Rewrite time! For anyone who read the Free Four scene, I just added a little bit of the breakfast scene mentioned in that. I won't be updating again until May 13, which is my 3-year anniversary on FFn, so I'll have time to read Insurgent and plot the prequel, which will also be posted that day. Anyway, hope you enjoy this little add-on!

Breaking The Habit

Chapter Eight: Stabbed

Eric

The next morning I sit alone at the table beside Four's, turning a bran muffin in my scarred hands. I'm not sure whether or not I'll actually be able to eat it, let alone keep it down. My stomach seems to have shrunk overnight, thanks to both withdrawal and the flashback-dream I had, in which I relived of my Choosing Ceremony. When I woke up, breathing heavily, blood dripped from half-moon marks in my palm, staining my new sheets. The only thing that forced me out of bed was the thought that I will win today. He made a mistake in refusing me, and I'm about to prove it to him.

The room quiets, a clear indicator that a leader has walked in, and when I look up I see Max has entered and is heading in my direction. I grin smugly and straighten up…just in time to watch him walk right past me and sit down next to Four. The grin slips from my face, and I crumble half of the muffin in my hand.

"Well," Max says, all business and no pleasure as usual. "Stage One is almost over. How are the transfers doing?"

He has no business asking Four. I am in charge. I seethe at the thought, pressing my fingers together so that almost none of my breakfast remains.

"For the most part, very well," Four replies carefully. "But there are always a few…"

Max nods gravely. "And have there been any incidents regarding the…?"

The chasm. It is a prime chance to put blame on me, and Four knows it. His eyes flit briefly to mine before he says, "No. Nothing at all." Why would he not tell him? There is no doubt in my mind that he dreams of me being removed from my position. What could he possibly gain from me remaining in power?

"Well, that's good." Max nods again, satisfied this time. His expression says I put the right person in charge, but he didn't. I am in charge. "But there will be. There always is, especially since—"

I clear my throat loudly, not able to take any more. Max jumps, and when his eyes meet mine I can swear he looks frightened. He must not have seen me, or at least that's what he wants me to think. "Oh. Good morning, Eric."

I stand so I tower over his sitting frame, narrow my eyes to slits. "The incident you're referring to was a great personal tragedy to me. I'd appreciate it if you not bring it up again in my presence." I stride out of the room. Another reason for Four to withhold. I am unstable, as unstable as I was two years ago when it happened. Four blames the Instigate, and I blame Four.

~oOo~

I head down to the training room for a day of knife throwing with the slowly-improving transfers and find when I get there that I am shaking so badly I cannot stand still. But I must. I turn myself to stone nerve by nerve as they enter the room. To them I appear a statue, the pinnacle of controlled rage. My resolve weakens when she walks in, still grinning from her victory—although her joy seems to visibly diminish when she spots me—but I remain still, only my lips moving as I address the sluggish crowd.

"Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one," I say. My voice sounds…off. Too little sleep, too little relief. I choose to ignore it for now. "You will resume fighting then. Today, you'll be learning how to aim. Everyone pick up three knives. And pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them."

Nobody moves. "Now!" My strained shout causes a tidal wave of movement toward the dagger-covered table. Four watches them scramble over each other with mild interest, and I glare at him when he isn't looking. On any other day I could demonstrate knife-throwing with ease, seeing as I was one of the best in my initiate group, but I am not up to it today.

"Line up!" I shout when he is finished. The transfers arrange themselves in a more or less straight line and begin to throw. Their technique is horrendous, and some of them—the Stiff, I note specifically—aren't even actually throwing the knife yet. I don't watch them as closely as I should be. Instead I pace behind them, reverting from complete stillness to constant movement to hide my shaking. None of them look at me or in any other way acknowledge me, but I can sense their fear, that I am behind their backs.

After thirty minutes Al is the only one who has yet to at least graze the edge of the target. He tries and misses again and again, and I stride towards him, my anger getting the best of me. "How slow are you, Candor? Do you need glasses? Should I move the target closer to you?"

It's maybe a bit too satisfying to watch his face immediately flare up as he takes aim at the target and throws again. This time isn't any better—the spin he puts on the knife sends it slamming into the wall, where it clatters to the floor.

"What was that, initiate?" My patience is slowly slipping through thin fingers, and I'm not sure how much more of dealing with incompetent initiates I can take before I completely lose it.

"It—it slipped."

"Well, I think you should go get it." I glance at the other transfers, who are staring at us wide-eyed, daggers in hand. "Did I tell you to stop?"

