The tension in the training room was palpable as soon as we were all gathered together again. It wasn't between the initiates, either. Both teams had exchanged high fives and handshakes as they filtered in, commending each other for a fair game earlier. Peter may have squinted his eyes when he shook Christina's hand, but I had to admit that he didn't say anything sarcastic.
Four and Eric however were far less amicable towards each other. The former watched Eric through slitted eyes, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed tightly. Eric blatantly ignored him, whistling to himself as he unpacked a crate full of slim metal cases. Only when he turned around to address Four did I realize how one-sided the tension was between the pair.
"Hey number boy, gather the troops," Eric barked out cheerfully, snapping one of the metal cases open. I couldn't tell exactly what was inside the box, but whatever it was glittered against the dark foam. Four huffed out a tense breath and shoved off from the wall, his shoulders rigid. Barely-concealed contempt lingered on his face. His reaction only made Eric smirk.
Four bellowed loudly over the eager chatter between transfers. "Shut up and circle up," he yelled, gesturing to the space around Eric. "Today's a short day but that doesn't mean you get to slack off."
Christina immediately clamped her mouth shut, though she wasn't able to resist rolling her eyes at Will. I stepped into the loosely-formed circle next to him, letting out a single quiet laugh before shutting up as well. Al made a motion at Will to swap places, but the smaller boy seemed to not notice.
I carefully concealed my chuckle with a cough before bringing my attention back to the two instructors. Four was looking anywhere except at Eric, glaring at Edward and Myra as they continued to whisper back and forth. The pair finally realized they were the only ones talking and the room went to total silence.
"Today is a day of traditions," Eric started, pulling one of the shining objects from the case closest to him. The comment struck me as odd, but everyone else seemed to be following along just fine. I furrowed my brow and listened more intently. When Eric's eyes passed over me, I resisted the urge to fidget.
"As you all know, Capture the Flag is one of our faction's oldest and most respected traditions. The team that won - my team," he added, throwing a toothy grin in Four's direction, "- will forever carry the honor of winning with them. Much like the title of first jumper, winning CTF goes a long way towards proving one's place in this faction."
Mentally, I ticked both accomplishments off an imaginary checklist. Regardless of my Divergence, I was genuinely proving that I belonged in Dauntless. Accomplishing both had to have helped boost my rank to make it past the cut-off. I felt the tips of my ears and my cheeks redden as a few heads turned to look at me. Four was one of them and his hostile glare turned even more sour.
Eric twirled the metal blade atop his fingertip, recapturing people's attention. I realized it - along with the others sitting in the slime cases - was a thin knife. "Today's exercise isn't something you can win, but it is still just as important to being Dauntless as any other tradition. Four, would you care to demonstrate, or should I?" Eric asked, raising an eyebrow as he turned his attention back to our instructor.
Everyone's attention mirrored Eric's and heads flicked towards Four. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, but otherwise Four didn't refuse the silver blade that Eric handed him. He stepped over to the now-familiar targets, settling into a comfortable stance.
Quickly, efficiently - scowling the entire while - Four let loose a throw that sent the silver knife into the dead center of the target, quivering in the thick plywood. Someone whistled and I had to give Four a mental bump up in respect. The motion had been impossibly fast with no time spent aiming at all.
The instructor turned back to Eric and the rest of us, crossing his arms tightly as he asked, "Good enough?"
Eric didn't seem phased, a blissful smile still stretched across his face. "Masterfully thrown, as always, but you might want to slow down a touch so the mere mortals can watch your form," he simpered.
Edward snickered and my own mouth twisted into a smirk. Eric's needling was entertaining, provided you weren't on the receiving end. "Ass," Christina growled under her breath and when I glanced at her, she rolled her eyes. Al gave a tiny nod of agreement, though probably only because Eric wasn't paying any attention to us.
"Since you asked so nicely, sure," Four gritted between clenched teeth. He took a handful of knives from the case, clinking them together harshly as he walked from one end of the range to the other. He repeated the throw four more times, explaining the motions in short quips, and the remaining six tosses in complete silence. Each silver blade found its way to the center ring, thudding into the target in a loud thwack.
