the Dauntless dormitory used to be. The place I thought I came from. But nothing's there, just a colorless room with no discernible shapes. Like a sealed portal. My heartbeat skips as the overhead lights grow faint and when I face the hall again, the apartment doors stand ajar. Movement goes on inside them. Footsteps. Voices. I inch closer to them, my head leaden but the rest of myself feeling weightless and useless, and when I stand in front of the first open doorway I freeze in place.

It's me.

I see me. Not just myself but the rest of my family as well and we look so happy, sitting around the long table in our apartment, my sister chuckling at something Dad said and me on the other end studying a page in a Math textbook. I was a lot younger then. Carefree.

I walk on ahead and the next door is exactly the same, still of us, but we're older now. It's my sister and I, and she's in my room whispering something in my ear and from what we're wearing... the time of day I know it's the night before her Aptitude test. The night where she told me she was gonna stay no matter what happened, regardless of what the results came back as. She looked so at peace. So did I, but it wasn't meant to last. It wasn't. I wish I knew that then.

There's more doors, tons of them, and images on the other side get worse, get older, get sadder. Angrier. It's like I'm looking at picture frames with people's faces scratched out; I don't recognize the girl who looks like me, talks like me, acts like how I used to and is me in every sense, but can't really be because I'm standing right here. Can't it? Those different versions say otherwise, one that was untroubled and took everything for granted, one who resented it all when it finally left, and another who saw no reason for the future.

The last one who is too tired to count the regrets, who hates herself not trying hard enough, for pushing everyone away as she watches memories of Mom trying to connect again at home and ignoring her, saying things she shouldn't have, not saying them correctly. Lovingly. Dad's disappointment when she goes to her room and doesn't come back out. The girl I am now.

I can't take it anymore. The first door I came from is shut now and when I spin around to barge the handle open, it's disappeared. Gone. My heart is hammering and I can't hear anything except the drumming in my ears and voices coming from the rows of open doors, strange voices, familiar ones. It sounds like they're whispering, arguing, saying nothing all at once. I feel around the door for something but it's smooth so I thump both fists against them and the wood shakes a little but doesn't budge.

"Come on, open up," I whisper. "Please, please... open."

My head starts to hurt and I clap my hands over my ears to block out the voices. Screaming... they're screaming now and it's so loud but I can't tell if it's actually me or something in there- it's too high to come from me, but who knows, my mind is being flayed alive and it hurts- god, it hurts so much. I didn't know I could feel this much pain. It wasn't supposed to happen, I'm supposed to be at home and safe and happy-

No, is all I can think think and shut my eyes so I don't have to deal with it. I don't like this, I don't like this- take me away, I wanna go, I wanna leave, let me out. No, no, no no no no nononoNO-

I wake with a stir on the chair, my arms heavy but limp over my waist. Everything is bright like I remember and sprinkled with mechanical background noise as I rub my eyes and sit up, my heart beating vigorously against my chest like I finished running a mile or two. I take a deep breathe but it comes out unsteadily, my fingers trembling when I curl them against my cold cheeks. It's like I'm still stuck in that hallway. That nowhere place that looks like home, something I used to know but isn't with the only thing to accompany me is thoughts that belonged to someone who has changed so much. Like dead people.

If I press a hand to my chest, I could probably feel my heart pound under my skin, a subtle sign that the world I just got yanked from was sort of real. It came from my head. That means it's real, right? Not something designed by someone else, images everyone else will see like the Aptitude test.

Four's back is facing me as he watches the monitor screen dim to a complete blackness. He removes a couple wires from his temple before turning toward me, his brows knitted together but his eyes are unreadable.

"You alright?" He asks lowly.

"I don't really wanna do that again."

"First fear is always the hardest. It only gets easier when you stop denying that it effects you."

"What if it doesn't?"

"I can't tell you that," Four admits. "Because I still have all of mine." I get the feeling he doesn't want to talk more about it, so I don't push it.

