TOBIAS POV
Sometimes, the pain isn't so bad.
Sometimes, I can bite into my hand and the agony from the lashes can be rerouted to something more bearable. Sometimes, it feels as if my father has flayed my back to the point that all the scarred skin is permanently numb.
But not tonight.
Tonight the belt is excruciatingly violent. He might as well be peeling off the most sensitive layers of skin with a knife because I don't know how it could get much worse than this. At this point I can't even recall what I did to make him so unhinged, with my head swimming through fiery torment.
"I will not have a lousy degenerate living under my roof!" my father roars as the belt bites into my back again.
My teeth sink into my tongue to refrain from crying out. Blood leaks into my mouth from the wound, and the metallic taste makes me gag. But I can't vomit; I'm not sure the madness would ever end if I made a mess on his carpet.
Eventually, in the middle of bracing for another blow, I feel nothing. I know better than to let my guard down, so I keep my forehead pressed to the floor as I catch my breath, praying that he is finished for tonight. My eyes slip shut as aftershocks of pain make me shudder.
"One day you will thank me for this," he sneers. "One day you will understand the lengths I would go to to make you a man. One day you will adopt my same habits because you will realize that the world is cruel, and being cruel is the only way to keep up with it."
The belt clinks as it falls next to my face. His footsteps pound as he exits my bedroom, and I curl my fingers into the carpet in relief.
When I am sure his door is shut, I let the tears fall.
I lost control.
That was it, a one-time accident. A fluke. I was livid, but I acted out to abuse the abuser, so it is justified.
Right?
The mist from the chasm's water dots my hands, making my knuckles sting and reminding me of what I did. When I glance down at them, I notice that I wasn't able to scrub all of the blood off from between my fingers.
It wasn't that severe. I stopped before any real damage could be done. This incident doesn't define me because it isn't a common occurrence.
But my false reassurances are just that. How many times did I fight for entertainment in this last year? What about the boy whose face I smashed for his degrading comments toward Shauna? Even further back, what about the way I pummeled Drew for his and Peter's stunt with Tris at the chasm? And even during the war, despite it being primarily political, I found it in me to beat my father in the Candor cafeteria.
And now, this.
My throat tightens when I catch my split knuckles in my peripheral vision. I remember the sound of Bryce choking on blood.
I don't want to be like this. I never wanted to be like this.
With my self-worth plummeting back to worse than its normal state, I can't help but be disappointed when Tris finds me, sinking onto the rock next to me. For some asinine reason she loves me, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that she will try to justify and bury yet another violent outburst.
She stays silent, and for a moment we watch the water rush beneath us.
"How long have you been here?" she eventually asks.
"I don't know. How long has it been since..."
"A few hours."
"Then a few hours," I reply.
There is another pause in our timid conversation. She pulls her knees up to her chest and sighs.
"I'm not going to pretend to know what's going on with you," she remarks. "But the least you can do is let me in. Right now you're sulking, and I know the masochistic thoughts are running through your head. You need to stop."
I grip the flat stone underneath me out of irritation.
"We've been over this countless times. Beating up someone who was abusing my best friend—or anyone who deserves it, for that matter—does not make you your father, Tobias."
I clench my jaw. "Then where do I draw the line? How is it okay that I go around solving problems with my fists?" I bark.
She shakes her head. "It's not," she agrees, and I'm thankful that she isn't making excuses, at least. "But building up frustration over it isn't going to help. So I want you to let this go. We have much more dire things to worry about."
Her smaller hand presses into the top of mine, her fingers curling into the spaces between my longer ones. It covers up my bruised knuckles and provides enough of a patch that I can take a breath and move on, for now. I'm sure I will revisit the self-loathing soon.
"Okay," I give in.
Tris unfolds herself and dangles her legs over the chasm like me. "Christina said to thank you, if that makes you feel any better," she says softly.
It doesn't, not really. But I suppose in its own way, what I did took away someone else's Marcus.
The waves beneath us crash against the edges of the chasm, spraying droplets in the air. As I watch the harshness of nature play out, I realize that there is something I want to apologize for.
"I'm sorry, for how I treated you," I tell her.
She shrugs it off as if it doesn't matter. "We've both been under a lot of pressure this week. I understand—"
"No," I interrupt agitatedly. "No, it wasn't right. I should never treat you the way I did. And I'm not just talking about this week."
Turning my hand over, I reach for her wrist, seeking out the four scars that line it. She doesn't flinch away like she used to. Still, they are there and serve as a punishing reminder to me on the occasion that I notice the faint marks.
I never really made it up to her, after I treated her horribly during training this time around. When I snapped at her more than anyone else; when I hurled insults at her as she tried to be brave enough to get past her fear of shooting; when I refused to believe her, or even treated her differently because of our history. I think backwards on it sometimes with utter shame.
