TOBIAS

I take a cab back to the Congressional Building and sit on a stone bench across the street to wait for Senator Crawford. I have changed back into my nice pants and button-down, though I left the suit coat lying haphazardly on the bed. I did not tell Johanna where I was going. I don't want to get her into trouble or jeopardize her position, here. I'm taking responsibility for this, like I told Rafi I would.

By the time I see him exit the building, it's getting dark. He's loosened his tie, hung his folded coat over one arm and is looking at his watch rather than where he's going. I stride purposefully across the street, stopping only when I'm a few feet away. Crawford still doesn't see me.

"Have a drink with me, Senator," I say casually, trying to project the cool confidence that served me well in Dauntless. It's too firm to be a question, but without the edge that makes it an outright command. The implication, without the threat.

He glances up, startled, and the light of recognition dawns in his eyes. He looks me over, sizing me up. Considering. His mouth puckers slightly, as though he's tasted something sour. Then he nods. "Alright. But you're buying," and proceeds down the sidewalk.

I can tell by his gate that this will not be the first drink he's had, today. "Are you allowed to accept gifts, Senator?" I say slyly, catching up to him and matching his stride.

He squints at me and raises an eyebrow. "Will you be trying to bribe me, Mr—?

"Johnson." I interject pointedly. "And, no."

"Ah. That's right. Mr. Johnson. It was listed on today's agenda." He looks at his watch, again. "Then we will call this a friendly negotiation. You will ardently attempt to persuade me of the merits of your position—and I will pretend to listen." He laughs heartily at his own joke.

My lip curls and I imagine myself grabbing him by his tie and dragging him over to stone wall on our right, where I would hoist him against it and punch him in his soft stomach. No. Wait. Square in the jaw to mess up his smiling face.

I clench my fists until my knuckles are white and the fingernails dig into my flesh. That would probably get me what I want. Maybe even faster. It would definitely be more satisfying. But there are other ways to inspire. Ways that don't require me to be the person I am overcoming. Luckily, I am well-versed in both.

He ducks through a door and I follow along behind him, pulled, as though there's a magnetic connection between us.

My eyes adjust to the dim light, and I take in the long bar with an equally long row of bar stools filled with patrons, sleeves rolled up and suit coats discarded. There are tables scattered around the rectangular room, and Crawford selects one to our left, by the door. He sits with his back to it, and I take the chair across from him.

"We need that school," I blurt out before I'm even settled.

"Why?" He ask flatly, staring me down.

I hesitate before plunging ahead. "Because education is what gives people choice. It shows them a world beyond the one they're stuck in. It gives them," I pause before committing. I know how this will sound to him. I know how it sounds to me. But— "it gives them hope," I conclude with a heavy sigh.

Crawford looks at me over the rim of his glasses and lets loose another loud burst of laughter. "Ha! So you're an idealist, Mr. Johnson. I didn't expect that," he chuckles, clearly amused, and raises his hand to call for a waiter.

"No," I say quietly. "Not an idealist. I've seen too much to be that."

"In which case, you can't be naïve," he says condescendingly, running his eyes greedily over the drink menu.

"I would call myself—cautiously optimistic," I say, with a slight smile, leaning back in my chair.

He regards me, head cocked to the side, taking his eyes off the menu long enough to order his drink of preference without ever actually having to look at the waiter himself. When he's satisfied the alcohol will be shortly forthcoming, his lips pull over white, gleaming teeth. "Now you sound like a politician."

"I'm not," I say curtly. Whatever I am, it's not that. Not what he is.

"Yes, I can see that," Crawford says, looking me over again, his lips pursed unpleasantly.

I get the urge to cover up my tattoos, but I don't. Let him see them.

He lets out a loud humph and says, "I told you. The money's not there. Even if I wanted to give it to you—which I'm not sure I do—we already allocated all the funds we could to rebuilding the infrastructure of your city."

My eyes narrow and I press my mouth into a firm line.

He continues smoothly, "You really should be thankful for how far Chicago has come in such a short time, especially when so many other cities are in dire straights, too. There's simply not anything left right now for the outlying regions—for the Fringe," he smirks, looking down his nose at me, pitying me. Putting me in my place.

I cringe at his words and cross my arms over my chest. "That's what I thought you would say."

"Yes, well, good effort," he laughs, tossing back the drink that just arrived before setting the glass back on the table so that the ice cubes clatter in the bottom.

"I assumed you would take—convincing," I say, opting for the straightforward approach. Really getting his attention wouldn't hurt, either.

I hesitate, thinking, staring at the wall at the other end of the bar. It blurs and grows in the tunnel of my focused vision. I see nothing but my target. I smile involuntarily.

Crawford is disconcerted by the unnaturally glassy look in my eyes and the pause in the conversation. He looks over his shoulder and back at me, waiting.