I slide off my seat, my legs tight like they need to be stretched so I know I must have been in that simulation for a long time. I wonder just how many hours passed since I fell into it, how much my mind catapulted me to the future.

"You can go back to the dormitory," Four tells me.

I guess the good part of being the last one to go in is that I don't have to wait for anyone now that I'm done. I walk past the empty chairs, feeling better once I'm far away from that room and I try to block the thought of having to go back to it tomorrow, the next day and the day after that. For several weeks until they think we're ready for the last test. What happens if we're not ready, though? If I'm not?

When I return to the barracks, half of the initiates are present and a few of them are huddled around a single bunk, whispering and chuckling under their breath. I think I see the top of Peter's head among the crowd, but I don't give it much thought as I lie on my front on my bed and shut my eyes, arms around the pillow. Sleeping isn't a good idea after what I saw in the simulation room, but neither is sitting around wondering why my thoughts made up such a scene. I'm going to have to eventually if I want to get through the next one without freaking out, but it's still only the first day.

I drift for a little while until footsteps skipping rapidly in the room startles me and I lift my head to see what's going on. The crowd around Peter has increased now, people like Christina hanging toward the back with her arms folded. She's frowning so I know whatever is going on isn't good. I stand and wander over to hear who's talking and stop behind Will.

"The mass exodus of the children of Abnegation leaders cannot be ignored or attributed to coincidence," Peter reads from a sheet of paper. "The recent transfer of Beatrice and Caleb Prior, the children of Andrew Prior, calls into question the soundness of Abnegation's values and teachings."

Everyone exchanges pointed glances, but I don't understand. What are they trying to say?

"Why else would the children of such an important man decide that the lifestyle he has set out for them is not an admirable one?" Peter goes, expression poised as if he wrote the article. "Molly Atwood, a fellow Dauntless transfer, suggests a disturbed and abusive upbringing might be to blame. 'I heard her talking in her sleep once,' Molly says. 'She was telling her father to stop doing something. I don't know what it was, but it gave her nightmares.'"

"What?" an enraged voice says at the door. I turn and see the first jumper standing there, eyes narrowed. "What?" The volume is kicked up that time and I realize it's the loudest I've ever heard her speak. She strides toward Peter and extends her hand. "Give me that."

"But I'm not done reading," Peter answers tritely. "However, perhaps the answer lies not in a morally bereft man, but in the corrupted ideals of an entire faction. Perhaps the answer is that we have entrusted our city to a group of proselytizing tyrants who do not know how to lead us out of poverty and into prosperity."

The first jumper's hand reaches for the article but Peter reacts quickly and dangles it above his head, grinning wider the more she tries to pluck it from him and fails. The gap between her fingers and the sheet is pretty big, but then her foot slams down on his shoe and he nearly doubles over, choking in pain. Her eyes shift to Molly, eyes ablaze and she jumps at her, her hands raised like she wants to throttle her but Will locks his arms around her waist before anything can happen. I'm near convinced they'll go down swinging.

"That's my father! My father, you coward!" The first jumper wails. If fire could manifest verbally, this would be it. She struggles against Will as he drags her away to the exit and he shuts the door after them. Christina and the big guy, Al, follow closely with their wide eyes as Peter laughs off the whole ordeal, seemingly recovered from the attack.

I glance back at the group and see the paper being passed around for everyone else to read and some join in on the amusement, mostly Molly and Drew but others just skim across the pages with raised eyebrows. I stare at them for a second, my hands curling into fists before following Christina and Al to the door, stepping in the hall with them and shutting the door after us.

It looks like the first jumper has calmed down a good amount, considering the placidity in her eyes and the way she's looking at Will now. At least the instructors weren't around to see it, I think. Who knows what they would have done. They probably would have punished the wrong person.

Christina's dark eyes dart between the Will and the first jumper, as if wondering if the waters are safe to tread now. "It's my turn to get tattooed. Want to come with us?"

