TRIS POV
The stone halls are darker than usual, the blue lights that line them flickering dead as I walk past. My footsteps are the only noise that reaches my ears; everything else is distant, like the roar of the chasm, but it grows louder each second.
A sharp clang distracts me, and I look down the hallway to my right to make sure there is no threat. Just as I do, a chill travels down my spine, and a pair of arms grabs me from behind. A hand muffles my petrified scream. I can't struggle out of their grips.
Not again. Not again.
The mantra repeats in my brain as I wake myself up, screaming into my teeth with fear. Once I realize that I am doing it, I silence myself and flip over on my bed onto my stomach, begging the trembling to cease.
Exhaustion seeps through me. Every single night this happens. All I want to do after initiation is crash in a dreamless sleep, and it is impossible thanks to my troubled mind.
Sighing, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and glance around the dormitory to make sure that nobody saw or heard me. Thankfully, it is mostly cleared, with the exception of a couple sleepers and a few people dressing.
I sit up and scan the room closely. It doesn't seem like everyone left in a hurry, and Christina would have woken me up. Do we not have training today? What is going on?
Just then, Christina walks in with a sullen expression, taking a seat on her bunk.
"What's going on?" I ask quietly, since now seems like a time for quiet voices.
"Someone jumped. Last night," she breathes.
That is four suicides this week. This week. And it is worse because this feels like Al all over again, feels close to home since it happened in Dauntless.
"Who was it?" I croak.
She shrugs. "I don't know. He had a family though—a wife and two little kids. I can't believe someone would do that to their family."
Because I can't help myself, I snap, "Some people have their reasons, Christina." Because sometimes when you feel that death is the only way out, you stop caring about things like family, as important as they are to you. At least, that is how I felt when I was suicidal, like nothing could save me.
Shocked at my defensive attitude, Christina's face softens. "I didn't mean it like that, Tris. It's just—"
"It sucks. I know." I take a deep breath. "So what about training? Are we not having it today?"
"No, we are," she answers. "But Four is letting us eat breakfast first, and it's starting at ten instead. I think he said we were working on resistance training and cardio and stuff, to take a break. Or as much of a break as that is."
I need something to distract me. From my nightmares, from the suicides. From the constant fear of impending danger looming over my head.
"Let's go to breakfast," I suggest.
Once I am dressed, we walk through the solemn halls to the cafeteria, where Dauntless members are already well on their way to getting drunk. This happens every time there is a death here, even if they weren't familiar with the deceased.
"Hey, sorry we're late," Christina says in greeting to our table, including Uriah, Justin, and Dez. She jabs her thumb at me. "I had to get this one out of bed."
And none of us are in a joking mood, yet it is what everyone needs to alleviate the dim atmosphere of grief.
Justin carries out the joke. "I didn't take you to be a lazy person, Tris," he admits with a cocked eyebrow.
"Ha ha," I deadpan. "Well, what activities do you think there were to do in Abnegation, other than sleep?"
Uriah tips his bottle of strong alcohol at me. "I still don't know how you survived there," he nearly slurs. "Sooooo boring."
I turn up my lips in response, and I hope he can't see the pity in my face. He must be taking this hard; his girlfriend jumped to her death as well, however involuntarily. A lump grows in my throat when I remember Marlene's bright smile lighting up Uriah's even more, and how she let Uriah shoot a muffin off of her head with a pellet gun on a dare. To this day, I still blame myself for her death, for not grabbing onto her before she fell off the roof, for not turning myself in earlier when I knew that I was what Jeanine was really after.
Marlene, bubbly and sweet Marlene, was collateral damage.
The muffin in my hands now tastes stale, and I am thankful when Dez picks up the conversation.
"Abnegation must be terrible," she says, "but Amity is nearly just as bad. Did you know they put peace serum in the bread? Some people eat it on purpose."
I don't pay attention to the chatter as I go numb and chew my breakfast robotically. A workout actually sounds great right about now, when I am slowly but surely retreating into myself and into my past.
The table goes quiet as Four weaves his way over to us, and I hold my breath, thinking that he wants to lecture me about my behavior yesterday. But he surprises all of us by setting a hand on Uriah's shoulder in a brotherly way and bending down to talk to him.
"I was going to go meet up with Zeke. Do you want to come with me?" he asks.
Uriah nods and takes a big gulp of alcohol. Four cringes and pries the bottle out of his hands before leaving it at the table and leading him out of the dining hall.
