At some point I must have circled back through the shadows to my room, but I have no recollection of it. Blocking out the passing of time is one of the few feats I achieved in childhood that has benefited me here. That and computers. Sweat slicks my body but one quick glance at the alarm and I know a shower is out of the question. The patchwork blue comforter slides from the bed and I reluctantly do too. I monotonously go through the motions of moving from the sleep to morning routine: putting on a clean black shirt, slipping into my sneakers, and recently, glimpsing into the mirror. A pang of guilt ignites my already unsettled stomach and I quickly look away. It's not just the selfishness of the glance or the doubtfulness about how my parts ended up fitting into one whole; it's the deepness of the blue that pierces into me. It belongs to him.
Pull it together, I demand myself. My teeth grind down against one another as the muscles of my jaw constrict. "Hey, Four!" I hear as I exit the room, letting the door latch itself behind me. But I'm not in the mood and my countenance must make that apparent, as the girl does not further pursue attempting to talk with me. Good, I think. My mind is a haze of frazzled thoughts, dissonant fragments and bits: Dauntless brutes, Marcus, selflessness, blue, Tris - and I sharply inhale. This has got to stop. I salvage a few deep breaths and when I exhale, I push the thoughts out in a heavy mixture with the air.
A few of the transfers are already waiting in the Pit as I compose myself and attempt to avoid searching for her face. I fail at this. My eyes meet each of theirs to indicate that they should follow me and we climb. I don't look back and I don't look down. The height cannot be a fear if it does not exist repeats itself as a mantra until the door comes into view. We exit toward the tracks and I pick up the pace. Once the screeching of metal on metal is audible, I back up and give the group enough room for a running start. When most have clambered in, I reach out for the car's handle and lug myself up and into the car. I turn and do a quick headcount to make sure everyone has made it and catch sight of Al setting Tris down. A pang of - of what? - swims through my chest and I cross to the doorway again. Behind me, Peter is taunting Tris but it's not as though I can continue to call out, "Enough!" whenever she is in danger of pain. She doesn't need my help - she's strong. This in no way diminishes my urge to punch Peter. I am in the middle of losing my internal battle with myself when I blurt out, "Am I going to have to listen to your bickering all the way to the fence?" I dislike flaunting my standing in the Dauntless, but it is useful - they all shut up.
I stretch out into the expanse of wind rushing against the train car opening and in this moment, I feel that small hope that sometimes creeps back to me, reminding me that the ideals of the Dauntless are not corrupt, just the leaders in charge of those ideals. This freedom I can live in for eight minutes and I savor the open expanse before my eyes, within my mind. The grating noise caused by the brakes jolts me back to the train, to the transfers behind me, to the chain-link fence in front of me; I jump down. I sense that they are all dumbstruck, unmoving, attempting to understand the presence of Dauntless guards surrounding Amity's fence. "Follow me," I beckon. Once I reach the gate, I pivot on my heel back to them. "If you don't rank in the top five at the end of initiation, you will probably end up here. Once you are a fence guard, there is some potential for advancement but not much. You may be able to go on patrols past Amity's farms, but-"
Will cuts me off. "Patrols for what purpose?"
My eyes narrow. Can't they all just shut up and let me finish this? I attempt to look less annoyed than I feel. Shrugging, I reply, "I suppose you'll discover that if you find yourself among them. As I was saying. For the most part, those who guard the fence when they are young continue to guard the fence." A few lips part, eyebrows furrow. "If it comforts you, some of them insist that it isn't as bad as it seems." My teeth catch the inside corners of my cheeks to restrain them from curving upward. It's not that their fear makes me happy - well, it's not that the fear of most of them makes me happy.
Peter speaks up, "What rank were you?" I meet his green eyes and reply, "I was first."
He scoffs, but his face is contorted in confusion. "And you chose this? Why didn't you get a government job?" Why do so many Candors insist on transferring to the Dauntless? I think. My voice is both lower and deeper than usual when the words "I didn't want one" come out. I turn back around to face the fence as a produce truck pulls up. I let the weight of my thoughts drop into my body and lean against the fence to offset the new-found heaviness. Time passes imperceptibly, maybe four minutes, or six? My thumb and forefinger press against the bridge of my nose to refocus my gaze and what they refocus on is Tris in a conversation with an Amity boy from the truck. While when I first looked, her face was blushed with frustration, it dissipates quickly. I strain to hear her mumble, "Besides, Robert. The goal of my life isn't just... to be happy". . . and I wish I hadn't.
My eyes skirt away and a sigh escapes through what I thought were pressed lips. I walk down the length of the fence to where Sarah is standing, a gun awkwardly hovering from behind her back. She was one of the few Candors I could tolerate from last year's batch of transfers, though she barely made it through initiation. Like Tris, she has a slight frame; unlike Tris, she cowers at any sign of authority, which is why although my intention was to come see how she is doing, she quickly averts her eyes and heads toward the locking gate when I approach her. I head back toward the transfers, more than ready to leave. Tris is still standing in the same position, eyes glazed over in the direction of the truck that is now long gone.
I approach her, closer, and now too close. Her eyes meet mine, wide, but her feet remain firmly planted. "I am worried that you have a knack for making unwise decisions," I state directly. I can't keep her safe if she keeps saying these things. Why I feel a need to keep her safe is another issue entirely and one that she doesn't need to know of.
Annoyance creeps onto her face. "It was a two minute conversation." Her voice has an edge to it that no previous transfer has ever spoken to me with. I don't know how this makes me feel and I push it away for now.
"I don't think a smaller time frame makes it any less unwise," I say softly, so as not to further agitate her. I take in her face, a blue and purple swirl, but eyes still bright, blue and alive. A searing ache slithers from the pit of my stomach, up to my heart, ripples over my face, then down through my arm, and before I can command myself to stop, I reach my fingertips out to the corner of her eye, the blue from the bruise seeping in and forming a placid lake. Her head yanks backward and I pray it is a reflex and not me causing her pain or God forbid her fearing me. I foolishly keep my fingers lightly pressed against her temple, as though I can absorb the bruises, and meet her eyes. I sigh out, "You know, if you could just learn to attack first, you might do better."
Confusion settles on her features. "Attack first? How will that help?"
"You're fast," I answer forthright. "If you can get a few good hits in before they know what's going on, you could win." I realize I have been standing with her, touching her for far too long and I unwillingly drop my hand and shrug away the cold that now enters.
As I am about to begin toward the train again, she whispers so lowly I almost miss it, "I'm surprised you know that since you left halfway through my one and only fight."
I freeze, taken aback by her comment. I didn't realize she had noticed, and the fact that she is mentioning it means she cared. Does she know I stopped the fight too? She couldn't - she was out cold. "It wasn't something I wanted to watch," I admit. Something catches in my throat, a lump, and it is all that I can do to choke it down. The grating brakes of the train pull my attention toward the others and I reluctantly say, "Looks like the next train is here. Time to go, Tris."