The first jumper tucks her hair behind her ears and smiles faintly. Something in her expression is still offkey, like Peter is whispering quotes from the article in her ear and I can understand why. No one wants to hear bad things about home. Old factions, I mean. It's enough just having those kinds of thoughts in your head twenty-four seven, if that's the reason you left in the first place. Who wants to have it rubbed in? I don't.

They walk away then and I'm about to head in the opposite direction too now that it's certain no one is going to come to blows until Christina calls out, "Come on, Charlotte!"

"I'll catch up later," I tell her in return and she just waves at me as the four of them stride away, getting smaller and smaller under the glow of the lanterns.

I can't help but wonder why Peter used someone's home faction against them like that. Sure, Abnegation has been under a scope of scrutiny for a little while and thinking about it now, I remember moments in the hallways at school where the kids in grey would get pushed around, called names. I always assumed it was because they're considered to be the rocks of the city, too inconspicuous for people not to overlook despite them leading our government but maybe that's not really it. Only part of it.

It confuses me.

Alison's bare feet dangle over the edge of the entrance of the clothing shop and I sit beside her, the noise of the people inside the store behind us coupled with the muffled activity of the Pit down below making for an underwhelming night. After the first simulation, it's what I need right now. I can't handle cracking open the contents of my head again. I thought sleeping it off would help but the dark produces unsightly things. I guess the only thing I can do is stay awake and think about something else. If I can.

I was sitting there alone for a little while, collecting my thoughts - the calm ones, that is - and was just starting to come down from that anxious high when Alison surprised me and plopped down comfortably at my side. I'm half expecting the others to come barreling up the walkway at any minute, but it's just her this time. I want to ask her why that is, but something in her eyes stops me; they're jittery, like when you drink a cup of coffee halfway through the day and forgot you already had one that morning. Maybe she just got out of a simulation too.

It's bad for everyone.

"The thing that Brandon said this morning," I say to her. "About whose gonna be next... what was he talking about? Did he know someone was gonna get attacked or something?"

Alison exhales and runs the sleeve of her baggy black hoodie over her nose. "He made an accurate guess. Before the Ceremony, we'd all been hearing about previous classes. A lot of people quit, some of them died... something bad happened every year and Brandon was thinking about our odds. He's been looking forward to us passing initiation since we were friends."

They're all pretty optimistic now that I think about it. None of them worry about failing or if they do, they don't say it; don't vocalize those bad vibes which makes of some logic. Once you start talking about it and thinking about it hard, it manifests in some way, but some people are good at turning their brains off. Wish I could do that.

Alison must still be bothered by the subject, though, because the corners of her mouth turns down. "I just don't like listening to it. People quitting or getting hurt... I feel like that stuff's catching, you know? The more we talk about it, the more it'll happen."

"I think he's right, though. You guys don't have anything to worry about. You'll make it through."

She nods, hands buried in the pockets of her hoodie and swings one foot back and forth. "Yeah, I'm not worried. It's just..." She peers at me then, her eyes black under the low light. "What I'll have to see to get there."

My gut sinks. I know that feeling... I really do. "I hate it too," I whisper and her eyes water.

She sniffs, wiping her sleeve under her eyelids real quick before taking a deep breathe and looking up at the ceiling. Then she gazes over her shoulder at the entrance of the clothing shop, watching the few Dauntless members move around inside.

"Things to look forward to," she hums and I follow her line of sight.

"Did you wanna go inside?"

"No, I was just thinking about what I'm going to do after initiation. I still want to draw tattoos, but I wouldn't mind working in there either." Then her eyes flick to me and widen. "Why? Do wanna go in and look?"

"Not really," I reply. "I thought you wanted to shop and I would've went in with you, if you wanted."

