Chapter 1:

"We do not see things as they are,

We see things as we are."

-Anais Nin

My childhood in Erudite was pleasant. It contained just enough deviation from an orderly routine that I was never bored. I would attend school at the Hub with all the other faction dependents. After school I would either go to the Erudite Headquarters and peruse the stacks with my friends, picking out books at random to pour over, or go to my father's private lab and conduct my own experiments, or wander the city (a habit that neither of my parents approved of). I was an only child, but never lonely.

At the age of twelve every Erudite dependent is expected to attend two night classes a week in a course of their choosing. This is to help us decided on what future careers we are suited for after initiation. And this is where I veered sharply from the path of getting one of those jobs. And it was all because of Alexander Ferraris.

He was like my gateway drug into the differing version of me. I had heard about him in the papers and from my father since I was ten years old. Alexander was a child prodigy, even by Erudite standards. He finished public faction schooling when he was ten, instead of the regular sixteen and then went on to study chemical engineering. On top of that, he took every single elective night course Erudite had to offer. Naturally at his choosing ceremony, he chose to stay with Erudite and became the youngest engineer ever employed at the research facility. But what shocked everyone was that when he turned seventeen he began teaching night courses in sociology as well.

I was fifteen the first time I met Alexander in person. Or Professor Ferraris as I had to call him at the time. I had already taken every elective night course in core science that was available, and was not happy about having to take social science. Humans never fascinated me quite like chemistry did. I was slouched in the theatre style seat, close to the back of the room, a lemon lime soda at my feet and tapping my pencil impatiently when he strode in the door. He was so young, as young looking as some of the initiates, yet he moved through room with the confidence that every fully- fledged member Erudite seemed to carry. He set a pristine briefcase down before straightening his navy tie, and giving the lecture hall of two hundred plus students a small smile.

Chatter about his arrival had broke out around me: "I heard that he is only eighteen!" "This is his second year teaching, my brother had him last year and said he's amazing" "That man could read the cafeteria menu and I'd still listen"

The had talking abruptly stopped when he said, "Good evening class, my name is Professor Ferraris, and I will be teaching you Sociology 104: Human Stimulants."

I remember straightening in my seat as my mind became perked with interest. Chemistry dealt with stimulants, and how the brain reacted to them. This class would just be a continuation about how the rest of the body would react too. Thinking that maybe this class wouldn't be quite so bad after all I perched in my seat, fully attentive. I remember every word of that lecture. Because it was like nothing I had ever heard before. There were no monotone speeches about finite answers and universal results. Professor Ferraris spoke of the exceptions, the possibilities, the infinite, and it lit a spark within me.

"What are some human stimulants?" he had questioned the class.

My peers had studiously responded with answers such as 'caffeine, adrenalin, and allergens.'

Professor Ferraris had shaken his head with a crooked smile on his face, as if he had expected those very answers. "While you are all correct, I meant emotional stimulants." I could feel the entire class' faces fill with puzzled expressions. He continued, "music, poetry, art, love are all stimulants."

And I remember with vivid clarity the dead silence that had followed his statement. Erudites were not immune to emotion, we were still human after all and it is in human nature to feel. But as our leader, Jeanine Mathews has stated, 'human nature is the root of all evil', so our faction tended to favor logic over emotion. And what Professor Ferraris had been explaining felt slightly rebellious, and very forbidden.

And so I raised my hand.

He had looked surprised, but gestured for me to speak.

"But is it not the point to avoid these stimulants to decrease the risk of sentiment?" I had asked, comforted by the knowledge that many of my peers appeared to be thinking along the same lines.

His smile had become slightly more genuine, "Sentiment is unavoidable. And if exercised properly, should be encouraged."

My fifteen-year-old self could not understand his reasoning. Everything that I had read had told me that human's fallibility lied in sentiment- it was Helen and Paris' love that started the Trojan War, Rome's greed that defeated their empire, plain bloodlust that ignited World War III. Some of the teenage relationships I had witnessed at school where males had manipulated females sexually, only later to snub them had determined to me that even in this perfected society, sentiment was the enemy.

So I uttered a phrase that I'd been raised to despise, "I don't understand."

Professor Ferraris' smile never left his face. "Humans crave approval and acceptance. We work harder to gain respect from others. When others challenge us, we seek to do better. These sentiments all stimulate the human body. But so do abstract things, like art, literature, music- they inspire us."

"Inspire us to do what?" a boy near the front of the classroom had asked.

"Anything," Professor Ferraris had answered.

And now that I'm reflecting back on this moment, I recognize that with that statement, he had lit a spark within me. I was still logical, I probably always will be. But his words were so appealing- it was like he just given me the key to a thousand locked doors. If sentiment were a stimulant, which provided infinite results, I would have to explore this concept further. Which is exactly what I did.