"What was that about?" Christina says what we are all thinking.
But I understand the hidden motive. He is distracting Uriah to stop him from drinking any more than he already has. And for a moment I am glad that Four at least has some redeeming qualities, like the ability to look out for his friends.
"Oh, I totally forgot!" Dez exclaims out of nowhere. "Did you guys hear the news?"
Clearly we didn't.
"They're finally putting Jeanine Matthews on trial. It starts tomorrow, I think."
The fact that something good has happened to me is jarring, and I have to blink a few times to make sure that this moment is real. Jeanine—who tortured me and my boyfriend (at the time) and tried to have me executed, who mind-controlled a whole faction to murder innocent people, including my parents—is going to get what she deserves.
"About time," Christina remarks. "I hope she gets the firing squad."
I think I understand Tori's perspective a little more now. Revenge burns hot under my skin as I picture Jeanine burning at a stake, or sitting in an electric chair as she awaits her death.
Me too, Christina. Me too.
TOBIAS POV
I rise earlier than usual, dressing quickly yet sluggishly, determined to get to the control room and do what I need to do before training starts.
As I make my way there, I try to look like I have a purpose to be going where I am going. And technically I do, but last time I questioned authority, I discovered that it is always better to seem confident going into these situations rather than jumpy.
There are only two people in the control room, leaning back in their chairs and dozing off. They must have had the night shift, and their boss is nowhere to be found, so I hurry across the room to a computer while I have the wide window of opportunity and type in my password.
My computer opens speedily—thank God—and I waste no time pulling video feed from early yesterday morning. I find the camera angled down at the chasm, and rewind until the man who jumped flies back up onto the ledge.
Then I rewind slower and follow him on the cameras, retracing his steps until I find something that indicates that suicide wasn't his idea. He moves backward through the Pit, down several hallways, and finally to what I assume is his apartment, where he leaves the door open while he runs in, presumably to grab something he left there.
That is when a masked figure dressed in several colors enters and leaves the apartment before he does.
I knew it. I knew he didn't kill himself on purpose, that something else is happening here. And for good measure, I play the video until he ends up back at the chasm. He doesn't stop and think of his decision, or take a deep breath, or anything that suggests hesitation. The man steps straight in like he is being told to.
Like he is under a simulation.
The revelation shocks me to the core, and I erase all traces of me going back in time before exiting the control room with sweat on my forehead.
These people aren't committing suicide voluntarily. Somebody is forcing them; how, I don't know, and who, I can't say. The masked man was dressed like the factionless, but that could just be a red herring for all I know.
I wish I had more time to think this through, but right now I could be late for training.
I walk to the training room with long steps, thinking that someone will come after me demanding to know why I pulled video feed when I am not allowed to. Nobody does, of course, and I don't even end up being tardy to training. Tris is the only one in the room when I enter.
She slams her fists into a punching bag, oblivious to my movement behind her as I cross the floor. I admire the way she uses her whole body when throwing a punch, just like I taught her, always keeping tension in her abdomen. I am glad that she is up early and getting ready for the fights today because she will need this head start...
And for a second, I am tempted to tell her about what I found out about the suicides. I can trust her with something like this. Maybe not with other things, like not conspiring with my abusive father, but I can with this.
Yet I am not ready. I need more information, and she needs time. I did yell some pretty damaging diatribes at her only a few nights ago; I am positive that she still hates me, as she probably should since I have not been treating her very nicely in general.
So I hold my tongue and prepare for training, promising myself that if it comes down to it, I will tell her about my discovery.
"Next fight: Peter versus Tris!"
It didn't feel right when I was randomly drawing names last night and this pair happened. Last year this was a disaster, so sickening that my feet carried me out of the room of their own volition. I still remember the deep color of her blood dripping onto the mat.
But I made a vow to myself that I wouldn't change the pairs unless they were infinitely unfair fights, and this isn't one. Tris isn't weak like she used to be, fresh out of Abnegation and lacking all muscle. She knows how to take someone down, and I don't think Peter, extremely cocky as he is, will be prepared for that.
So I left the match alone, scribbling it down on the chalkboard and hoping that I wouldn't regret this the next day.
When Peter steps up to the ring, he is sprightly and takes his sweet time stretching his muscles. Tris, on the other hand, walks up with a newfound confidence and with her eyes trained on Peter in a way that apparently eggs him on.