Alison smiles then. "Next time. But you know-" She raises her feet from the edge and eases herself up. "I'm kinda hungry, though. They're serving cake tonight," she says and ruffles the back of her thin black hair so shortened strands fall over her shoulders. "If you're not hungry either, we can share."

"Whoa, let's not go that far," I reply and she chuckles, eyes lighting up and when she walks up to my side there's energy to her movements.

There's an empty table we claim near the back of the dining room and for most of the evening, it's just her and I sitting there. It looks like dinner has just ended since more people are trickling out than in and the fact that there's a lot of empty trays lining the tables, but it's still pretty loud with conversation. It's not too bad though to the point where I don't enjoy myself. Brandon and the others end up jumping on the benches a few hours into the night and unlike Alison the effects of the first simulation is hidden on their face, in the color of their irises.

Either they dealt with it while Alison was separated from them or they're good at pretending.

Noah snatches Alison's fork from her and is about to slide her plate out from under her too but Safiya brandishes a butter knife and clinks it with Noah's stolen fork like they're swords. Safiya tries to push the plate back toward Alison while Noah playfully gives her a hard time; Danny just sits back and drinks. I look up at Brandon, who hasn't uttered a word since he flopped down next to me and see that he's sitting away from the table, back to the edge and his arms raised so his elbows rest on top of the table. He taps the tip of his boot and stares at the reflection in the leather.

I wonder what he's seeing.

Now that the training room is vacant and unused, it's an ideal place to withdraw to when the simulations are too real, when people talk too much about them and I feel like I can't handle it without crumbling inside. Sometimes at night, or early in the morning when no one has woken up yet, I sit quietly in the dark by the bench or my back pressed to one of the beams between the punching bags. It feels like a separate reality like this; everything powered down, inactive, and almost pitch black. It was only a couple weeks ago when it was teeming with energy.

I find myself kind of missing it. At least I had something to count on then, a routine to expect but now there's no telling what I'm going to see. Even the same nightmare is bound to change it's shape right in from my eyes, in the core of my brain where it's created and as of right now, I have no power over it. How are you supposed to? How did the others that came before us do it?

I take a leave of everything around me and slip out of from the busy, cramped corridors, dorm room and cafeteria to find a low trafficked spot. The first that comes to mind is instantly the old sparring room but halfway there I make split decision and cut into an adjoining corridor when a group of other initiates are also wandering in the same general direction. Not really ideal.

Ever since the first fear simulation, my mind has been restless. A transfer left a video tablet on their cot so I decided to borrow it for a minute, only a minute, and take it back when I was done before they knew I swiped it. Like always, the Chasm is deserted so I hunker down at my usual corner by the ledge and tap the screen. An image powers up slowly.

There she is. My sister.

It's normal for the Abnegation or Erudite to publish certain articles or announcements through video tablets where everyone can read them. Mostly the Erudite, though. They're the ones with the laboratories and libraries so if there's something to be discovered and created, it's probably gonna come from them. That's how I find her... her features distinguishable from the picture lineup of scientists that Jeanine Matthews personally picked to lead new projects. She looks the same yet another girl completely.

"I'm starting to think you don't like water." The hum of the Chasm waves distorts Eric's voice slightly but he's standing close to my shoulder so I can't exactly miss it.

"Well, I wouldn't like it if you'd push me in, if that's what you mean."

"No one frequents the Chasm this much unless they're afraid of it and want to control it." He pauses. "Or want to die."

"I wouldn't look for something that terrifies me."

"That's why your simulation time is abysmal."

"How do you-"

"I've seen the charts," he says offhandedly and I wonder how that is when he's been strictly monitoring the Dauntless borns simulations only. "If you want to finish stage two, you gotta stop hiding because your fears won't. You ended stage one ranked first because you fought for it. What you're seeing in your head isn't any different."

I go quiet. How can I express that his effort to knock stable sense into me is fruitless because I'm not what a first rank is supposed to be? My position wasn't even given firsthand. It belonged to Edward and when he left, by process of elimination I took that spot. And I don't even deserve it.

