Beatrice sat in stunned silence. It was so much information to take in, and her mind felt like it was in complete overdrive. She opened her mouth a few times, but the only thing that came out was "Me?"

Matthew nodded his head. Her world was being thrown into a blender and all he could do was take her blood, tell her a story, and show her some pictures. He expected her to just be okay with everything.

She wasn't okay.

"Which factions?" Matthew asked. She stared at him like he was speaking a language she didn't understand.

"Abnegation, Erudite and Dauntless," Four answered.

Matthew looked impressed. "Three? Amazing. No wonder they pulled you out. As far as I'm concerned, you're one hundred percent healed, Beatrice. When you're ready, we'll run more tests, see if we can find out anything else. Hopefully we can use the information gathered to help speed up the healing process or find a way to fix those that aren't healed. But I'm not going to push you, okay? We'll do everything at your pace."

She nodded. All Beatrice could comprehend was that she wasn't going to be pressured into doing anything she didn't want to do. Even if she wanted to continue, she wasn't sure her mind could handle anything else at that moment.

Matthew offered her a sandwich again. She waved her hand and stood. The small office felt even smaller than before and she needed to get out. Four was up and right next to her in an instant. He felt responsible for everything: if it wasn't for his insistence, she would be home right now. He knew he shouldn't feel that way, because if he hadn't insisted and something happened to her… He shook his head and opened the door. Matthew flashed them both a smile and Beatrice rushed out of the office. The air was cooler in the hallway and she inhaled deeply. The click of the door closing caught her attention.

She turned to see Four standing there. He looked like he was breathing hard, too, and she wondered why he even cared. He was escorting her all over the compound and telling her everything was going to be okay, but he wasn't the one they'd been waiting years for. He wasn't going to have test after test performed on him and he wasn't going to be the disappointment when they discovered they were wrong. Beatrice turned and walked as fast as she could. She didn't know or care where she was going, she just knew she wanted to get away.

Her jaw clenched as she walked faster, Four on her heels. She could hear his heavy footsteps on the hard tile behind her; it irritated her every last nerve, and she wondered if there was anyplace she could go where he couldn't follow.

Beatrice didn't even remember turning down the hallway, but the flames in front of her seemed to roar to life. She could imagine their heat, and as she pushed the door open she almost wished they were real. They might burn her, but at least she would feel a different kind of pain. The door slammed against the wall, echoing loudly in the large room. She stalked across it and flung a cabinet open, the gleam of polished metal more enticing than she imagined.

"Beatrice," he called from behind her. She ignored him as she pulled knife after knife out and laid them on the table. Anger and adrenaline combined, making her breathing erratic; it felt as if Four were right next to her even though he was halfway across the room. She fought the urge to turn and face him by picking up a knife.

He stood still, watching her turn it over and over in her hands. She needed to let everything out ― needed to scream or cry or hit — and he wasn't going to stop her. He just had to be there to pick up the pieces when it all fell apart.

She faced the target, and let out a yell as her arm thrust forward; the knife buried itself with a loud crack. She did it again and again, feeling the sting in her eyes and the pain in her arm. "Why?" she screamed out, her throat burning as her voice cracked. Four felt her pain resonate deep inside of him. He hated this part and the feelings that came with it. He took a step towards her, his desire to comfort finally winning out.

"Stop." Her voice was small, defeated. Her arms hung limply at her sides, the last knife clanging to the ground as it slipped through her fingers.

"Beatrice―"

"Stop calling me that."

"Then what should I call you? Stiff?" His words felt like a slap to them both. He knew it was a low blow as soon as it left his lips.

She turned to face him, her eyes dark and narrowed. "Stiff? Is that what you think of me?" Her words cut right through him. "Tell me, then, how I'm supposed to act! Should I run around like a lunatic to get in touch with my Dauntless side? Or maybe I should just walk into Erudite and solve this mystery myself since your scientists can't seem to do it. You took me from the only home I have ever known and now you expect me to just accept everything you say. It's not that easy, Four."

He visibly winced. He had never heard his name uttered that way before, like it was a weapon. If she saw, she didn't care. She reached up and pulled the pins from her bun, throwing them on the ground and tearing at it so it would unravel. She looked wild with her hair flowing all around her.

"Just because some stupid test says I'm special, it doesn't mean I am! I have no idea what I'm doing, or what I'm supposed to be doing, or what everyone expects of me. Do you even know what that's like? To have someone tell you this crazy story and then expect you to just understand and go along with it?"

"Yes."