I had left the class in a pensive mood, and spent the night quietly thinking over his lecture in my mind. My parents never disturbed me while I was in my room because the expectation was that I would be concentrating on learning. The next day at school I had remained quieter then usual, choosing to observe the students from other factions interact around me. Which sentiments they were displaying, why and what would it achieve them?

The Amity dependents clad in their rust red and yellow clothing were the easiest to deduce. I don't think they had a manipulative bone in their bodies. They strived for laughter and comfort. Their singing at lunchtime provoked happiness, and their constant touching reassured a familial bond. Sentiment made them calm. In many ways, like the professor had said, that was a positive trait.

My eyes had searched through the grey clad stiffs of Abnegation. They never looked at their reflections in the windows, they never quite met your eye while speaking, and they were the first to help you, even when it was not really needed. They strived to help others. Their motivations were purely internal, but once again positive, even if I would never quite understand them.

The stark black and white uniforms of the Candor dependents never usually caught my eye, but their mouths did. I had always believed that Candor was the simplest faction. A person, who is honest all the time, must not have anything of interest to hide. Erudites kept secrets, we liked to believe that we knew or noticed everything, some things which should never be said aloud. Candors argued, but they also listened to each other. Competitiveness, along with pride was their stimulant.

And finally my eyes strayed to the last faction outside of my own. One would think people clad in mostly black attire would fade in, but the Dauntless dependents wouldn't allow it. With their brightly coloured hair, multiple piercings and loud or unexpected movements, they were always noticeable. It was easy to determine the sentimental stimulants in Dauntless; like Candor they were motivated by competitiveness and pride. But they held themselves differently. As if they were at complete ease with their bodies and minds, totally and completely free. Before their gruff exteriors had stifled my curiosity, now it intrigued me.

After observing the other factions at school, I had decided to return to Erudite Headquarters and continue exploring Professor Ferraris' hypothesis (because surely it was not a proven theory). Music, literature, art he had said, all provoked sentiment. I began with art. I poured over art history books, my eyes greedily scanning each image. And in those moments I lost myself to a sentimental feeling. The stories each image told were powerful and my emotions shifted with each turn of the page. Some of the pieces built a fierce yearning in me- I wanted to bathe in the sea, I wanted to fly without restraint, I wanted to question the muses, I wanted my emotions to reflect the ones staring stark and unashamed in front of me in the pages. He was right- I was inspired. I could think of a hundred different machines to create in order to fly unrestricted, or work on discovering a new water source to submerge myself in. I had even wanted to inflict my persona on people around me in some kind of social experiment.

But Erudites were not supposed to feel such candid emotions when it came to work. We were curious and resourceful. We sought out knowledge just to know it, make new inventions for sport. We did not do these things because of sentiment. This new knowledge of art and the feelings that accompanied it had awoken fervor within me. I wanted more. Sentiment had become a drug that I would become addicted to- and as with all addictions it became dangerous.

I neglected my experiments at my father's lab and research with my friends after school in favour of digging through art books. They had fascinated me and my own reactions to them also intrigued me. I was hooked on the feelings aroused within me by these images. Each picture that was displayed- nature, family, love, lust, violence and death reeled me in. I had spent the rest of the weekend quietly exploring my newest fascination. My parents did not question what I was studying as long as I looked busy, which I was.

I remember being so excited for the next lecture I arrived early, wanting to show Professor Ferraris my discoveries- that I now understood his reasoning and shared an interest. I waited for him outside of the lecture-hall, my backpack heavily leaning against my feet. I had heard his purposeful footsteps before I saw him. I watched him arrive with intrigue. His sharp navy suit looked almost too mature against his youthful features. He didn't wear glasses like most of the Erudite males, which better showcased shockingly blue eyes. His olive skin and slightly curled raven hair combined with his last name hinted at original Italian origin. Not that origin mattered anymore- only faction.

He had looked surprised to see me there, but smiled. "Good evening, I remember you from my last lecture."

I remember feeling slightly nervous, but like any other member of my faction, I knew how to disguise the anxiousness with confidence. "Good evening Professor, my name is Lyra James." I held out my hand to shake.

And now that I am completely familiar with what his facial expressions, I recognize that he was intrigued by me.

He shook my hand and offered a crooked smile. "Is there anything I can help you with Miss James?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I did some research on emotional stimulants." He had looked slightly surprised, probably due to the obvious skepticism I displayed the week before. "And I've been amazed at what I've found. I have only really begun exploring Renaissance art so far, but its brilliant!"

His eyes had brightened at that statement, making him look even more youthful than eighteen. We had continued chatting until more students flooded the building, waiting on his lecture. And after my research, I was eagerly waiting on it too. He spoke of how abstract concepts affect each person differently. His words were zealous, revealing that even though he was an engineer, this was his true passion. I remember being surprised at how obvious he was with his interest. How was this not frowned upon? But then again, being a genius had clearly given him more privileges then the rest of us.