"I don't mean to hide," I reply honestly after a moment, swinging one foot back and forth. The heel of my shoe thunk thunks into the ledge. "I just like the noise here, I guess. Don't wanna hear myself think sometimes."

Eric lowers to his haunches then but his eyes are focused on the tablet cradled in my palms. Light seeping in from above reflects off the screen, blurring the picture but he grabs one side in his too big hand and tips it toward him.

"That your sister?" His thumb presses over her head. I wonder how he guessed that right but nod anyway. "She looks like you."

"Is that good?" I ask and he only raises an eyebrow at me, but I don't know what that's supposed to mean either so I don't press it further. "I was wondering what she was like over there."

"It sounds like you regret not going with her."

"I was going to. I wanted to..." I trail off.

"So why didn't you?"

His question of curiosity makes me think for a moment, but what I come up with, which isn't much at all makes me shake my head and shrug my shoulders a little. "I don't know," I mumble. "I might have regretted it more if I did, but I'll never know now."

Footsteps entering from the tunnel makes us stop and Eric follows a group of passing Dauntless members with his eyes as they cross the bridge, their laughter growing muffled until it's mute underneath the guise of the rumbling Chasm tides. Mists sprays up lightly. The water is cold enough to send chills down my arms but it appears as if nothing can bother Eric at all, his fitted black long sleeve slightly wet at the wrists.

He turns back to me once the other Dauntless members have left. "Did you skip dinner again?"

"You noticed?"

"That and the way you avoided the question."

The way he says it makes me smile and I suppress a laugh. "Yeah... I did. S'no big deal. The simulations mess with me so I don't think I'd keep anything down."

"Have you tried?"

I look up through my eyelashes at him, the sudden burst of light throughout the roof making my forehead ache and the expression on my face must be a dead giveaway because he sighs quietly. He runs a hand over the underside of his jaw and I try not to stare when he does it; it's been so long since I last saw him, the usual patch of shaven skin is now slightly grey with stubble.

"I'm alright," I tell him. "It's just how I deal with it, I guess."

"I'd hate to see when you don't."

His answer is unnaturally low, like I wasn't meant to hear it.

Eric rises to his full height then, his silhouette a six foot solid black mass like something out of the depths of a child's bad dream, and lowers his hand to me when I'm about to push myself to my feet. I pause, staring at the gesture I used to shy away from, should probably continue to do so, but I don't know, it doesn't feel so bad today. Like he wants to wrap those same fingers around my neck and squeeze until I'm gone. Maybe it's because I'm gradually getting used to him. His presence. Or I'm too mentally deflated to think otherwise.

I grab his hand and his immense strength hauls me to my feet without me having to try on my part. But as soon as I'm steady, I let go.

The hallways are almost completely dark except for a speck of blue light at the end of the tunnel, sprinkled with muffled voices and faint banging sounds a level above us. I am getting kind of hungry. The photo is still loaded on the tablet and with a deep breathe, I stare at it one last time before shutting it off. A distraction, I tell myself as I move to the corridor. That's all it is.

"Transfer."

I stop and reluctantly face Eric again.

"I don't want to see you out here again."

His voice, so blunt and final, makes me think of the first day here where Four showed us every standout location. The Chasm was one of the first and as his past words of all the people that lost their lives jumping into the water, I wonder what the reason behind it was. Four called it a 'daredevil' jump. But what it for that purpose only? To see if they were so valiant that they could defy death itself in the slippery slope form of freezing cold water and jagged rocks? Or in those swirls of an element that's supposed to give life, did they see an exit to their struggles?

My mind rewinds back to the times he found me sitting alone near the Chasm and one instance where I nearly tipped over it, thanks to Peter. I guess it's a pattern but I didn't think it was a bad one. But the leaders must have seen a lot of things during initiations. Stuff they'd rather not let repeat.