Once he was done showcasing the process, he hovered at the end of the range and tossed the final blade in the air in quick flips. He kept catching it by the handle every time, even without watching. Eric - still clearly enjoying himself - had turned back to the circle of initiates as soon as the last target had been hit. "Now it's your turn. Don't fuck up," he warned. "Take a case and make your dear instructor proud."
I ended up sandwiched between Christina and Peter somehow, the latter sneering at me the whole time as I carefully clicked open my case of knives. I didn't want to end up like Molly, dropping the whole set on the floor in a clatter by Four's feet.
"I don't know why they keep giving you gear, Stiff," Peter crooned as he threw his first blade. "You're just going to have to give it back after you get cut."
As usual, the slur stung, but the weight of it was starting to fade. Peter's insults and jabs were getting to be routine, expected. I was tempted to not even reply, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut. "I'm not going to lose these. You will though if you keep throwing like that," I said.
His whole face turned bright red and his next throw went just as wide as his others, slamming into the concrete below his target with a jarring sound. "Fuck you," Peter snarled, grabbing another knife by the blade. It nicked his thumb and he swore again under his breath. Served him right.
I turned my attention to my own target, balancing my first knife in my hand. Rushing wasn't going to help with this challenge, just like with all the other marksmanship skills we'd been working on. I also had no such delusions of being able to match Four's honed ability the first time trying. Instead of jumping straight to chucking knives, I replicated the setup that Four had described, feeling the motion of the knife as I drew back my arm and feigned throwing it.
Watching the others around me was helpful. Christina was doing fairly well; her knives were sticking to the board more times than not. Will's throws were accurate but didn't like to stick. Peter had finally started hitting his target, shiny handles peppered sporadically around the target.
I chewed on my bottom lip and started throwing my knives in earnest. They stuck well enough and I took pride in that. Before I had gone through my whole case Four was calling for anyone with knives left to stop and let everyone get the ones by the targets.
Honestly, I expected Peter to be petty and try to take my pair that hadn't stuck to the target, but I was pleasantly surprised. From the determined expression on his face, he was more focused on the actual task than giving me a hard time. A goddamn miracle. Armed with my full set once more, I waited patiently for the stragglers to get back to the throw line so that I didn't hit anyone.
A few others like Christina and Edward followed suit, waiting patiently for everyone to be safely away from the line of targets. Eric paced along behind our backs, clearly impatient. Finally Myra was safely away from her target and we started back up again. This pattern played out five or six more times - I lost count after a while - until Eric couldn't take it anymore.
"For fucks sake, you don't have to wait three hours between volleys," he snapped. My head whipped so I could see better. Eric was standing between Edward and Christina - Myra's spot. The brunette was still standing by her target, juggling her pile of knives as she leaned down to pick up the last one there.
"Well? Go," Eric snarled, throwing a hand in the direction of the targets. His good cheer from earlier seemed to have dissipated over the past hour, leaving behind the usual grouchy Leader.
His outburst startled poor Myra and she dropped her collection with a whimper. I felt bad, but not terribly so. Edward had been helping her grab her knives earlier until a stern look from Four had stopped him. She needed to move quicker and maybe actually hit her target instead of letting the blades drop to the ground every time.
Peter was the first to start throwing again, and the sound of his knife sinking deep into the plywood made Myra cringe once more. She sent a pleading glance at her boyfriend and tried to pick up the rest of her knives as fast as her trembling hands could manage. Eric returned to his pacing, his steps quiet on the concrete.
I chewed on my lip and turned back to my target. One throw went a bit wild and only barely stuck in the edge of the target. The next sank beautifully in the ring closest to the bullseye. The third hovered in my hand, ready to go. That is, until Eric strode up next to me.
My hand dropped to my side as I started to greet the Leader. "Hey," I grunted.
I wasn't his target though for once. Instead, he tapped Christina on the shoulder before crossing his arms. "Was I unclear, Candor? Or do your arms not work if you're not talking?" Eric demanded.