"Come on, Stiff. We both know that you won't win this fight," he taunts, setting up his fighting stance.
She smirks back at him, already ready to attack. "You've got another thing coming if you think this is going to be remotely easy for you, Peter."
"Start when you're ready," I say, wanting to see how this plays out.
Tris doesn't waste time. She catches him off guard and hits him straight in the nose, backing up right on time to dodge his own swipe. Peter growls something under his breath, cradling his nose, and they begin circling again.
The tension in the room is palpable. Christina starts cheering for her friend, and a blonde girl whose name I forgot shouts out to Peter in encouragement. A few people fill the room with more noise as they pick sides.
When Tris makes the mistake of going for another blow to his face, Peter uses it to his advantage and lands his own punch on her cheek. She and I both wince when his knuckles slam into her face, and she backs up again to gather herself.
Next Peter tries to go for a kick to her side, and although it does knock her off balance, she stays up and clings to his leg, yanking him forward so that he is forced to fall on his back. Tris pounces on him, throwing hits at his face until he finally has had enough and elbows her in the temple, sending her sprawling on the floor beside him, coughing.
"Come on, Tris," I murmur under my breath.
They drag themselves back to their feet, and from there it turns from exciting to ugly. We all watch as they circle and take turns landing blows, and they are both caked in so much blood that now it is just a matter of who can stay up the longest. Eventually they are both exhausted enough to wobble, and I cringe when I see the blood in Tris's hair. She has taken too many hits to the head.
My heart stops when she cries out for the first time when Peter's fist pummels her in the ear. I beg for her to stay up and fall down at the same time. I can't end this but she can, and if she could just get a few more hits in—
Tris's knuckles come in contact with his temple so hard that we hear it clearly. When they both back up, it seems to be the end and I chant to myself don't fall, don't fall, don't fall.
Peter goes down first, crashing to the ground with a frustrated and fatigued groan. Tris follows a few seconds later after the applause, establishing her as the winner.
That night, I don't go home after dinner. I debate to myself if it is right to go visit her in the infirmary, or if it will only cause her unwanted stress. But someone has to appreciate what she did, and she hasn't woken up yet according to the nurse taking care of her, so I figure that she should have someone there when she opens her eyes.
I would have taken her here if I didn't have other fights to oversee, and I knew her friends would get her here okay. Though it doesn't make me feel better to think that when I take in her appearance as I approach the side of her bed with careful steps.
Tris's face looks similar to how it did after last year's fight with Peter. There are cuts in her lip and above her eyebrow, and her face is littered with purple bruises that are glossy with salve. Dried blood streaks her hair in some places, and for a second I regret letting that fight happen just for a moment of glory that she barely remembers. It physically hurts me to see her so broken, to know that the soft skin of her cheek is sore and that she would probably cry out if someone skimmed her temple, where I used to kiss her sometimes.
Her eyes crack open while I am still examining her, first her normal eye and then her black one.
"Hi," I whisper, figuring that she must have a migraine.
Her voice is tight when she rasps out, "Hi."
We stare in silence for a moment as she tries to catch herself up on what happened today.
"Why are you here?" she mumbles.
Good question.
"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That was a brutal fight. You were out all day."
Her tongue darts out to wet her cracked lips. "Did I win?"
I smile. "Yeah. Yeah, you did."
Tears leak out the sides of her eyes, and she ignores them because it would be too painful to wipe them away.
"I didn't think I could do it."
"I did," I say.
She looks like she is trying to say something, but then she shifts and her face contorts into one of agony.
"Hurts?" I guess.
"Yeah," she grits out.
Checking to make sure that no nurses or doctors are walking by, I alter her morphine doses by clicking the obvious button on the machine next to her bed. Immediately, Tris sighs in relief and sinks back against the pillows again.
"Thank you."
I feel embarrassed standing here with nothing to say, like I have overstayed my welcome, so I ask, "Do you need anything else?"
"No," she breathes. "Just sleep."
"Okay."
After a moment's debate and lack of better judgment, I move closer so that I can press a kiss to her forehead, one of the only places where she isn't injured. It isn't necessarily romantic but it is bittersweet like old times, and I stay there for longer than I should, but she doesn't seem to mind.
"I'm proud of you," I whisper when I pull away.
Her eyes remain closed when I step away from her bed, though I swear that I see more tears run over the swelled contours of her face before I leave.
