Chapter 2

I hate Choosing Ceremonies.

I am walking with West—my trainer for three years now, to our places in the bleachers; I'm sitting in the front row, since I'm choosing today, and West will be next to me, since she's my trainer/mentor, and Caleb will be next to me, since he's both related to me, and also choosing today.

My parents aren't here. Dad's at a meeting with some politician or whatever—always is—but he has Cara—his lackey, sorta nice, but secretly hates Abnegation with a passion—taping it in the back, and swears he'll watch it.

Great.

Mom's at home, watching the CC on the Institutes' owned channel. I can see her in my mind, tidying up the kitchen after putting a tray of white chocolate-macadamia nut cookies—mine and Caleb's favorites—and watching CC on the tiny TV on the counter by the microwave.

A touch at my wrist shatters my thoughts gratefully. It's West. Her right hand's on mine, like she's taking my pulse, but I know she's not. I know she knows that I hate that: the Candor who'd interveiwed me after my attack did that, the bastard. Two of her fingers on the circles of the infinity sign-tattoo on my wrist; they're best-friend ones, she has the same on her wrist.

"You okay?" She asks quietly, leaning down to look at me; she's a head taller.

I nod an "I'm fine," and she takes it and looks up at the stage.

Marcus Eaton, the guy who does the ceremonies, rakes a hand through his graying brown hair, and picks a knife out of the bin on the stage. Then, he begins the customary speech that makes me want to barf.

"We all have been abused or bullyed in some way," starts Marcus.

"He'll start with the worst fighters or participaters of Abnegation-'cause he's from there, of course. And then, Erudite, 'cause they hate each-other, and, after that, Amity, and then Dauntless, and then Candor. Worst fighters, then best fighters, alright? So count on being last." West whispers, making me smile.

I grab my bag; it's an awesome black cat-themed number with a fish bone decal (eerieeyredd on Polyvore) for the munchies I know I packed. West's fingering the "LIVE FREE" tattoos on her knuckles.

I'm not finding the cheesy snacks I'm after, so I pull the backpack into my lap, and search for it where I can see; at the first scent of the canvas, a slight smile curls my lips.

I had this bag the night I got my second tattoo.

It was a tiny little place, but safe from the storm outside; I was sitting in a chair, with Caleb next to me in his own, and his girlfriend Susan in an actual chair near me. She was holding his jacket, and the sleeve of her own cream-colored cardigan stuck out of her bag; I'd practically wrestled it off of her before got inside.

I wasn't wearing a jacket, just a plain light gray "#1 AND NOT EVEN TRYING" sweater, jeans, and red hightops with bedazzled sides, and my bag against the chair.

Caleb looked awesome in his clothes—of course, since I picked it out. He was wearing a three-quarter sleeve button up black shirt, wrinkled blue jeans, and plain gray-with-black-laces shoes. His jacket was his favorite, unmatching to the outfit, and not my picture of the outfit. It was a sort of beige number with like three buttons that I hated with a passion.

Susan wore my clothes—we're basically the came size, thank god—since she'd slept over the night before—cleared with my mom that it was with me, though it was basically just playing games of rummy with Susan and Caleb that took forever because I didn't know how to play, Caleb kept getting distracted by The Lego Movie that was on behind my head, and Susan kept falling asleep. They didn't kiss a lot like normal couples, thank god. But it's annoying either way.

Susan was wearing a gray sweater, also, but it was an off-one-shoulder type, with "Hungover" across the chest, and "last night was my bitch" under that, though it obviously wasn't; she was wearing black torn jeans and gray high-tops with skulls on the heels.

Her hair—dark brown—was loose, with some from the fron pulled back, braided, and clumped together in the back.

Caleb's was long—because Susan liked it like that, he said—and messy, because neat hair looked both weird and disgusting. And pedophilic.

Mine was loose and wavy, the ends dying teal-blue.

When the needle pressed to the skin of his forearm, he winced.

The guy tattooing me—insanely sexy, with dark brown hair and clowded cobalt rivers of eyes—was starting when some girl—asian, cute, adult, female, with black clothing and small arms—started on Caleb.

"How is it?" He asked.

I snorted. "It's much more painful sober, I'll tell you that." I said.

I'd gotten mine and West's infity signs on our wrists, "never give up" in the opposing wrist with Susan, and—mine in light, his in bold—an infinity sign with "my brother's keeper on the back of my hand, and "my sister's protector" on his.

Susan and Caleb got a simple, generic "love" tattoo on their forearms.

I smile at the memory, and touch "Never give up" on my wrist. That tattoo had gotten me through a whole lotta shit, I'll tell you that.

"Rose Kravitz." (It never says Christina's name, so I'm using her actress's)

I look up. A little girl—like, twelve—is walking to the stage; she has brown skin, and is wearing her dark hair in a fishtail braid; a beige-brown dress that makes her look awesome and badass in swishing around her feet, which are clothed by lace-over-canvas tennis shoes. She has a cat-bag on one shoulder, and a jean jacket over her arms; silver rings, a gold necklace, and blue plastic flower earrings. There's a bow in her hair.

She walks up to the stage, and cuts her hand, and dumps the blood in the Dauntless bow; a group gives her a standing ovation a beat after me and West do: I don't know about the others, but me and West always cheer for anyone under sixteen.

"Prior, Bea-" West cuts Marcus off, clearing her throat and through her hands into the air, and he corrects himself. "Prior, Tris." He says.

I stand, and sling my bag over my shoulder; Caleb gives me a high five as I go by. West stands, but doesn't follow me.

Marcus hands me a clean knife; the bin is almost empty. My choice is thoughtless: Dauntless. It was the Faction that helped me through my depression, my hurt; West and Bayer—the guy who runs the Dauntless Institute I went to—and Brin and everyone understood all the shit that was going through my head, they knew how cruel those bullies had been.

My blood spilled, the Dauntless cheered, and Marcus spit on the ground.

I made my way over to the Dauntless crowd. West touched my shoulder.

"You've finally made it, Tris!" She exclaimed.