She was caught off-guard by how quiet his voice was. His eyes were focused on the floor in front of her as he shifted from one foot to the other. Her anger slowly dissipated as realization took over. She took a deep breath and ran her hands through her hair. "You're not from here, are you?" She bit her lip when he finally looked up at her. If she weren't scrutinizing his every move right now, she would have missed the subtle shake of his head. He couldn't stop himself from watching her mouth as she slowly released her lip. "And Four isn't your name, either, is it?"

People came and went all the time at the Bureau. Only a few people knew his real name, and they all knew better than to refer to him as anything other than Four. He wanted to let her in, let her know that she wasn't as alone as she thought she was, but he was afraid to be connected to that life again. Tobias Eaton was dead, and he should stay that way.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly shook his head again. "A lot of people have nicknames here. Some even change them just to forget or escape." He swallowed hard, and his gaze fell away as he waited for her response.

It was obvious to Beatrice that it must have taken a lot for him to reveal that to her, and that she needed to be just as honest with him. "I don't want to be her anymore," she whispered. "How can I be, when everything has changed?"

She was worn down, he knew, but he walked to a cabinet anyway. He pulled out two sets of gloves and looked over at her. There were tears in her eyes, but she walked to him and took a pair. Four showed her the proper way to put them on, and then they stood before the bags to work through their pain in silence.

He was drenched in sweat, his muscles burning with fatigue. He checked his watch; they had been in there for hours. It was almost dinnertime ― his stomach rumbled as soon as he had the thought. He watched her for a moment. Her form had improved, but she lacked the muscle or training to be effective at anything more than wearing herself out.

"You're weak," he said. She shot him a look as he walked towards her. "But if you keep tension here, you'll build up your core muscles and the strength will come." His glove hovered just over her stomach. He could feel her warm breath on his arm and it sent a jolt through his body. He saw her nod out of the corner of his eye.

Beatrice followed him without a word as he removed his gloves and put them away, weaving their way through the compound toward the dorms. She was desperate for a shower; they rounded the corner and she paused as he went straight into the bathroom. She debated just changing her clothes, but her hair was clinging to her face and neck and she could feel the sweat running down her back. She took a deep breath to gather her courage and walked in.

He was already in the water, and she could feel the steam as she passed his stall. She went to the very last one, undressed quickly, and stepped into the spray.

Beatrice let herself relax as the hot water ran down her body. In Abnegation, they were only allowed five minute tepid showers in the name of conservation. She hated the very memory of it. She always felt like she was never as selfless as the others, that she could never truly belong to them, and in that moment, she didn't miss it. She took her time, enjoying the heat as it worked on her muscles, running her hands through her hair as she washed the day away.

She peered out of her stall: Four was nowhere in sight and his stall was empty. She hadn't bothered to grab a towel or a change of clothes, and sighed as she reached for her dirty ones. She was surprised to find a towel and a neat pile of clean clothes next to them. She blushed knowing that he had been mere feet from her, even though the stalls were hard to see through.

She emerged, feeling both drained and refreshed at the same time. Four gave her a small smile from the table where he sat. "Dinner?"

She nodded. "Just let me brush my hair. And thank you." She turned quickly so he wouldn't see her flush.

She was twisting her hair when she remembered throwing her pins on the ground in Dauntless. She loosened her grip and felt it unravel. She had never worn her hair down before today. She hadn't even thought about how liberating it had felt to take it down earlier.

Crossing the hallway, Beatrice stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. She had tried to avoid it even when she brushed her teeth, but there was no point in continuing: she wasn't Abnegation anymore. She took in her appearance as she ran her fingers through the long strands, arranging them in a way she liked. Her face looked different, but she couldn't quite place how. She thought it might be because the person staring back at her, and the person she felt like, were two different people.

Four stared when she came back out. He didn't know exactly how he felt about her ― if it was deep respect or if it was something more ― but as she stood there looking uncomfortable in her own skin, his mouth said the words before he fully processed what they actually meant. "You look good." His expression relaxed when her mouth turned up just slightly.

They sat by themselves in the cafeteria, eating ravenously in silence. Beatrice couldn't remember the last time she was so famished. For a brief second she thought of her mother and the factionless: she would be so disappointed to see her acting like a glutton. But she wasn't there anymore. In an act of defiance nobody would even see, she stuffed her mouth full of mashed potatoes.

A tray dropped onto the table next to Four. Her eyes snapped up to see the same man from earlier that morning. "Got room for one more?" Four rolled his eyes, gesturing to the seat next to him. Beatrice felt the man's eyes on her as he sat.

"Green's discharged," Amar said. "Doc told him to take a couple days to rest before coming back. He'll go sit at one of the checkpoints until he's fully cleared." Four nodded. He didn't feel like discussing anything, but if he knew Amar, this wasn't just a stop to keep him informed about what's happening around the compound. He noticed Beatrice had stopped eating. He thought about excusing themselves to stave off whatever Amar was trying to do.