"I could pick up this knife and hit the face in that picture. The one over there. On the far wall. No," I say slowly, letting my words hang in the air, filling up the space between us, "not just the face. The nose. I'm that good," I say, simply stating a fact. Completely nonchalant.

He frowns and picks up the glass tumbler, swirling the ice cubes around and around. "Is that how you handle things where you're from?" He sounds casual, but I catch the menacing undertone. He is not new to this game.

Yes, it is, I think. You know it is.

But I carefully say, "Not anymore. I was just making conversation, so you could get to know me better. Things are so—different—where I'm from. Seemed like a good ice breaker," I say with a calculated smile, eying the glass he has continued to swirl around noisily.

He sets the tumbler back down and leans his elbows on the table heavily. It groans and shifts under his weight. "I'm not sure I would consider that friendly conversation, Mr. Johnson. Clearly you're new to this. So I'll enlighten you. In a negotiation, you have to have a bargaining chip. Something the other player wants. Or, as the case may be, something they don't want you to have. Either way, you need leverage. And you have none."

Crawford leans back, satisfied with himself. I clutch my knee under the table, desperately desiring to show him some of my other interesting skills. Instead, I slide my hand beneath my thigh and pull out the file that has been wedged safely between my leg and the chair. I calmly lay it on the table and watch as recognition spreads over his face.

"Where did get you that?" he asks, trying to appear unruffled. But I know better.

"That's not important," I say calmly, toying with the knife beside my unused napkin. "But, what is important, is that I know what's in this file. And there are a lot of other people who would be interested in this information, as well."

"Why should I be afraid of that?" he asks, testing the waters. The waiter arrives to ask about another drink, and Crawford hastily waves him away, agitated.

"Let me spell it out for you," I say, relishing this moment, this moment where I finally have the upper hand. "You don't want more violence in the Fringe. Not only that, you don't want another full-fledged uprising, especially against government workers. It reflects badly on you, here. How could they possibly let you keep your cushy position as chair of the Committee for Peaceful Domestic Relations if anything else goes wrong in our region?"

I let that sink in for a minute. He's fidgeting with his tie and running his finger along the ridge between his neck and collar, strain evident on his face. I smile. I'm hitting the mark, and I don't even need a knife to do it.

"Let me assure you, Senator Crawford, that if I make it known to the people in the Fringe that you, a government representative, have continued engaging in the same type of unethical experiments, without any regard for the value of human life, that perpetuated the oppression they suffered at the hands of the Bureau," I pause and steadily meet his eyes, "well, let's just say, another uprising will be inevitable. Their resentment has been festering for a long time, now. And they're on the verge already. I just need to push them over the edge." I speak deliberately, slowly, letting my words take maximum effect.

"But that's the least of your worries," I say, smug. I stop to enjoy the slight bulging of his eyes and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows uncomfortably.

"Not only would you surely lose your position as chair, but I think it likely you would never be re-elected again. Of course, that's just my humble opinion," I say with a satisfied smile.

I can see the varying emotions flit across his face. Anger, at what he considers my impertinence. Fear, at the acknowledgment of the truth. Resignation, as he accepts our altered positions in this game. Calculation, as he decides what to do next.

Crawford clears his throat and folds his hands across his stomach, flexing and extending his fingers intermittently. "Clearly, I underestimated you, Mr. Johnson. What is it that you want—exactly?

"I told you. I want the school. It will do them no good to know the truth about what really happened—to her. But—," I pause and swallow, determined to see this through. "But, they can know the truth about everything else. The truth about our history. The truth about how government and societies can and ought to function. The truth about what they're capable of. That truth about what you're capable of."

He smirks at me, and I see his upper lip curl slightly. "That's all you want? That school?" he scoffs. "Even if I went back to the committee tomorrow and slipped an amendment earmarking funds for that purpose into the next piece of legislation, don't you realize that actual monies for that wouldn't be realized for another year or two, at least?"

He smiles again, pleased to be back on equal footing. Pleased to know what I do not know. How the process actually works.

"I could probably get you a school—eventually. But you wouldn't see that building tomorrow. Will those people be satisfied with that?" Crawford asks pointedly, raising his hand for another drink after all.

He can see the frown on my face and knows the answer.

"However, I can give you something better than that, if you can promise me there will be no uprising and—," he stops and caresses the file on the table. "And, if you can promise that whatever truth you give them, it will not be the truth contained here. And it won't have my name in it, anywhere."

My eyes narrow, again, and I glare at him, wondering what he could possibly know that trumps what I hold against him. "What could you give me that would ever induce me to make those promises?" I ask.

Crawford grins broadly and picks the file up from the table. "I can give you Beatrice Prior."