TRIS POV

Most of the initiates are worn as they stumble out of the training room to dinner, believing that the worst is over and not anticipating the extent of their soreness tomorrow morning—at least some of them, anyway. Christina and I, along with the other returning transfers, are fully aware that the pain doesn't stop throughout the entire initiation process. We will be the ones to wisely get a head start on sleep tonight.

While I am tender from the day's work, I am not as wrecked as I was last year on the first day of training. Maybe that is because I skipped the shooting this morning; however, my muscles are familiar with the movements I forced on them today during punching practice, despite using them this way about a year ago.

Fortunately, the rest of training today was spent relearning the same combat moves that were taught to us last year. Four demonstrated on a punching bag and in the air before setting us loose to prepare for our upcoming fights. He didn't bother to fix anything I did, and I don't know if that is because I didn't need help, or if he is just done assisting me.

I suppose it is the latter. I mean, I have shoved him away with cutting remarks any time he has tried to strike a conversation or offer me something, like he did earlier regarding gun training.

But while I want to feel no remorse over the way I have been treating him, it is natural for it to eat away at me. I don't enjoy disrespecting people who don't deserve it; I guess that in spite of what he has done to me, my previous attachment to him makes me view him as innocent sometimes.

Trying to forget about all of it—the haunting relationship, the tiring day of training—I tune into the conversation at the dinner table that doesn't have anything to do with either.

"I see that Peter made a friend," Christina says, staring a few tables over where he sits with Jessica, the blonde, snobby girl from Erudite, and her friend, who I have learned is named April.

"Not surprising," I comment, though I am not usually one to gossip. But the two are so fitting as friends that I can't help but blurt something out.

Christina shakes her head and reaches for a dinner roll. "She's desperate. Did you see how she was staring at Four today?"

A flare of irrational jealousy burns beneath my cheeks, and I will myself to suppress it. "No."

"It's true," Uriah pipes up. "Full-on ogling. Even I noticed."

This shouldn't matter to me; he isn't mine to claim. But the fact that she is trying to steal something that was once mine agitates me because it has only been a day and I already have a simmering rivalry with Jessica.

She meets my eyes from across the tables between us, and then turns away with a contemptuous expression still written on her face.

"And she spent the whole time during gun training showing off," Christina says. "It was pathetic. It isn't that difficult to shoot the general center of the target." Unless you're me. "We were all doing it; you're not special."

This reminds me of last year when she took cuts at Peter, Molly, and Drew from across the training room in a not-so-secret manner. I smile when I remember her saying that she was doing them a favor by reminding them that they weren't God's gift to the world. Now that I know what they are capable of—stabbing sleeping people in the eyes, throwing defenseless people in the chasm—it doesn't make me uncomfortable to disrespect them anymore. Though it does make me want to keep a discerning eye on Jessica, despite the fact that I am not afraid of her.

Our conversation settles to a lull when a blonde boy with a cocky smile takes the seat next to Uriah. That makes four of us now, since Dez is mysteriously missing from the table.

"Mind if I sit here?" he asks, even though it is too late. Well, what does he expect us to do? Tell him to leave? So far I like him because of his desire to make new friends, and I think that the others do as well.

"I guess not," Christina replies slowly.

"Cool." He flashes another bright, contagious smile. "I'm Justin."

When nobody responds because they all seem to be having a difficult time holding back laughter, I say, "Hi, Justin. I'm—"

He waves me off. "We all know who you are, Tris Prior," he deflects, not in a rude manner.

I duck my head, humiliated. "Couldn't have anything to do with my stunt in the training room today, could it?"

Surprisingly, he shakes his head. "No, actually. I just know you from the war."

"Of course," I huff. As hard as I attempt to bury the war in the darkest parts of me, there will always be people who recognize my name and bring it up. I almost wish I didn't get involved so that I wouldn't have to deal with this aftermath. "Are you from Candor?" I inquire, both because I want to change the subject and I just have a feeling.

"Yep," he answers, popping the "p".

"You and Christina will get along well," I say wryly and elbow my friend next to me.

She hits my shoulder back. "Hey!" she whines.

After introducing ourselves to Justin, we come to find that he is humorous and charming, much like Uriah. Everything that tumbles from his mouth is his truth and somehow his statements manage to get us to chuckle.

By the time dinner is almost over, we are all sleepy but in a cheerful mood. Evenings are the only time where there is a lull in initiation, and we savor it, lingering in the dining hall even after we are finished with our meals until we will have to retire for the night. Uriah even manages to snag an electronic tablet from Zeke and read us news stories for entertainment.

