Some ideas are mine. Everything else belongs to Veronica Roth.

Bonfires, Blue Foundation

I'm back at the choosing ceremony.

Except I don't quite remember Nash next to me as I stood in front of the 5 faction bowls. The rest of the room is empty, poorly lit, and eerily quiet. I looked up at Nash, only to see him completely focused on the bowls, studying each one.

"Choose," A feminine voice commanded from above. Nash grabbed the ever familiar blade and took a deep breath.

"Fear of making decisions?" I asked.

He shrugged and tilted his head to the side. "More or so making the wrong decision,"

"Ignatius, you must choose," The voice rang again. "And do not choose wrong. You know what happens when you choose wrong,"

My mind whirled to his name. His real name. Ignatius. Ignite. Fire. I guess if I had a name like that and came to Dauntless, I would change it to. It was odd, but I suppose whichever faction he came from, they might consider it normal.

"Ignatius," I whispered beneath my breath. I hoped he wouldn't hear me, but I assumed he did. He looked down at me and smirked a bit. "Sexy, right?"

I rolled my eyes and watched as he cut his skin. He shut his fist tight, trying to hold in as much of the blood as he could. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down and his jaw clenched.

"How do you pass the fear then?" I asked again, staring at the embers, the gray stones, the water, the dirt, and the glass. How long has it been since my Choosing Ceremony? It seems like its been forever, a long process that hasn't even ended yet. I'm still being initiated into a faction. It never crossed my mind how ridiculously hypocritical the "Choosing Ceremony" is. You choose what faction you want to belong to, and yet, the "leaders" decide whether you're allowed to belong? And what if I don't just want to be Dauntless? What if I want to be intelligent too? Or selfless? Or if we're going on a stretch, why not kind?

There were so many unanswered questions in my head, but I couldn't even ask them. Because I'm not sure if there's even an answer.

"You choose what should," He said, dripping his blood into the flaming Dauntless embers.

"Very well, than," The voice replied somberly. Suddenly, the fire roared up from the bowl. The orange consumed the other bowls, table, and kept growing. I felt the heat sting my skin, a harsh pain that I flinched away at. But looking at Nash, he simply stared at the fire as it leapedonto his skin. His fists clenched in pain.

It only took a few moments for me to realize what it was. He wasn't scared of fire, if he was he would be stepping back. His fear was of consumption, to be taken over by something or even someone of greater power. I watched him as he remained still from the assault on his body. The flames left no marks, but they obviously left him with pain.

"In order to stop yourself from being consumed," He started, looking down at me with fierce eyes. "You have to be the consumer,"

He kicked over the table and the flames flashed up along the floor. Nash took a strong step forward, tempting them. He wasn't being consumed by the flames like you would have thought. They wrapped up around him, but struggled for strength after a while. I felt the heat die down, as the flames shrunk to nothing.

He turned his head, eyes just landing on me. They were sad, and scared. He must have known what was coming next, because then the floor disappeared right beneath us. I felt a shriek of surprise come out of my mouth against my own morals.

We were falling.

My body felt weightless. My stomach in my mouth. Wind from my fall whipping up my back, bringing me back to the jump at initiation. We were falling down into blackness, and yet when I looked at Nash, his face looked like he was falling to his death.

"Breathe!" I shouted at him. His eyes darted up at me and he swallowed. Obviously falling was his fear, judging by the way his arms shook, trying desperately not to flail. "Swing your arm out to me!"

I tried to get as close as I could to him, extending my arm out as far as it would go. He did the same, stretching out his hand to me. We clasped together, hand in hand, and he pulled me close to him.

And by close I mean close. Our noses were maybe 3 inches apart and through all the whipping of my hair and the hollow sound of descending, I still heard his shallow breaths. His forehead shone with faint sweat, and his pupils were dilated, leaving very little green in his eyes.

"Breathe," I reminded him, and then I immediately regretted my words. Obviously he's breathing you idiot. Why don't I just tell his heart to keeping beating?

Suddenly, his hands left mine and went to the sides of my face, pulling me to him. Our foreheads touched and his eyes shut. My stomach coiled over what he could be doing or what he might be thinking of doing. But, he simply held me near him, close to smell the fiery woods scent that came off his body.

His breathing became less rapid and his shaking disappeared. I placed my hands over his to help the cause. Or at least that's what I wanted it to seem like. In reality, I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to be as near to him as I possibly could. Because truth be told, he was like a drug.

I couldn't get away for him.

"So this is why you brought me in here?" I muttered to him. He laughed, opening his eyes and flashing a crooked smile. His eyes were back to normal, their spectacular green restored. And for a second, I thought they flashed to my lips before we crashed down into something soft.

The thing that caught our fall disappeared the second we reached it. A cold tile floor was beneath my stomach and when I looked up to see what was going on, I gasped in surprise.

I saw myself.

It wasn't a mirror of any sorts. It was me. We must have been in another black room, with a chair sitting right in the center. I guess it was part of the simulation, because another one of me sat there quietly.

Getting up slowly, I tried to assess the situation. I looked like a lost puppy, innocent with my eyes wide and observant. She, I guess, didn't seem to notice me at all. Her gaze was past me, and when I followed it, it was at Nash, holding a gun.

It all made sense. Paintball, me being tied up, him having to shoot me. I guess I wasn't wrong about my assumption. Cause now he stood, ready to do the act he couldn't accomplish before.

I had to assume that in order for Nash to have some sort of fear against me, he had to have feelings towards me. But, now wasn't a time to dwell on that. I had to see what he was going to do.

"Nash, what are you trying to say?" Sim me said, leaning forward in her chair, hair cascading over one shoulder. I looked weak, like a child. The realization hit me like a punch. He wasn't scared of shooting me because he liked me. No, he was scared because he pitied me. The way I was showed in his mind was the way a brother would see his little sister. Maybe that's they only way I have to be in order for him to have that fear towards me. If I acted fearless and tough all the time, he couldn't be scared of hurting me because he would know I couldn't be hurt

Nash glanced down at the gun for a bit, studying the angles and crevices of the weapon, even though he's probably seen this gun dozens of times.

"Nash? Please, don't lie to me," She asked again, this time louder. Her eyes became glassy with tears, face blotched with red.

Weak.

Nash took a step closer to her, refusing to look at her. When I got a closer look, her hands were chain to the sides of the chair, preventing her from leaning any farther.

"Tell me!" She screamed, her features contorting into a face only I've ever seen. The face of pure anger. Pure hatred. Pure disappointment.

She shook the chains holding her down violently, thrashing for freedom.

"Please, just- please," Nash pleading, looking down at his feet. He was in pain, just judging by his body language. His posture was rigid beyond belief.

"How could you do this!" She screeched, tearing dripping down her face. It was almost sick, thinking that I was watching myself about to be murdered. I never thought I could sound like that. Cry like that. Scream like that.

Nash raised the gun slowly, keeping his head to the side. I just looked at him, his lips forming whispered words over and over.

I'm sorry.

"No! No!" She shouted at him, thrashing in her chains. The tears were no longer going down her face. They were long gone.

"You look at me when you kill me," She muttered to him, staring at his turned face with a disgust I could never muster up. She wrapped her hands around the chain and pulled so tight, I saw blood emerge from her wrists.

"Look at me when you kill me, Nash," She said again, louder. I felt myself cover up my own ears, tired of hearing my own distraught voice.

"I said look at me,"

I counted down breaths in my head.

One.

I made out the click of the safety.

Two.

The rattle of chains that became a noise as familiar as my breathing.

Three.

"Look at me!"

And then it was over.