Though, in defense, we were both miserable at that time. And it is what mended us.
"You have an inborn temper, Tobias. It is part of why I love you."
I let out somewhat of an incredulous scoff and shake my head. "Now more than ever I need to be in check," I mumble, still refusing to meet her eyes.
"Now more than ever we need to be a team," she stresses. "And we can't be if you aren't going to open up to me."
She is right. My behavior this week was inexcusable, and I realize how much jeopardy it could have put us in. If another attack happens, we need to be prepared, and most importantly, on the same page.
"We are a team," I say.
Noticing that she needs more assurance, and also out of guilt, I lean in and kiss her temple softly. I haven't been the best to her lately; sometimes, when all I can see is her strength and resilience, I forget that she is a girl. I forget what exactly she has been through when I can only see the ways in which she has overcome massacres and unbelievable anguish.
Her twist in mood comes promptly, so sudden that it is jarring. It is brought to my attention as we sit comfortably only when she sniffles.
"Tris?" I reach out, dragging her up against my side. "Hey, what's wrong?"
Watching the misery in her flushed face is grueling. It is worse to think that I am the reason for her abundant tears.
She turns her face away from me, embarrassed. "There's something I haven't told you," she hiccups. "It's been eating away at me for weeks."
That is not what I was expecting. I perk up at this, concerned about any threat that secrets are building between us.
"What is it?" I coax.
Her eyelids squeeze shut. "I barely escaped Amity," she confesses. "The factionless man chased me, and when we were struggling on the ground he hit me, like I told you. But I narrowly survived because...there was a rope and I..."
A traumatized sob bursts from her chest, and she leans heavily against me. I cradle her head against my neck as I wish I could take it all away from her. Murder is by far one of the most dreadful things to experience, self-defense or not, and it is inequitable that she should have to drag that with her every day. It certainly isn't any easier when one of those casualties was her friend.
Despite the fact that she is too beautiful of a person to have to suffer through that, the decision she made is the reason she made it back to me. "It's okay, Tris," I tell her. "You did what you had to do to survive."
She shakes her head. "I don't even know if he died," she states hollowly. The uncertainty seems to be more deleterious to her mental state than the truth would be.
The countless times where I have had to shoot someone—without a second thought, carrying on to protect myself or Tris—still threaten to constrict me almost every day. Sometimes I remember the looks in their eyes when they narrowly survived the wound; that brief, cautionary glance seems to last a lifetime each time it happens and each time I imagine it. In those instances, I know that I have killed them because of the glossed-over eyes.
I repeat the words that I try to remind myself persistently:
"It was either him or you."
"I don't want to live in that kind of world." Her voice wobbles as she clutches the lapels of my jacket. "Tobias, I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to live on this constant edge of fear and dwell in the past."
I smooth my hand over her hair with a helpless sigh because I don't have the power to change this world for her.
"I know."
Tris untucks herself from her place in my shoulder. Without allowing any distance between us, she wraps a hand around the back of my neck and guides me so that my forehead presses to hers.
"Nothing else is all right," she prompts me desperately.
I breathe the air in between us, heavy from the salty tears on her cheeks and the chasm's humidity. Then I kiss her softly, drawing out the secluded moment and savoring the way she presses up against me.
"But we are," I answer.
I have attended a few funerals in my life: for my mother, for my instructor Amar, for Al, for the main service that was meant to cover everyone who died in the war. As if a blanket funeral could pay respects to each individual.
This one, I am assuming, is supposed to be similar to the last one I went to. Maybe it will be more focused on each person because everyone knew the three leaders, but I highly doubt that they will delve into the lives of the other twelve casualties of the attack. Why would they? They have to spend more time propping up our leaders, who were corrupt in their own ways and were no better than the average Dauntless member.
I will never understand why people consider the dead to be saints.
At this point, after mulling over funerals for a while, I am anxious to actually get to the factionwide service. At least there they have alcohol. I would very thoroughly enjoy a burn at the back of my throat distracting me from the false charades, since the newly elected leaders seem more interested in praising the victims than taking action against the perpetrators.
However, Tris insists on dressing up in respect to the fallen. Personally I don't understand it since the rest of the faction won't be changing, but I am assuming it has something to do with her new outlook towards funerals. She did have to bury her parents during her time in Abnegation, after all.
When I am about to ask if she is ready yet, she steps out of the bathroom in a short black dress that hugs her in all the right places. My eyes travel upwards, across the black ravens that swoop across her collarbone, until they get to her face, which is enhanced with makeup. Her eyelashes somehow got longer, her eyes sharper.
For a moment I forget about everything.
She bites her lip and ducks her head self-consciously as she walks closer. A blush settles across her face when she finds that I am still staring, but how couldn't I?