"Let's see, a fight broke out among the factionless. Boring. That happens every day here," Uriah scoffs. I enjoy watching him joke around; his spirits have been permanently dampened by Marlene's death, and it has been obvious to me even over the last day that he isn't the same. "Um...woah, what?!"

"What?" Christina presses.

"Two more suicides have occurred in the last day, following the death of Rebecca Jacobs in Amity."

And because Abnegation doesn't allow news reports like this to be circulated, I burst out, "Hold on, let me get this straight. Somebody killed themselves? And there have been two more?"

It piques my interest, not only because suicide is a touchy subject for me. Besides the almost yearly suicide that takes place within Dauntless walls, there has never been an announced suicide in Chicago for as long as I can remember—Al was the only one I had ever been exposed to. And three in the time span of a few days? The idea is asinine.

Uriah continues on, "Yeah, it says here that..."

But I have heard enough details. Something strange is at work here, and an Erudite or Candor news article is not going to give me any answers that might surface in my mind.

Somebody catches my eye, and I flick my gaze over to Four, who sits a few seats down with his head angled in our direction, like he is listening in. Once he notices me staring, he pretends to focus his attention back on Zeke rambling across from him.

I frown. It was something in his face that makes me believe he knows more to this story—maybe the calculating look, or the flicker of recognition on his face. But I can tell that he has been researching this or taken a special interest in it, and if he knows something, then I want to know it too. I refuse to be left in the dark if the city is going to break out into mayhem again.

Because that is how it all started last time. With news reports.

So I wait until he drains his cup and leaves the cafeteria, and then I excuse myself from the table and hurry after him into the hallway.

"Four!" I call.

He stops dead in his tracks and faces me with a curious expression. "What?" he asks incredulously as I step closer.

"I need to talk to you about something."

With a sigh, he leads me to a more private hallway. Once it is quieter and more obscure, he turns to me with an annoyed look on his face, one that I remember distinctly from when Eric oversaw our training and breathed down his neck the whole time.

And it is that that makes me change my mind. Four doesn't like me; he has continually made that clear since I came back to Dauntless. He made it perfectly clear when he broke up with me and left me to fend for myself when I needed someone the most. I don't know what I was thinking when I figured he would share any information with me.

Instead of going with my former plan, I change my approach. The longer I thought about it during training, the more I realized that I will have to get through gun training somehow. And I can't do it alone, or surrounded by the other initiates.

Holding my breath, I say, "I want to learn how to shoot again."

He forces out a rough laugh that makes me take a step back. With a raised eyebrow, he reminds me, "You said you didn't want anything from me."

Suddenly timid, I stare down at my shoes. "Well, I changed my mind."

"Tris Prior is changing her mind?" He huffs. "Never thought I'd see the day."

He is kidding himself if he thinks that he was never the stubborn one in our relationship. I roll my eyes and ask, "Will you help me or not?"

Four studies my face, not believing that my request is genuine. His stern expression sharpens his jawline and hardens his eyes, and I vividly remember the rare occasion where he would smile and all the lines in his face would disappear with the exception of the hints of dimples. Those moments were when everything could be all right if only for a second.

The cruel world brought out the harshness in him though. The Tobias I knew is now smothered beneath it.

"Fine," he agrees. "We'll start tomorrow night."


TOBIAS POV

Tris meets me in the training room after dinner, as I told her to do yesterday.

To be completely honest, I was not looking forward to teaching her how to shoot a gun again tonight. I spent the day of training pondering over how I was even going to make it work with someone so unstable, let alone bear spending an hour or so with her. The clueless sixteen-year-olds that I corrected for hours on end are more teachable than she is at this point.

Predictably, she didn't show up to the first half of training today, warranting the streaming questions that came from the mouths of some of the initiates. With great irritation—and a little defensiveness—I had shut them down by telling them to mind their own business. Tris is already causing me more trouble than I needed, between her sparking attitude and her mental problems.

I notice how she wrings her hands as I approach, anxiously darting her eyes from a pistol on the table in front of her to the targets that it is pointed at.

"How..." She clears her throat. "How are we going to do this?"

I hadn't thought of that yet. I figured it would come naturally, that maybe coaxing her into shooting would do the trick. So that is what I begin with.

Sliding my jacket off my arms, I set it on the table next to the gun. "I want you to start by just picking it up," I say. "Get used to the feel of it."

