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Rated T: Swearing and violence.
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Chapter Two
They woke up at six.
Four stood at the entrance to the dorm, banging something hard against the metal door. It was loud and obtrusive in the peaceful, quiet space and entirely unnecessary. Every initiate had slept fitfully and lightly, the unfamiliar beds and anxious thoughts about the future batting away the embrace of a good night's sleep. Four's footsteps as he marched down the hallway in front of their room had been enough to rouse them.
The room groaned as one and everyone dragged themselves out of bed, blinking blearily at the harsh fluorescent lights Four had switched on.
"I will see each and every one of you in the training room by six thirty, no later," Four informed them before he strode away, leaving them to rub their eyes blearily and gaze wistfully at their blankets.
Henley flinched as her feet hit the cold concrete of the floor, staggering up and into the bathroom. She threw her pyjamas off and jumped in the shower, not registering anything beyond her desire to be clean. In her drowsy state she had forgotten that not everyone was used to this style of communal living and there were a few catcalls and wolf whistles. Mostly, however, everyone was just too tired to care about modesty. They trailed after her, emboldened and inspired after Henley took the first step in baring herself.
The hot water was limited and Henley let out a small yelp as the temperature went from mild to below freezing. Around her, there were similar reactions from those still left in the shower. Henley hurriedly grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, settling back on her bed and huddling into it against the cold. Bella was changing by the neighbouring bed and Henley turned to her, childishly pouting. "I'm cold and I'm tired – why do we have to do this again?"
Bella giggled at her expression but quickly sobered up after realising just why they were there. "So we don't end up factionless."
The morbid words turned Henley's blood to ice and she jumped up, swiftly changing and rushing after Bella down the dim hallway. According to the watch on Bella's wrist, they had only fifteen minutes to navigate their way through the endless number of halls to find the canteen, eat breakfast and somehow find their way to the training room. Henley could feel their imminent doom.
Through teamwork, some kind of miracle and sheer dumb luck they somehow made it to the canteen, bursting in like a small hurricane, sucking up any food they could reach into their whirlwind and flying away, leaving behind nothing but dust and a few frazzled onlookers.
With only thee minutes left they started to madly sprint through the confusing maze of corridors that made up the Dauntless compound and Bella watched in equal parts horror and admiration as Henley managed to shove an entire slice of toast in her mouth and swallow it in three seconds flat, without flinching. They skidded to a stop outside a room that they thought (desperately hoped) was the training room and exploded through the door. They scrambled into line with all the other initiates; irritated that everyone else had managed to arrive before them despite having left the dormitory later.
Henley made sure her back was straight and chin high as she stood to attention with the other initiates, observing out the corner of her eye the room that would no doubt be their home for the next few months. It was large, like everything in Dauntless seemed to be, and surprisingly light. It was sparse with only a large ring in the centre of the room, some targets at one end and punching bags on the other. Even though the room was old and seemed to ooze character, all the equipment, while worn and well used, was high-tech and spotless, standing in stark contrast to the crumbling, exposed brick that made up the back wall.
Four stood tall at the front, eyeing them sternly though not unkindly. His gaze swept across the line and came to rest on Henley. She thought she detected a flicker of disproval in his gaze and tried not to fidget, well aware that her appearance in the mornings wasn't exactly as presentable as it could be.
Four resisted the urge to sigh as he caught sight of the Amity initiate, wondering how she had made it so far when she appeared to be unable to dress herself properly. Admittedly, a lot of the class looked unkempt and bleary eyed, obviously prioritising breakfast over their uniforms, but no one had quite managed to master the 'walking disaster' look that Henley had pulled off. Her short hair was pulled into a messy off centre ponytail high on the back of her head, lopsided and missing most of the curls near the base of her skull. Her shirt was inside out and shoe laces untied, both of which she appeared not to have noticed yet. All in all, this year's batch of initiates were not off to a good start. Not good at all.
Four's mind raced as he thought of a way to diffuse the inevitable situation that was about to arise. He knew that Eric was lurking in the shadows, observing the potential new members from a vantage point where he couldn't be seen, wanting the candidates to be unaware that they were being assessed before he revealed himself. Four could already feel the contempt and disdain in Eric's gaze and he knew that there was no way all his wide-eyed students would leave the room unscathed. He could feel a headache forming.