I shifted my focus back on my own throwing even as I continued to listen in. My throw wasn't strong enough, and the knife slapped uselessly against the plywood before hitting the ground.
Christina refused to look at him, her gaze locked on the wall in front of her. "I heard you," she replied tersely. "But considering that Myra wasn't back yet, I was waiting for her to be clear before I started throwing again."
Eric was silent, his eyes narrowing. The others' throws slowed down as we all listened in on their conversation. "I didn't say to stop throwing," he yelled, sending a glare down the line. "That includes you as well," he added in a low growl to Christina.
She continued to stare blankly ahead. Myra finally scurried to where her case was sitting and unceremoniously dropped all of her knives in it. Only then did Christina look at Eric, malice simmering in her gaze. "Now that it's safe for Myra, I have no problem throwing deadly weapons at her face," she hissed.
Her arm came back as she prepped her throw. Eric's hand snapped up and grabbed her wrist, her knife skittering across the floor before coming to a rest in the middle of the range. "Were you aiming for her face?" he asked. His voice was low, menacing.
Thunk. My knife hit one of the middle rings. Not bad. Not great.
"Of course I wasn't aiming for her face," Christina rebutted. "What kind of person do you think I am?"
Eric didn't answer her question, continuing on his crusade instead. "If you're half as competent as you were when you walked in this room, you should be more than capable of hitting the target in front of you instead of the person two feet away from it. Dauntless aren't afraid of shit, least of all hurting one of their own," he snarled.
He let go of her wrist and stormed away. I couldn't see where since he was behind us now, but I could hear the sound of another crate opening. Four sighed from somewhere on the side of the range.
"Don't worry, Myra," Christina murmured to the other girl as she stooped to pick up the knife that Eric made her drop. "I'm not gonna throw shit while you're down there. I'm not an ass."
Thunk. Thunk. Two hits in a row, same ring as before. My precision was improving. Now I just had to master accuracy at the same time.
A whistle sounded from behind us, one that I recognized from the other day. Eric had used it to call off Peter from breaking Drew's nose after he'd knocked him unconscious in their fight. "Since dear Christina has apparently decided it's time to stop, everyone stop training," Eric called out in a sing-song voice. "We're all going to stop working and hold hands so we can chant about peace and love."
The knife I'd been about to throw ended up in my pocket as my attention went fully on the angry Leader. I recognized the path that Eric was on. I ought to having been on the receiving end just a few days ago. It probably wasn't going to end well for Christina, though she was more than capable of standing up for herself.
Why she was standing up for Myra, I wasn't certain. Maybe the pair had bonded during the week. Maybe Christina was tired from earlier. Maybe she just didn't like Dauntless traditions.
Whatever her reasons were, it wasn't going to spare her from Eric's wrath. The blonde stood ramrod straight next to the weapons table, his hands behind his back. His expression was uncomfortably neutral. "How does that sound to you, Four?" he asked, casting his gaze on our instructor. "Sound reasonable for initiates to just stop training because someone might get a boo-boo?"
Four's face oozed contempt. "There's no right answer to your question, is there?" he replied dryly.
"Aww, you're learning," Eric crooned. "It's only taken two years." He looked over the group once more before crooking a finger at Christina. "You, come here."
She scoffed, tossing her hair with a twitch of her head, but she still followed instructions. At this point, it would be lethal to her ranking not to. I crossed my arms and kept my face as plain as possible. Freaking out wouldn't help anyone.
Eric pulled one hand from behind his back and revealed a black combat knife, unsheathed and glinting dully along the blade. "It doesn't bode well for a Dauntless to be afraid of hurting one of their potential squadmates. So we're going to break you of that habit. Save you some trouble for later on in training," he said, smirking.
I had to give Christina credit; she didn't react at all to the blade pointing directly at her. In fact, she seemed resolved to not respond at all. She and Eric stared silently at one another for several uncomfortable seconds until Eric spoke again.
"A reward," he offered, flipping the knife in the air to hold the handle out to her. "You can keep it if you prove that you still belong here and not on the streets."