With a robotic nod and a heavy breath, she reaches out and brushes her fingertips over the metal. I watch her contemplate the simple action, watch her eyes become older with the worried lines around them. She put dark makeup on them again like she did a couple days ago, to make them stand out. I can't help but admire her long eyelashes for a moment.

When she picks up the gun, it seems to be physically painful for her. Her hand is jittery, and the movement even spreads as far up as her arm, the gun wildly aimed between nowhere and nowhere at any given time.

I don't have to be some sort of psychiatrist to know what she sees every time she so much as touches a gun. Will—the friend whom she had no choice but to kill—haunts her to this day, preying on her weakness so that she is unable to use a weapon.

It is that thought that gives me an idea. If she thinks of Will when she is in a fragile state, then maybe the way she can force her way past that barrier is to face him with strength.

And when is Tris Prior at her strongest, something that I can channel?

When she is angry.

"Turn toward the target," I order.

She cowers visibly but does just that.

"Aim."

She shakes her head, terror written on her face. "I-I...already? I can't yet—"

"Do you want to be able to shoot or not?" I snark. "Now suck it up and aim at the target. Focus on it until you shoot."

Gulping, Tris lifts the gun. And I try my new tactic, harsh and personal as it may be.

"When you do manage to get the guts to shoot, then maybe I can teach you accuracy." I pace behind her, repulsed by what I'm about to say. "All of us have had to kill someone, you know. You're not a damn victim, so quit acting like it."

Her back goes rigid at my comment. Murder should never be taken lightly after you have done it yourself, and I just acted flippant about the friend she killed and the Erudite-Dauntless guards that I killed and even Eric, whose execution still appears in my nightmares from time to time.

"Although, you've always acted like a victim about it all, haven't you? I mean, it was one thing when your parents died—"

She bristles and adjusts her grip on the gun. "Stop it," she snaps.

"—but that was just a front for everything else later. It was a cover for all the lies and the secrets and the intentions to break promises."

I should stop, since I have made my point. She is probably furious already, enough to accomplish her goal of shooting a gun. But I have had this pent up frustration that has not been dealt with or spoken of for nearly a year, and with the opportunity at hand I can't let the words stay bottled up, as my feelings and thoughts have been my whole life. I don't want to bury away the betrayal that still stabs at me some days, or the mourning of the lost girl that I loved.

This can be my way of confronting her.

"The war didn't make you do the things you did," I say. "You did it all yourself when you ran headfirst into danger, when you worked behind my back with my abusive father, when you pretended to be weak so that you didn't have to raid Erudite and got my sympathy despite your lies..." The next words are wrenched up from the most agonized parts of me. "When you left me after we made love so that you could turn yourself into Erudite to die."

It was heart-wrenching to wake up in the middle of the night, after I gave myself to her in a way I had never exposed myself before, and find her missing. The only person I was close to had taken my trust and my love and run away with it because she was too blinded by her desire to be a sacrifice for her parents to see that she had other options. But because I was a lovesick idiot, I jumped straight into hell with her by turning myself in to Jeanine...

Tris closes her eyes, tears trickling steadily down her cheeks. "Don't," she snarls.

"I guess it doesn't matter now though. You don't love me now, just like you didn't then. It only took you until we escaped from Erudite to get the fucking words out—"

Suddenly, she explodes. And it is even more fiery than I expected.

"SHUT! UP!" she screams at the top of her lungs, firing bullet after bullet at the target across from her. The sparks resemble the anger in her eyes, and as soon as the magazine is empty, she slams the gun into the concrete floor, creating a harsh clang that echoes off the walls around us.

"I hate you!" she yells at me with passion that I have never witnessed in her before. She sobs in between her shrieks of fury, getting closer to me with each second. "How dare you say this to me after everything you have done! You left me when I needed you the most; you almost got me killed! I wanted to die because of you, you coward!"

The revelation makes me want to erase the last few minutes, and the caustic things I said. I don't enjoy making her cry, but sometimes it is necessary to release the animalistic parts of us before we heal.

And she didn't heal in Abnegation.

Her florid face crumples further as she sinks to the floor. "I hate you so much, Four. I hate you."

It pains me, but I accept the words. When there is a lull in her crying, I talk.

"Do you?" I ask quietly. "Because I just helped you get what you wanted."

And we both look over at where the disaster just occurred, at the discarded pistol on the ground and the target against the wall, which only has one hole in it, where all of her bullets hit the center.