I don't think I want to know. And maybe that's what Four was trying to shield us from, keep us from imagining ourselves in their shoes.

The simulations are already sucking something out of me, but he doesn't need to know that. If he doesn't already. And if that's the case, that's probably the sole thing he doesn't have any power or effect over. If I want help through this, I have to look inside myself.

But I don't know how.

"Yes, sir," is all I say in reply.

I'm standing in front of a high, high wall. The top sprouts infinitely into the ceiling, disappearing into darkness and whatever is beyond it, and everything surrounding it is completely black. Light seeps in from above like some kind of divine spotlight. But from where exactly, I don't know.

Before my eyes, it blocks my path. How do I get over it? What does it look like on the other side? Is a climb like that even possible? I don't know and something in my gut tells me that it's pointless to try, to turn back now and go to wherever I came from, but that's the trouble; I don't know where. I have no memory and it feels like I appeared here for a reason. Maybe that reason lies over the wall. Or maybe it's nothing at all.

But I have to see for myself. How else will I know?

I graze my fingertips over the wall, the concrete dry and unbreakable. There's cracks and chips all over, like it was built years ago and I'm the first person to stumble upon it. When I smack the side of my fist against it, dirt and tiny pebbles fall from the crevices. The action causes a tremor somewhere deep inside as the wall trembles and groans, like an old sinking ship that has an idea of giving in but won't just yet. That's a sign. Dusting my hands off, I attempt to grab onto something sturdy but uncertainty coupled with the slippery smoothness of the concrete makes me wilt back down. I'm not afraid of heights but I don't exactly excel at climbing either.

My heart beat skips.

Sucking in a deep breathe, I reach up and dig my fingers inside the gaps, bury the tip of my shoes in the hollow slopes and haul myself up. Chunks of concrete, hanging half off the square slabs crumble to pieces and plummet to the ground when I press my boot to it and there's a two second window where my heart stops pumping completely when I slip. My fingers catch the narrow spaces gaping in the wall and I hang on. Just by a thread.

Then it breaks.

I fall to the ground and the wall makes that deep groaning sound again, like it's laughing. My forehead throbs with blood, but I force myself back up. I guess I should have been more careful but at least now I know.

When I jump again this time, I climb a little bit higher before the concrete supporting my feet gives out and sends me down again. Lumps of concrete fly down with it and in a moment's panic, I shield my face with my arm but all that hits me is soft spurts of grainy dirt. The rest explodes into bits around me.

I push myself to my feet and try again, grabbing on harder this time, so hard that the roughness of the concrete draws blood from my fingertips and runs down between my fingers. I lose grip.

And fall.

And fall.

Then fall again.

By the twentieth time I'm on the floor, out of breathe and heaving, the wall is practically untouched. It gets to the point where I stumble to my feet and just claw my way up, exhaustion and desperation making an ill fated cocktail in my gut and as blocks of concrete disintegrate and collapse around me, I sink down slowly with it. I try to hang on, the tips of my fingers bloody and grey with dirt from the effort and I think I'm crying because there's wetness on my cheeks but that could be blood too. I don't know; all that's clear is that it's so useless to try- I can't do it, so I fall.

With warm cheeks, I rub away the dusk from my face, probably smearing more grime and blood on myself but my heart is beating too uncontrollably in my chest to think clearly. I think that's how I got into this situation: by thinking so much. Too much. Not enough.

Not the right way.

Now doubts starts to unfold. What if this is how it's meant to be? My life? What if I'm not meant to jump over this wall, but remain behind it. By myself. In the middle of nowhere. Stuck.

I don't want to believe it; it can't be true, but with everything laid out before me my mind can't work up a reasonable excuse, much less words of comfort to ease my surging heart from blowing out my chest. I want to do it, want myself to think I'm able to, but as I sit here, daunted in front of the wall that appears to be swaying from behind watery eyes, it's not possible. Not to someone like me.