Tris has always been beautiful to me in her own way, not because she has a particularly "pretty" face, as most people would say. She is different from every girl, and that is what drew me in from the start. She is striking; one look told me that she was a deadly combination of intelligence and fire, yet with a delicacy that is packed into her small frame.
And right now, with a toned body from initiation and work in the Amity fields, with a brightened look that is unaffected by the hell surrounding us, I am struck once again by how lucky I am.
So I grab her by the waist and pull her closer so that she has to angle her head up to look at me.
"You look good, Tris," I say.
She laughs quietly at my reference to the words I slipped up on during her initiation. My smile drops slightly when she wraps her arms around my neck. With her this close, I'm not sure we will ever make it to the funeral.
"Are you drunk or something?" she teases.
Humming flatly, I duck down to kiss down the smooth skin of her neck. "Not this time."
Every part of me pulses when she drags me up to her lips. Her hands slide up under my shirt and trace the scars that line my back. To push the negative childhood thoughts away, I cradle her face with my hands, kiss her harder.
She sighs against my mouth when I reach down, skimming her thigh tauntingly. Even with the bare contact with her skin, I can't seem to get close enough. I don't think I ever will because I can never find a limit to which I am satisfied. She is intoxicating to the point where it makes me unstable on my own two feet sometimes.
And even though I have her, I will always want her. It will never feel like enough.
"Tobias," she breathes in between a kiss.
I tear my mouth away from hers before I won't be able to stop. For a minute or so, we share the same electrified air, unwilling to let go.
"We should go," I groan reluctantly.
"Yes. But I would love to continue this later."
She pats my chest and steps away, taking my hand. We walk out of the apartment, and I notice that she isn't packing heat, but I let it slide because we will be together through the service and she can't exactly stash her gun anywhere in her dress.
When we arrive at the Pit, the funeral has already begun. I am thankful for the sound of the chasm drowning out our late footsteps as we join the crowd. It seems that Tori has decided not to attend today, so one of the other leaders, Mike, has taken the liberty of giving the opening speech.
"...and with that, I would like to turn the time over to any of the victims' family or friends. I think it is important that we all understand the magnitude of this attack and the loss of our members."
Suddenly, I like that Tori is absent. At least someone seems to value individuals and doesn't see them as statistics.
I never thought I would come to dislike Tori as much as I do now, when she was one of the people I put my utmost trust in by sharing my Divergence with her. But based on how she literally bit my girlfriend so she could murder someone, and how she is currently driving the faction off a cliff...well, it isn't hard to dislike her.
As grief-stricken Dauntless members each share their own memories of the lives that were lost, I spot movement in my peripheral vision. At first I think nothing of it when a man rushes in, taps someone on the shoulder, and exchanges quick conversation. Though it then spreads from that person to another, and then a group, and all of the sudden people are exiting the Pit in large numbers.
"What's going on?" Tris whispers.
I obviously don't know, so I shake my head and pull her along with me to follow the crowd. What is so important that a funeral would be interrupted? For a moment I fear the worst, that another attack is on its way.
The suspense gets to me as we all swarm through the hall that leads outside. I tap someone on the shoulder and ask, "What's happening?"
"Jeanine Matthews is being transferred," he replies.
It is clear that Tris hears in the way that she tightens her grip on my hand.
We spill out into the fresh air, next to the train tracks. I haven't been outside for a while, but it currently isn't much different from inside considering the sky is dark. The wind is biting though, and it doesn't help that a light snow—the first snow of the winter—is sprinkling down with it.
Recalling in the back of my mind that Tris is only in a dress, I am about to offer her my jacket. Until the transport vehicle pulls up.
People mumble all around as it backs up over the gravel with the back doors near the Pire. Tori hops out of the passenger seat and walks to the back, and they all watch eagerly, craning their necks to get a better look, as the woman who controlled their minds is escorted from the truck.
The reaction is immediate. Boos and foul names and threats are shouted harshly as Jeanine is led in a pair of handcuffs. It is strange to see her face again, almost like I can't believe she is still alive. It seems as if being tortured by her was a lifetime ago.
Above the crowd, there is a scream of, "Bitch!" A woman pushes through and fires a poorly-aimed shot past the former Erudite leader. Everyone gasps and ducks.
Instinctively, my hand flies to my gun and my body moves to shield Tris, though I don't think there is a threat to anyone's life other than Jeanine's. Sure enough, the madness is over as soon as Jeanine is shoved inside the leader's wing of the Pire and the woman who shot the gun is detained.
As I straighten up completely, I glance over at Tris to gauge her reaction. She is frozen, still staring at the spot where her tormentor just stood. I figured she would be somewhat affected by seeing Jeanine, but I didn't think she would be shocked into some kind of trance.
Then, she rips away from me and darts out of the crowd.
"Tris," I call. "Tris!"