My pulse was pounding as I watched her warily take the blade from him. There had to be some kind of twist. What did she have to do to meet his expectations?
Eric pulled out an identical knife from behind his back in his other hand. "Four, do you want me to teach her how to vanquish her fear or do you?" he asked. His smile was positively predatory, wicked and sharp as the blade in his hand.
What on Earth was going on?
The blade was out of Eric's hand almost as quickly as it had appeared, finding its way in Four's palm. "I've already started showing them knife work. Might as well continue," Four said, sounding utterly disgusted with the prospect.
It occurred to me that despite Four being our instructor, he had very little desire to implement any of Eric's training methods. I vaguely wondered if this was Four's first time teaching initiates and that was the reason for the apparent disconnect. It would make sense, maybe even more so than just the pair being rivals.
Whatever the reason, Four looked positively livid at being told how to run his lessons. He pointed the knife blade at Christina and flicked it in the direction of the fighting ring. "Up in the ring," Four ordered.
We all shuffled behind Christina, some with more eagerness than others. Myra had gone completely white and Edward was whispering quiet, soothing words to her. She wasn't going to survive the rest of initiation.
She wasn't the only one looking pale. I clasped Will on his shoulder and squeezed, unsure what else to do or say. He barely seemed to register it, his attention locked on Four - massive, expert knife-wielding Four - standing in the fighting ring with Christina.
Eric rocked back and forth on his heels, rubbing his hands together. "Rules are just as simple in a regular fight. Fight to first blood," he explained with unsettling cheerfulness.
"Just try to nick me," Four suggested as he rolled his shoulders to limber up. "It's the easiest way to draw blood without putting yourself in too much danger."
Christina scowled, clearly not taking the half-hearted advice too kindly. "Like I'm even going to have a chance with these odds," she hissed.
Four shrugged and opened his mouth to speak, but didn't have the chance. He had to dodge Christina's first wide slash at his torso. She swiped at open air and had to then make her own quick maneuver as Four moved to jab at her exposed arm.
From then it was a flurry of swipes and frantic dodges as Four advanced on the smaller girl, his face twisted in a determined scowl. He nearly got her on the shoulder, but she was quick enough to drop onto her knees to avoid the blow. From her position on the floor she lunged to strike at his legs only to receive a boot to the face.
A cry escaped her lips and Will very nearly threw himself at the fighting ring, restrained only by Al's hand around his bicep. "Don't, man," the taller boy whispered. "She's got to do this on her own."
My own heart was pounding a staccato rhythm as I watched Christina roll away from another kick. She was clutching her face, cradling her nose as tears streamed down her cheeks. Four had multiple years of Dauntless training behind his blows; that kick might have broken her nose right then and there.
She wasn't dissuaded though and found herself on her feet after a few moments. Her stance was more hunched than before, but she was standing. Four came at her torso with a swipe just as she had before. She made the same dodge that he had taught us only to meet with his elbow to her gut.
It wasn't a very fair fight. Christina buckled from the force of the blow to her stomach, wheezing. Her own knife was only loosely in her grip, practically dangling from her limp hand. Four stepped away from her, not making his final strike.
"You're still afraid of the weapon," he barked. "Don't."
Christina glared at him even as she gasped for her breath back. "Great. Advice," she panted.
Her renewed attacks were slower than before and more easily blocked by Four. She tried to jab her blade into his ribcage, a direct stab with her wrist firmly locked in place.
Four's hand wrapped around her forearm and forced her hand back to her own chest. "Sheer force isn't going to work on me," he growled. Again, his comments only served to anger her.
"Fuck both of you assholes," Christina snarled, dropping the knife from her grasp into her waiting left hand. Her grip wasn't tight, but it was good enough to let her drag the blade across the length of his forearm.
My hand flew up to my mouth when I realized that I had let out a whoop of joy. She'd gotten him! Christina had actually beaten Four at his own specialty.
Four sighed and shook his head, undeterred. He shoved her back and flicked his own knife across her collarbone. A red arc appeared, following the curve of her collar perfectly. "Nice try with the hand switching, but make sure you're actually strong enough to make the cut before you assume you've won," he sneered.