Henley stared straight ahead, resisting the temptation to glance curiously around the room for clues about what lay in store for them. Would they start their training with guns? Or hand to hand combat? Maybe they would have to master their minds first and learn how to control their fear, brains over brawn and all that. Or maybe they would start with another type of weapon like… Swords! She had to physically restrain herself from vibrating in anticipation.
Quickly stifled gasps erupted around the room as Eric materialised out of the shadows, sending a ripple of fear through the initiates. They tried to stand straighter.
He stalked towards them, his eyes dark and glittering with cold fury despite the icy smile on his face. "Welcome to training," he said, voice smooth and quiet, deceptively soft. "Did you have a pleasant morning?"
No one was stupid enough to reply.
"Because," he continued, walking up the line, hands behind his back in a casual walk that just barely restrained the raw power in his body, "judging by your appearances, most of you thought that sleep was more important than presentation." A pause. "You were wrong." He came to a stop in front of Henley, his presence overwhelming as he towered over her, staring her down. "Your name, initiate?"
Henley knew that every second since she had walked through that door had been a test, one she was failing, and that this was the most important part. She did not flinch away from him, despite the insistence of her screaming instincts, and instead forced herself to remain expressionless and stare unblinkingly at the back wall. "Taylor. Henley Taylor."
He leaned closer, bending until he was eyelevel with her. "Well, Miss Taylor," he said quietly, almost gently, "care to explain why you look like you got dressed in the fucking dark?" His voice was still deadly calm.
It was an effort to remain steady, to keep her face blank. She knew that the moment she reacted, the moment she showed any weakness, he would rip her to pieces. She didn't think he would appreciate babbling excuses and, honestly, she didn't have any so she said exactly that. "I don't have an explanation, Sir."
To her right, Bella stiffened in fear for her.
Eric didn't move, that cold rage still lurking underneath the surface of his glacial blue eyes. "Really?"
Finally, Henley looked at him, her eyes locking onto his. "Really." She couldn't keep the glimmer of defiance from her gaze.
Eric's jaw tightened. He flashed his teeth. "Come with me."
He moved to the centre of the room, every step powerful and dangerous. Henley hesitated for a moment, allowing herself to gulp in fear while his back was turned before clambering after him. He stepped into the fighting ring, turning to face the class as Henley ducked in after him.
"If little Amity here," he announced, offering a mocking sneer in her direction, "can land a hit on me, I will ignore her transgressions. If she can't," his eyes glinted, "then she has to face the consequences."
Henley blinked. Someone in the crowd snickered and she shot a fierce glare in their direction, trying to mask the sudden thunderous beating of her heart and the tightening of her throat.
Four stepped forward, brow deeply furrowed, "Wait, Eric, I don't think that this is the right way to begin their training." At the dark, warning look Eric shot him, however, Four shut up, crossing his arms over his chest, face tight and disproving.
Eric quirked a pierced brow at her as they faced off, settling into a fighting stance, like a snake coiling before it strikes. Henley tried to imitate his pose but she knew it wasn't quite right when his lips turned up ever so slightly at the edges. Shit.
They stood there watching each other; Henley frantically trying to figure out her next move while Eric coldly assessed her.
The problem was that Henley had never been in a fight without the help of a haze of blind fury. Now, she felt nothing but small and weak and unsure. She had never actually tried to punch someone without her brother struggling to hold her back and now she had no idea what she was doing.
"Today, initiate," Eric drawled, satisfaction dripping from his confident smirk.
She nodded, that taunting lilt to his voice steeling her determination. The way he guarded his body suggested that she was never, not in a million years, going to land a hit on his torso or his face. His feet were spread apart, wide, and steady – there was no way she would be able to unbalance him. That really only left her with one option.
She moved quickly and suddenly, darting forward like a small bird and coming straight at him. A vicious smile danced on his lips and he shifted to intercept her. At the last minute, however, lightning fast, Henley swerved to the left, lifting a surprisingly powerful leg in an attempt to kick him. Surprise flashed in his eyes before he recovered smoothly, seeming to vanish before her very eyes and reappearing behind her, effortlessly grabbing a fistful of her hair.