"So, Beatrice," Four's eyes focused sharply on his best friend. "How are things going? Are you acclimating?" She looked at Amar, but didn't answer. She only knew that he and Four worked together, but aside from that tenuous connection, she felt she didn't owe him an answer or an explanation for anything.

Four misread her discomfort. "She doesn't want you to call her that." Four's voice was low, a firmness in it Beatrice had never heard before.

"Beatrice? It's your name, isn't it?" Again, she sat there in silence. Four glanced her way, but he couldn't define the look on her face. "Did you tell her she could just pick a new one? I mean, without a name everyone will just start calling you Stiff―"

Four slammed his hand down on the table, demanding the attention of Amar and everyone around them. "That's enough," he growled out, his own guilt from calling her that earlier flooding his system.

"Okay... Christ! No need to get pissy."

"Why are you talking about me like I'm not even here?" Beatrice's voice cut through the murmurs that had started around them. "And why do you use that word? Stiff. Did you think of it all by yourself here, or did you take it from the city?"

Four could tell that things were still getting to her. They may have spent hours working out their anger in Dauntless, but it wouldn't take much to set her off until she finally came to terms with everything.

Her eyes flicked between the two of them. Neither one answered her. "Yeah, I'm Abnegation. I'm a Stiff," she continued. Her chair scraped against the tile when she stood. "So what? You act like it's so horrible to put others before yourself. Maybe you should try it out for once and think before you speak." The tables around them were silent as she walked away, slamming her hands into the door. They whistled and laughed as soon as she was out of sight.

"I don't know what you're trying to pull, but it stops now." Four held his gaze. Amar's pushing wasn't always a bad thing, but there was a time and a place and this wasn't it.

"Four, I―"

"I mean it." Four stood, looking down at the one person he expected to show some restraint. Amar conceded with a nod.

He sighed as Four turned, stalking after the girl. Four was never any good at expressing anything other than his anger, and Amar didn't blame him for that: fucked up childhoods tended to do that to a person. But he knew that long nights spent comforting and coddling ― the same thing he was doing with Beatrice ― would form a bond that was hard to break. It was probably the only reason they were best friends now.

Amar thought he was going to have to force him to open up to Beatrice, to be there in the way she needed him to be. But maybe coming from the same background they had more in common than he had given them credit for. They would find their way, he decided, and he would try to keep his nose out of it.

When Four found her in their common room, she was sitting at the end of a couch, knees pulled up to her chest, staring off at nothing. He hovered, torn between giving her space and making sure he was available if she needed him. "Sit." She looked up at him and gave him a small smile. "I think we have a lot to talk about." He respected her calm approach and sat at the other end.

"They copied it," he said.

"What?"

"Stiff. They copy a lot of things. Think it'll increase their chances of finding a way to fix this if they can think and act like the people in the city."

"That's ridiculous," she scoffed. "Besides, they don't think or act like any of us."

Four knew she was right. They could never understand, never would. They didn't have the burden of having imperfect genes. In their own eyes, they were infallible: it was their biggest mistake.

"Bea―" he stopped himself, and she gave him another small smile.

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I understand. I wanted a change, too."

She looked into his eyes. There was something there, that same familiar feeling that she couldn't quite place. She felt like she had known those eyes her entire life, like she could trust them implicitly. She shook her head; it was impossible. They had only met three days ago.

"Bea?" he offered up. She scrunched her nose and he let out a soft laugh. "It was just a suggestion."

"I'm not an elder," she countered. "That name isn't…"

"Fierce enough?"

Their eyes met again. She wasn't sure how to take what he said. He was being polite, she knew. But she had never received a compliment like that. He thought she was fierce, strong. She knew she couldn't live up to his expectations, but she didn't want to disappoint him, either. "Maybe," she said. The corner of his mouth lifted. "So, umm, who was she?"

"Who?"

"The girl." She took a deep breath. "Me."

"Oh."

The truth was he didn't know if she had a name. He understood why the Bureau kept bodies, but he didn't like it. He didn't like deceiving people. Sometimes he felt like his whole life was one long deception.

"She came from the outside. The Bureau keeps them in the morgue for instances like yours."

"Did they… I mean, because of me?" She closed her eyes. She wasn't quite sure how to ask if they killed this girl specifically because of her.

"No," he said firmly. "She would have been found dead, or maybe brought here under suspicion and succumbed to an illness. It happens sometimes." She nodded, her eyes opening slowly.

"How long have you been here?"