I hear the sound of knives hitting the board. Al looks terrified. Now instead of beet-red his face is the pale white of a ghost, the same color I assume mine is right now, but it looks far less flattering on him. "Go get it? But everyone's still throwing."

"And?"

"And I don't want to get hit."

Probably a perfectly valid excuse in any other faction, but not in Dauntless. He's made his first major misstep, and I can tell that he knows it. I smirk at him. "I think you can trust your fellow initiates to aim better than you. Go get your knife."

"No."

"Why not? Are you afraid?"

"Of getting stabbed by an airborne knife? Yes, I am!"

And I'm afraid of death by withdrawal, but I'm still here, aren't I? "Everyone stop! Clear out of the ring. All except you." I stare hard at Al, surprised that he's not shaking. "Stand in front of the target." He complies slowly, but once he reaches the target I look over my shoulder, staring down my personal demon. "Hey, Four. Give me a hand here, huh?"

He is wary approaching me. I can't exactly blame him. We both know I've gone off the deep end. "You're going to stand there as he throws these knives," I say to Al, "until you learn not to flinch."

"Is this really necessary?" Four says. He sounds bored, but I'm not stupid enough to believe him. I wait, considering my answer, as we stare each other down. What can I say that will strike the fear of God into him, remind him that he has to comply with my demands?

"I have the authority here, remember? Here, and everywhere else." His face floods with color. He knows exactly what I'm talking about.

"Stop it."

For a second I think it is Christina speaking, since she's just full enough of Candor impulsiveness to do something like that, but no, it's the Stiff. "Any idiot can stand in front of a target. It doesn't prove anything except that you're bullying us. Which, as I recall, is a sign of cowardice."

Anger flares hot and hard in my chest. "Then it should be easy for you," I say. "If you're willing to take his place."

She is, surprisingly. Maybe she's a bit more like Four than I thought, which could be a real problem for me if she ends up a member. She stands in front of the board, endures Four's taunting and a single nick from the third and final knife. He's gone easy on her, I can tell, but it's an impressive display nonetheless.

"I would love to stay and see if the rest of you are as daring as she is, but I think that's enough for today." I lower my voice, murmuring the rest of my thoughts only to Four. "Well. That should scare them, huh." Turning away, I press my hand to the Stiff's shoulder. She is slender and small, like Christian, but that is where the resemblance ends. She has none of Christian's bordering-on-insanity bravery. "I should keep my eye on you."

As I pass Four he grabs my hand, and I feel the slide of cool glass and dry paper against my skin. I have no idea how he managed to write me a note this fast, but I don't care. This is what I've been waiting for. This is what I need to feel like a human being again. I increase my pace until I am practically sprinting out the door…right into Christina. Most of the initiates have already left. Why did she have to be the last one out the door?

"Watch where you're going!" she snaps, turning around. When she sees it's me, her face drains of color. She looks terrified. Did I do that? A sudden pang of guilt shoots through me, but it's overwhelmed by the need to be by myself, just me alone with a needle.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammers, backing away slowly. I reach out, surprising even myself, and lay a hand on her arm. The other still clutches the vial so tightly that a voice in the back of my head worries it will break.

"It's fine."

She stares with panicked eyes at my hand, and I slowly let it drop back to my side. The desire is burning a hole in me. I need to leave now.

"Excuse me," I mutter, stepping around her and heading to my room, my pace increasing every second. Clutching my cure, I tightly lock the door. I don't want to set it down for even a second, but I have to. I lift the edge of the shard of jagged glass serving as a mirror mirror and slide my hand under it until I find the edge of the hole. Contained in it is the box that holds my syringe collection. I sink onto the mattress, holding the container and the vial in my scarred fingers, and try to catch my breath again.

With shaking hands, I uncork the bottle, empty the contents into the syringe. I tie myself off with part of a shirt that used to belong to Christian. That is the easy part. Reminding myself that I'll die if I don't do this is not so easy. Slowly, carefully, I press down, the tip of the needle piercing my skin and pouring its contents into my bloodstream. It's ridiculous to think that I could feel the effects mere seconds after the syringe is empty, but as I remove the needle from my arm and slip the tie from around my elbow I already feel better. The syringe goes back into the box carefully, along with the empty vial, if for no other reason than so that I won't step on it again. My free, still semi-limp hand brushes a piece of paper—Four's note—and I pick it up and read it:

You have the authority. Here, and everywhere else.