How stupid was that, a voice whispers. To think you could do it-

I slam my head against the wall.

It's the only way to get myself to shut up.

My head hurts when I open my eyes, the simulation room greeting me in all it's plain simplicity like a medical ward. I rub my weary eyes and between the soft whirring of the computer screen and the electronic tick ticks of the wires running around the length of the walls, I hear my heart pulsating in my chest as if the wall is still looming in front of me and not the wide expanse of Four's back. I'm out of the simulation, but not really. The picture around me melted back to reality, but not the emotions. What I've been trying to repress.

And I thought the first simulation was bad.

I swing off the chair and walk quietly to the door, wiping my dry cheeks that oddly feel damp with tears. Four doesn't stop me and just gazes at the monitor as it gradually pitches all the way black. For a moment, I expect him to say something about the simulation; berate me for not being able to control those kinds of feelings, failing to reign them in but he doesn't. He only exhales and wraps up the wires attached to his temples neatly to the side. Maybe he knows asking questions will only make it worse. Maybe he's not supposed to.

Whichever it is, it means I don't have much to count on every time I exit out of it. Just my head and I don't know how well that will go considering it's putting me into this fractured mind frame to begin with. And that's okay. I don't want to burden anyone with it... it's too much to ask for. Too much for me even since lately all I've been doing is climbing up to an empty ledge in the Pit and curling into myself, closing my eyes and pretending what I see is a dream within itself. That it can't hurt me.

But I know it's a lie.

Mom and Dad stand across from me. They're so inconspicuous, underwhelming and forgettable compared to the other occupants of the Pit, simple black and white attire not that far of a contrast from the tight black clothing everyone else dons but the level in energy, in life is almost nonexistent. I perk up in excitement when it slowly sets in that they're here, that they came to talk to me finally after weeks away from each other and I feel like I'm about to crack. Burst at the seams with relief. Completion. All I can think about is how good it feels to see them again, how much it hurt to actually distance myself from it all, shove everything I've been dreaming to say down; the freedom to let that all go now.

Until I see Mom.

Her arms are folded, one hand curled at the fingers with the sides of them pressed to her lips, half hiding most of her face and it takes a couple of seconds of me looking directly in her eyes to see that they're watery. And the way her hands tremble... her shoulders pressed down and every time she inhales her breathe comes out sharply and shakily, like she's having trouble getting enough air in.

She's crying, I think and panic sets in. Mom is crying and I know why and I hate it.

"Mom?" I say but I don't know if they can hear me since the noises in the Pit are so loud. Please, I think. Please listen. "It's okay, Mom, don't cry-"

I don't know what it is about seeing Mom cry; it must be some kind of switch naturally set between parents and their children, and when it's on it hurts and there's nothing you can do about it. Not that I've been that unlucky to see Mom is such a state - I don't think I can count on one hand the times I've seen her come apart like this because it's that rare but it feels like the first time all over again, the longest and the loudest. The worst. Watching her wipe away tears feels like each fiber of me is slowly disintegrating along with it.

I wish I can suck whatever pain she's feeling into me because I know she probably felt plenty of it in her life already. I'm pretty sure I did some of hurting to begin with... most of it actually. And that's the part I don't know if I can fix. If she'll ever look at me the same way again.

Maybe I wouldn't either.

"Sorry," I say. "I'm sorry for acting this way. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

Dad checks the time on his watch like he's late for a meeting.

"Are you still mad?" I ask them and with each word the scene slowly start to collapse and morph into the Hub. We're inside the Choosing room except it's empty and the bowls are filled to the rim with it's usual contents like new transfers will be coming in any second. Except it's just us. "Don't be mad at me anymore, okay? I'll understand if you don't want to see me ever again, I get it- I just don't want you to be mad-"

Mom is looking vaguely at me with glossy eyes, Dad standing patiently behind her. She runs her fingers under her eyelids, lashes brushing over her skin and I wonder how long it's been since we've talked face to face. Can she even see me? Hear me? Smoke is rising from the Dauntless bowl behind me and I think maybe that's what she's really staring at. Through me. Not at me.