"Almost eight years." It was odd, saying it out loud. It was almost half of his life. His thoughts came back around to his mother. Almost eight years since she made the worst decision of his life.

"Did they pull you out, too?" She spoke so quietly, he almost didn't hear her.

He stood abruptly. He was nowhere near ready to answer her questions. There was a chance she would hate him when he told her the truth. Or pity him. He wasn't sure how he would handle either reaction. He took a few steps, running his hand through his hair. When he turned to face her, her eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, like she did when she was asleep. She yawned and opened them, blinking a few times.

"Sorry," she said. "I think the day is catching up with me."

"Sleep, then. We can finish in the morning."

She shook her head, but settled into the couch, resting her head on the back cushion. "I'm okay. I'll go to bed in a little while."

Her blinks slowed as he watched her, becoming longer and longer, until they stopped altogether. He had never watched someone fall asleep before, and he knew right then and there that he would do anything to see it happen every night.

He stepped forward, prepared to pick her up and carry her to bed, but the ingrained teachings of Abnegation stopped him. He pulled his spare blanket out instead and covered her.

"Four? Four, wake up."

He stirred and opened his eyes to see Zoe staring down at him. It took him a moment to realize that he had slept all night in the common room with Beatrice. He looked over to see her still sleeping and stood when Zoe motioned for him to follow.

"What is it?" he asked when they were in the hallway.

"I wasn't sure if she would want to watch, but they're preparing for her funeral. Probably begin in another hour or so."

Four's heart dropped into his stomach. He knew the right thing to do was to give her a choice, but he didn't want to see her hurting any more than she already was. "Okay. Thank you." She gave him a smile and excused herself.

"I want to watch," she said as soon as he walked back into the common room. He didn't argue with her.

They stood side by side with the other people who had gathered around the screens. It struck her as odd that they would want to watch her while she watched the people who were mourning her fake death. The majority of the onlookers had tablets and at least one piece of blue on them, and she was struck with the memory of a conversation from the day before: she was already turning into a lab rat.

She ignored them and told herself she was going to be strong, that she wasn't going to cry, but as soon as she saw her parents make their way to her casket she lost that battle. The tears welled up and she swiped her hands over them. She could feel Four's eyes on her, but she kept her head high, determined to get through it.

It was short and quiet, typical for Abnegation. Someone was kind enough to change another screen so it focused solely on her parents. They both kept a strong face, but the pain was evident in their eyes.

The members each gathered a handful of dirt and tossed it into her grave, giving their condolences before leaving and giving her parents a moment alone. They would return to her childhood home afterward and remove all of her belongings, bringing them to the warehouses to be redistributed among the factionless. And with no photos or any personal items to remember her by, she would cease to exist, fading from their memories over time.

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and turned to see Matthew. He gave her a nod before turning his attention to the screen. She appreciated the gesture.

Once they were alone, her parents each tossed in a handful of dirt. It was over. She was officially dead and gone. She wiped her eyes again, then inhaled sharply when they settled back onto the screen in front of her.

Her father was kneeling, his body shaking with grief, but not her mother. She was looking directly into the camera. She wasn't upset like Beatrice expected. Her posture was rigid, her eyes narrowed and defiant, and her lips were set into a hard line.

She looked fierce.

A/N:

I wish I didn't have to leave this kind of note here, since it isn't addressed to 99.9% of you, but I have no other choice if I want to respond to a guest reviewer.

Like most authors, I love to read reviews. I love to read your theories and I love to receive PM's knowing that my story is something that makes you happy or gets you excited. I also appreciate thoughtful, helpful, constructive criticism because it helps me to be a better writer in the future. The key words, of course, are 'thoughtful, helpful, and constructive'.

Leaving a review or sending a PM demanding that an author changes things to suit your preferences or standards isn't thoughtful. Telling an author that their story is "juvenile" because you don't like the voice in which it's told isn't constructive or helpful. It's disrespectful and based on opinion, not fact. This particular story could never work in the first person, which is why I made a deliberate choice to utilize the third person, trusting that the readers could and would make a marginal effort to discern when there are changes in perspective. Scolding an author for the choices he or she has made, simply because you happen to think it should be done differently, is rude. No author is going to rewrite an entire story because of the preferences of one or two readers. If there's something you don't like about my story and how I've constructed it, please feel free to discontinue reading it. I will not be offended by your decision.

Now to all my wonderful readers who leave helpful comments, reviews, and send me private messages with your praise and advice, thank you so much for your support. We authors work hard to please our audience, and I'm SO happy that I've pleased so many of you. (So many omg!)

Thank you all again for your follows and reviews, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. : )