She yelped, shocked and confused as he easily swung her around like a rag doll, holding her up by her curls to face the class. It stung like a motherfucker and her eyes started to involuntarily water from the position. She snarled, trying to punch him in the side in a futile effort to break free. He laughed cruelly, batting her hands away as though she was merely a fly, insignificant and mildly irritating.
"And this," Eric declared, shaking the fistful of hair he held at the nape of her neck, "is why presentation matters."
He threw her to ground with enough force that a loud thud echoed around the room, winding her. She lay there and gasped for breath, lungs and ribs burning.
Eric paced behind her, eyeing the crowd. "If her hair had been tied back properly I would not have been able to grab it and use it against her like that. Taking pride in your appearance is important, not only because it reflects you and your self-discipline but also because a sloppy appearance can be used against you in an attack."
Henley coughed; finally able to breathe once more, and got quickly to her feet, scared he would accuse her of being lazy.
"For example," Eric continued, not even glancing in her direction, "untied shoelaces can be your literal downfall."
Too late Henley looked down, only now noticing the state her shoes were in but unable to do anything as Eric stepped on her laces while she tried to walk away. She tripped and fell forward and he slammed a hard elbow straight into the middle of her back, driving her onto the floor again.
She wheezed, rolling over and away from him as he faced his students, face cold and emotionless once more.
"All of you will look acceptable tomorrow." And that was that. He strode from the room, leaving everyone gaping and scared, vowing that there would not be a hair out of place the next day.
Four helped Henley stand, giving her a small, comforting pat on the back that went unnoticed by everyone else. She got back in line, rubbing her spine. Four returned to his place at the front of the room, his stance authoritative and strong.
"Some of you may have noticed the board." He gestured to a board that had everyone's name listed alphabetically. "You are being ranked starting from today. While your training is separate from the Dauntless born, you are being ranked with them. There are eleven of them and fifteen of you. Only the top fifteen initiates will make the cut."
The room went impossibly still. Henley's stomach dropped to the floor at what that meant. Eleven of them would be factionless and, in all likelihood, it wouldn't be the Dauntless born. Eleven of the people she was standing with would lose their homes. She had to compete for one of four spots and she was the smallest one there.
Four took note of the horrified silence left in the wake of his speech. "More of you will make it than you think." He allowed them a moment to gather themselves. "We will start your training with hand to hand combat."
The rest of the morning was spent learning proper fighting stances and how to fall without injuring yourself. They spent hours and hours repeating the same positions over and over again, falling to the training mats again and again. It was exhausting and mind numbingly boring but not one of them complained, that board lurking in their vision all day.
After lunch was when the real torture began. Cardio training and strength training was the focus and Four forced them to run miles around the compound before coming back and doing countless press ups, sit-ups and every other strength building exercise he could think of. Their muscles burned, they could no longer feel their arms, one boy even threw up but still they persevered.
Henley had been pretty average that morning – she hadn't been the best but she hadn't been the worst. Where she pulled out at the top, however, were the exercises that afternoon. Amity was, at its core, a farming faction and farming was draining, tiring work that demanded all you had, and more, physically. Henley was in excellent physical condition compared to her peers, finding the run no trouble at all and even enjoyable – having been one of her favourite pastimes back home. Sure, her muscles could use a lot more definition and she had struggled just as much as everyone else towards the end of the day after the all the strength training they had to endure but, all in all, Amity had given her an edge that she desperately needed.
Everything went downhill after that.
Everyday, Eric would come in and observe them for an hour and everyday he found some new way to torment Henley. She was never neat enough, never strong enough, never quick enough and the worst thing was that he was right.
"Amity, spar with me. If you can land a hit you can sit out on tomorrow's fight. If not, well, it wont be pleasant." Her ass was handed to her.
"Enjoying this run, initiate? It's my duty as your superior to make sure you get the best education possible. If this is too easy for you," his eyes flashed dangerously, "why don't you run for the rest of the afternoon? If I see you stop, I will come join you and," a cruel glint of his teeth as he bared them, "you won't like that." She had ran until she passed out, waking up on the cold, concrete ground in the dark a few hours later.