My eyes flood with warmth and I rub them to keep the tears at bay. I don't wanna cry. I'm trying to comfort Mom and I can't do that if I'm crying too. It might make her feel worse.

I wish I was better, I think to myself. Wish I didn't have so many regrets right now, that I had the chance to be a better daughter, better sister. Better everything but I'm not and I don't think I'll ever be-

"Sorry, Mom," I mumble, my voice too distorted to recognize. It's too high, too unstable. "I'm sorry."

The scene changes again then and everything fades into the shape of a plain concrete room. No parents. No Choosing ceremony. Just me and my thoughts that are running short circuits in my brain. My vision blurs with wetness and I try hard to blink it away, curling my fingers over my eyes so I don't have to see that my parents left me again, hear the tranquility of my own loneliness. My heart beats irregularly and I can't get myself to calm down, much less look around and figure out how to walk back home.

No matter where I am, I'm lost.

That's the one that breaks me.

My cheeks are damp and dripping with tears when I wake, wetting my lap and the palm of my hands and everything feels so cold, drained like a once flooded sidewalk that I wonder how long I was in that simulation, how long those pent up emotions were lying dormant in me waiting to wreck havoc. It feels bad, like years. I try to keep it together as I lean up, swinging around so I'm sitting at the side of the chair, and run my shirt sleeve across my cheeks, breathing in deep so I'm not so shaky anymore but it barely works. I'm too tired to make a real effort. Too defeated.

The more I remain there, the heavier the knot in my throat feels and when Four turns off the monitor screen, I don't wait up for what he's going to say and just bolt from the room. I push my loose fists over my cheeks as I go but the tears won't stop coming. It won't stop.

"Wait." Four's voice follows suit and his footsteps go as far as the middle of the waiting room.

I'm halfway to the door at that point but I skid to a halt and freeze there for a moment before turning to face him. Ignoring him would probably be a bad decision; he isn't a leader, doesn't want to be one but it'd be a lie to say he doesn't have clout. He stands with his hands on his hips, frowning but I don't know why. Did I do that badly? Has no one cried this much until now? I should have tried better-

"Running from this won't make it go away," he says at last.

"I know. It's just... of all of the things I had to see in there, I didn't want it to be that."

"That usually means you need to see it."

I swallow the dryness in my throat, pushing some tears back with my curled knuckles and think for a second. He makes it sound so plausible. For a someone who ranked first, I guess it is; they've made it through their worst case scenarios, maybe ended up a little healthier because of it and have had all this time to figure out how they did so well. But I've barely scratched the surface yet and I'm afraid that's all I'm gonna see: those futile attempts to get over it marked all over the door and it staying locked.

Four's expression hardens, his eyes rising from my face to the space above my head. Whatever distraction it is, I don't want to stick around longer than I have to and head for the exit again, rubbing at my moist cheeks but a sudden blockage makes me pause. Eric stands there. It looks like he just showed up to talk to Four, his posture frozen a little abruptly but from the way he's glaring at him... I don't think I've seen that kind of look in his eyes.

The dread I feel in the pit of my gut is incomprehensible, more so when Eric shifts his attention to me, searches my face, following the way tears leave shiny tracks from my eyelids to my chin and his features shift. Morph into this weird palette of when Al refused to collect a fallen knife and when he found me crying for the first time the night of Visiting Day. Two things I never want to see.

So I cut it out of there. One second my feet walk me out into the unlit tunnels and the next they're sprinting anywhere, everywhere to get away. It's not possible, though.

I can't take back who I am.

A/N: I know there wasn't much Eric in this one but he's going to appear more from here on.

Thanks for reading! I appreciate the feedback so much and everyone who decided to stick around. I hope I keep entertaining you. :)