I chase after her, finding it much more difficult to find gaps big enough for me to get through. I catch a glimpse of her blonde head as she runs inside, so I follow, and it doesn't take long for me to reach her after that.
She slows when she hears my footsteps trailing and collapses against the wall in a tucked position. I hear her sobs before I see them.
"Tris," I say.
Crouching down next to her, I wrap her in a tight hug in hopes that she will realize that I am here. A hand slides out from its place on her waist and clutches onto my arm like she will shatter if she doesn't hold onto something.
"Shhh...I've got you," I repeat soothingly.
I don't like to coddle her, and oftentimes, she doesn't like to be coddled. But there are instances where she needs that gentleness because there is not much kindness in the world.
And I have a feeling that it is not about to get much kinder.
"She's alive," Tris croaks out. It is an incoherent mess of tears. "And she's in my home. She killed my parents and tortured us, and now she's living in our faction."
I shake my head. "She can't hurt you. Not here."
Her head tilts towards mine. "She already has."
I need to get out of Erudite. -C
Perplexed, I stare at the message that just appeared on my computer screen. I discreetly glance around to make sure that nobody is invading my workspace before I reopen it, trying to decipher it. The writer is lucky that they left some sort of alias, otherwise I would have assumed it was from Marcus and deleted it swiftly.
I only know a select few people from Erudite, and the two that start with the letter "C" are Cara and Caleb. But Caleb lives in Abnegation now, leaving me to guess that this is from Cara.
And from the sound of it, she is not doing well under factionless rule.
How do you expect me to do that? I type back. Because if we are being realistic, it is near impossible to break into Erudite, even more so with the factionless now guarding the compound. And I already did it once.
The response is quick and simple. You owe me.
I sigh. Without Cara, Tris and I would not have been able to infiltrate Erudite and extract the data on the suicide serum. So, in a way, I do owe her. But I don't have a clue how—
Wait.
Suddenly I remember the plan that Tris and I began formulating with our friends, to redirect the gas masks from the factionless to the Dauntless. In the last couple days, I was able to track a shipment of them from Erudite to a warehouse in the factionless sector, with the mirrored system I stole from them a few months ago. If we were to follow through and hijack that, like I was going to suggest when we met up again, then we could make a brief detour and grab Cara.
It is risky, since there wouldn't be much time, but she is my friend, and we could use her knowledge in the future.
I decide that it would be best to keep this likely unsupported addition to the plan to myself though. For now.
Glancing at the clock, I realize that it is conveniently dinner time. So I wipe the messages, shut down my computer, and nod at my supervisor as I head out.
The dining hall is somewhat louder than normal when I enter, but the tables surrounding our designated one are only occupied by a few people. It is a good environment to discuss our plans.
I slide into the seat next to Tris after I have gotten my food from the buffet line. She leans over to kiss my cheek—since we aren't public people—and offers a soft, "Hey." It is nice to see her on the mend after how shaken up she was yesterday.
"Hey," I reply, placing a hand on her leg. And then to the table, I say, "I wanted to discuss our plan, because I think I have something we can work with."
Uriah, Zeke, Shauna, and surprisingly Christina listen intently to what I found out about the gas mask shipments. They nod along to my ideas and seem pretty comfortable with the whole situation.
"They ship every week, on Wednesday nights," I explain. "So that means tomorrow night we would have to be ready."
"How many masks will be in the truck?" Zeke asks quietly, leaning forward.
"A few thousand," I say. "But that's the thing we have to make a decision on. That could be enough for the soldiers, but it won't cover the faction. So we can either take what we can get, or we can take the risk of loading more in the truck."
Everyone looks at each other, unsure. It takes a moment until Shauna speaks up. "I guess my opinion doesn't matter because I can't exactly accompany you guys on this," she says, rocking in her wheelchair. "But I think that since you're already there and may not get another chance like this, a few extra minutes won't hurt."
It seems logical to everyone else, so we nod in agreement.
"Okay. Then that's settled." When I think about the actual time and place, I realize that there is a risk in traveling there together. I add, "We should split up on our way there. Travel by yourself or with another person at the most because we don't want to look connected in any way. We'll meet at midnight outside the distributing center where they usually load serums; that's where the shipment should be."
I turn to Tris. "Is there anything I'm missing?" I ask. With an aptitude for Erudite, she would surely pick up on it.
She says, "Umm..." But then her gaze slips past me, her eyebrows furrowing. "What's going on?"
I look over my shoulder to see Tori entering the dining hall, flanked by Dauntless soldiers. Then I look toward the direction they are heading to see guards dressed in black and white. And that is when I realize that they are walking toward a table. Our table.
"Beatrice Prior," a Candor guard says. "You are under arrest for breaking and entering, as well as theft of classified information from both Erudite and Candor."