She had been good at first; her fitness levels had carried her through the first couple of weeks but eventually the rest of the class had caught up. Henley was small and light and it didn't matter how strong she got, everyone else was always going to be much stronger. The only thing she had going for her was that she was fast but even then, it didn't matter when she couldn't land a punch that actually had an impact.
She got up an hour earlier than everyone else and left three hours later, training until her hands literally bled, until her feet were covered in blisters and still she was at the bottom of that damn board. She constantly felt the warm, clammy hands of panic squeezing her throat until she couldn't breathe and she knew, she knew that Eric loved every second of it.
"Amity, spar with Vincent." There was a vindictive spark in his eye.
The only person who seemed to delight in her suffering more than Eric was Vincent, the smarmy bastard. He obviously thought of himself as some kind of protégé to the blonde leader, his name near the top of the board giving him a belated sense of confidence. He glided around the place with a cocky grin, trying to unsuccessfully mimic Eric's mocking sneer. It was embarrassing.
Henley walked into the ring, her face still heavily bruised from her last fight. Nonetheless, her eyes still darkened with the determined steel that appeared in every fight, every task, every insult. They settled into fighting stances.
"Why are you still here, Taylor?" Vincent asked snidely, circling around her like a scavenger desperate for a bite of her remains.
"Why are you still acting like anyone cares, Vincent?" She bit back, eyeing his every movement.
His face twisted into an ugly mask of anger and he dove forward, trying to tackle her to the ground in one move. She was too fast and quickly dodged, circling behind him and aiming a well placed kick to the back of his knees, sending him crashing to the floor. She didn't waste a second, diving on top of him, pulling her fist back and driving it into his face, hearing it crunch underneath her knuckles. He grunted in pain and flew upwards, easily throwing Henley off, despite her best efforts – she was just too light, too weak compared to his burly mass.
Vincent didn't give her time to scramble to her feet and, in a role-reversal, pinned her to the mat with his hips, raining down blow after blow until she saw darkness.
Someone was snoring.
It was loud, insistent and very, very irritating. Henley huddled deeper into her blankets and then jolted awake when the movement sent searing pain all through her body.
She blinked in confusion, squinting against the harsh light of the hospital as her memories slowly came back to her. "Shit!" She exclaimed and attempted to climb out of the bed. It was difficult – both her eyes were swollen shut and ached horribly. Her jaw felt stiff and inflamed, along with the rest of her body. She tumbled into the chair next to her bed, landing in the lap of her visitor.
"Zeke?"
He startled awake, staring at her on confusion. "Henley?"
"What are you doing?"
"What are you doing? Why are you in my lap?"
Henley blushed, jumping off him. "Stop repeating me!"
Zeke chuckled, gently guiding her back into bed. She grumbled but let him, grateful for the warm blankets - the hospital air was frigid and icy.
Zeke settled back into his seat, eyeing her with concern. "That little shit got you good, Alley Cat."
She sighed. "I know." Tears started to swim in her vision and she angrily swiped them away, hating herself for yet another Amity weakness. "I just – I just don't know what to do, Zeke. I'm going to be factionless. It doesn't matter how hard I try, how strong I get, I will always be weaker than everyone else."
Zeke's heart seemed to break for her and he gathered her into a bear hug, trying to smother the sadness out of her. "I heard."
She allowed herself a few more minutes to wallow in self-pity in the comfort of Zeke's arms before she pulled back, quickly wiping away the tears.
"Alley Cat," Zeke said softly, "I know you can do better than this – I have seen you do better than this."
She looked at him miserably, "well, that was your first mistake."
Zeke levelled her with a deadpan look. "Think, Henley. What did you do differently all those times you fought in Amity?"
She stared at him for a beat. Then some more. Then she thought back to all the times she had actually won a fight, what she did differently. And it suddenly clicked, like a flower bursting from the ground, and Henley felt like an absolute fool. "I used my weight instead of my strength to bring people down!"
Zeke grinned broadly at her. "Exactly!" He passed her a piece of paper. "There is a small library to the left of the Pit. I suggest you check this book out." He stood up to leave, ruffling her hair fondly before wandering out the door, giving her an encouraging thumbs up as he left.
She looked down at the mess of scribbles Zeke claimed to be handwriting, smiling widely.
Alternate Fighting Styles for Those of a Smaller Size.
She was going to make it or die trying.
Thank you for reading!