He held up his forearm, showing the pink line of irritated skin. No blood made it through the scratch.
My cheers died in my throat. Just like that, everything had gone topsy turvy. Christina's face was frozen in utter shock, her mouth hanging open.
The blade in her hand fell to the mat, a soft plop on the powdered surface. "That's not… oh come on!" Words finally escaped her lips. "I hit you first!"
Eric stepped into the ring and glanced at Four's arm, raising a single eyebrow. "That wasn't the challenge though, Candor," he sneered. "The fight was to first blood, not first blow. Even if it had been, you still would have lost."
He poked her between the eyes hard enough that her eyes started watering again from the pain. "He broke your nose within seconds of the fight starting. Seconds," he emphasized. "And you could barely scratch him."
Christina let out a whimper - most likely from her broken nose - and crumpled to the mat. "It's not fair," she cried out. "There was no way I could win that fight."
Four actually spoke, shrugging one shoulder. "If you're fighting someone else who's more experience than you are, are you just going to fall down and cry?"
"Life's not fair, sweetheart," Eric drawled. He leaned down next to her and I thought for a moment that he was going to help her up off the mat. "That's something you're just going to have to get over. Soon." When he stood back up, her knife was back in his hand and Christina was still on the ground, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.
He exited the fighting ring without another word, retreating to the weapons cases. Four stared blankly at his back, seeming entirely lost. After a second his normal gruff expression took over, wiping away the traces of uncertainty that had been there. "That's it for today," he declared. "Pack up your gear and get out."
At that, the group scattered into our usual cliques. Will, Al, and I were all scrambling to get up on the mat to Christina's side while the rest dispersed to pack up their knives. I knelt next to my literal only female friend and struggled to figure out exactly what to say or do.
Caleb would have known what to do. He would have had a cloth for the slow-bleeding wound at her neck or a kind word about how things would be better later. He had the gift, or at least pretended damn well.
I just rested a hand on Christina's shoulder and chewed on my lip. "You okay?" Will asked quickly, eyeing the cut on her chest. He was probably already making a plan about the best way to treat the thing to keep it from getting infected.
Her head slowly shook back and forth as Christina continued to stare directly ahead. "I hate him," she whispered, venom dripping in her words.
Al shuffled nervously on the mat, looking everywhere except at her. "Who? Four?" he asked in a shaky voice.
"Eric." She spat the name out. Her hands on her knees clenched into tight fists, shockingly pale compared to her tan skin. "I fucking hate him."
I swallowed, feeling even more lost than before. I certainly didn't enjoy Eric's methods of training. Terrifying anyone who isn't keeping up with the program wasn't the best plan in my opinion. Then again, something had to be done to nudge - or shove - people who fell behind.
While Christina hadn't fallen behind on her knife throwing, she had stood up for someone who was clearly not making the cut. She'd made herself a target by standing up for Myra just as I'd made myself a target for sticking up for Al.
So why did I feel so conflicted? It was basically the same scenario, wasn't it?
My attention flicked to the blonde-haired Leader carefully wiping down knives. Did I really know enough about the efficacy of his training methods to be feeling this way? I should want to stick up for Christina after she was forced to fight the massively overqualified Four.
Except there was a not-so-tiny part of me that said that she'd still learned something from this, regardless of how traumatic it was.
I missed whatever vaguely calming thing that Will said and realized after a moment that he was helping her to stand up. I quickly scrambled to my feet and wiped my dusty hands on my pants. "Tomorrow'll be better," I mumbled, hating how ridiculous and pointless it sounded even to me.
Christina scoffed, saying nothing else. Will seemed to have a better handle on walking her back to her abandoned knife set, so I focused on packing up my own things without talking again. It probably was better that I didn't say anything. Everyone was pissed at Eric - save for Drew, Molly, or Peter - and I didn't relish in the idea of having that anger directed at me.
I collected all my thrown knives and packed them away with the ones still by my spot in the throwing line. One slot in the case was still empty and I frowning, trying to figure out where the missing blade had gone. A glance up and down the row showed that everyone was already done packing or were essentially finished, leaving no spare knives hanging around.
Searching by the targets again yielded nothing as well and only served to make me the last person shuffling around on my hands and knees like an idiot. Obscenities hovered on the tip of my tongue as I started to theorize just which one of the wonder trio had decided to steal my shit. It was Peter, most likely. He was the one closest to me with the greatest chance to take one while I wasn't looking.
"Lose something?" Eric called from behind me.
My head flipped up and I sighed. "One of my knives. Can't find it," I replied simply.
He nodded twice and slowly meandered over to where I was currently searching, his hands tucked into his pockets. I didn't get it. His moods were all over the place; he had gone from irritated to cocky to furious all in the span of a few hours.
"You mean the knife that's threatening to cut through your pocket if you lean over any farther?" he asked cheerfully.
My hand flew to my pockets and sure enough there was the knife that I'd shoved away ages ago. A flush crept over my face and I fought to keep my composure. "Uhm, yeah. That's the one," I said quickly.
Standing up, I fished it from my pocket and cursed myself for not realizing. Eric was amused, his mouth cocked in a smirk. "You know, there are easier ways to talk to me than faking a missing knife. Your friends might hate me, but you could get a better excuse to stay behind than this," he teased, his voice low.
I brushed past him, rolling my eyes. It was easier once I wasn't looking at him. "That's not what's happening," I insisted. The final knife went into its place in the, case and I closed the container with a dull snap. "I couldn't find my knife. I'm not skulking around trying to talk to the guy who almost got my best friend stabbed in the chest."
He only seemed to be further amused by my comments rather than upset. At this point we were once again the only ones in the training room. I'd lost count of how many times it had been by now. Half a dozen? More? This time hadn't even been on purpose.
Internally I cursed myself. I shouldn't ever be intentionally getting alone with Eric. He was a Leader, literally one of the most important people in the faction. I was still an initiate and apparently a troublemaking one. Still, he didn't seem to hate being alone with me and I couldn't bring myself to, either.
I walked my new case to the lockers and set about putting it away in my gear locker. Once it was carefully wedged under the butt of my sniper rifle I closed the door and spun the lock a few times for good measure.
"Your friend put herself in that situation," Eric said quietly, standing in the center of the training room. He was about halfway between the door and the targets, looking down at his feet. When I didn't reply, he looked up and stared me down. "Yes, I made the order for her to fight Four and of course he's far more experienced than she is, but no one can be coddled and expect to become a real Dauntless."
My arms crossed over my chest and I felt a twinge of returning frustration. "So you wanted Four to smack her around a bit to remember that you've got to be tough to fit in," I retorted. "Mission accomplished."
"You're not an idiot, Tris," Eric growled. "You know as well as I do that that wasn't the point of that demonstration."
Now it was my turn to look down at my boots. "If you're going to defend someone, you need to be able to back it up all the way," I growled, hating myself for saying it. "Which means giving it your all, even if that means you're stabbing someone you know and trust."
Soft footfalls padded over to me. I didn't want to look up from my feet. They were immensely interesting, you see.
"Hey, Prior. Chin up."
I exhaled and slowly brought my face up to meet his gaze.
"You might still hate my methods and I know for sure your little Candor friend hates me personally, but you bet your ass that she's not going to forget that fight today. Not for a long while," Eric insisted. With his grey eyes just inches from mine and his confident smirk, I would have believed that the sky was green if he said it.
I could only bob my head in a slight nod and squeak out a tiny "yeah."
Eric's hand came up and tapped me under the chin. "Chin up," he repeated. "Keep using your head and you'll be fine."
Some time later when I was laying on my bunk trying to forget about today's madness, it occurred to me that Eric was worrying about what I was feeling. He'd actually taken some kind of measure to make sure that I wasn't feeling totally overwhelmed.
I didn't want to think about what that meant. Things were confusing enough as it was that I couldn't bring myself to start pulling at that thread. I pulled my blankets over my head, shut out Al's soft sniffling, and forced myself to sleep.