For three weeks I had gone to lectures early, and left late so I could speak to him about art. The same passion he had for the subject mirrored in my own eyes. It wasn't until the fourth week that I had realized my attraction to him. It happened before class when he was fervently describing Botticelli's The Birth of Venus that I had found myself studying him. His features were almost perfectly symmetrical; he had prominent cheek- bones, beautiful colouring, and full lips for a man. I hadn't even realized my staring until he had stopped talking and was tilting his head curiously at me. I had blushed, agreed with whatever he had said and rushed into the lecture hall.

And his words that I normally clung to did not penetrate my mind that night. I was too busy self-diagnosing. I knew logically that sexual attraction would happen to me sometime soon. I was nearing the end of puberty at almost sixteen, and my hormones had not yet calmed down. But to actually feel the tingling in my belly, the sweat of my palms, the raised flesh on my neck was a new experience. I knew that if I had looked in the mirror, my pupils would have been dilated too.

It was logical for me to be attracted to him. He was handsome, intelligent, we shared a common interest and he held authority. But for that very last reason he was forbidden. And something very un-Erudite melted in my stomach at the thought of that. But I was bordering sixteen and didn't know how to deal with my attraction, so for the first time in weeks I had left the lecture on time, blending into the sea of my peers before he could stop me.

I still diligently pursued my art research, but I was distracted by my thoughts about him. One night I found myself doing something I had never done before- I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, staring at my naked body. Erudites are not particularly vain, caring far more for intellect than appearance, but we did take a small amount of pride in keeping our outer shells immaculate. I remember looking over my body with a critical eye. I was of average height for my age with pale skin and light green eyes. My natural hair was midnight coloured and curly, but when I turned thirteen my mother informed me that curly hair looked uncouth, and so it was chemically straightened once a month. My raven locks were cut into a sleek bob, which matched my mother's auburn one. My body was proportioned well, the promise of more prominent curves to come. But my cheeks still held a child's fullness, and I lamented the fact that someone older and smarter than me would never return my attraction.

And I remember giving myself a strict scolding as I pulled my clothes back on. That I should not have been letting a man effect me so much. I resolved to ignore my attraction because I truly enjoyed our discussions. But that advice was harder to follow as the next night class drew closer. I hadn't shown up early that night to chat. And when I had sat down in my regular seat, I felt his electric eyes on me. I listened to every word throughout his lecture, but also worked up the courage to linger behind after class like I normally would.

As the class had drawn to a close, I remained in my seat as the rest of the students fled to the doors, with only one or two pupils staying behind to ask questions. And after they had cleared the room, I finally moved towards him."

"I do not understand your theory about humans. If heartbreak causes such painful emotions then why do we chase after love knowing its effects?" I had questioned, keeping my interest purely professional. Once again I did not realize the truly intimate nature of that question.

Professor Ferraris had stayed silent for a moment, observing me. I had held down the impulse to fidget. He smiled slightly, "Love is an addiction. Once you have had it, you crave it. And even though it can ruin you, you always want it."

I must have had a wide- eyed stare because he chuckled and put his hand on my lower back, guiding me to the exit, "Come to my office, I have some art I want to show you."

Tingles of nervous anticipation had scuttled down my spine and my face warmed at the contact he had made. I had bit my inner cheek to stop myself from blurting out how technically inappropriate this was.

His office had two large windows and a huge desk covered with books and papers. The walls were painted a calming blue. It was a large space for a professor of only one night class. But he had a reputation, and was an asset to the school which apparently came with perks.

"Would you like anything to drink Lyra? Coffee? Tea?"

I had shuffled my feet standing awkwardly just inside the door. "Coffee please."

He smiled at me before pressing some buttons on a new-modeled coffee machine. "You don't mind if I call you Lyra, do you?"

I had shook my head, and took a few more steps into the room, my eyes cataloging everything.

"You can call me Alexander too, you know. Just not in class."

My head had abruptly snapped away form the map of South Africa to his face. I studied him curiously.

"I'd like to think that these conversations we have been having outside of the classroom make us more friends than acquaintances," he explained.

I had smiled at him, "I agree." My heart was beating at a faster than average pace.

"Good!" he said before handing me a mug of coffee, and then rooting through a pile of books on his desk. "This is what I wanted to show you," he said, smoothing out the edges of a worn piece of paper.

I was riveted by what I saw on the paper. Men and women in disarray. Violence, death, sexuality.

"Its Poussin's Rape of the Sabine Women," Alexander had informed.

I remember my reverent curiosity abruptly turned sour at the word 'rape'. I had never admitted my fascination with the bleaker and most primal parts of human nature out loud before. And even with Alexander as my comrade in art, I still didn't. The difference to me was that some violence was justifiable, rape never was.

Alexander and I had discussed the painting, while drinking our coffees. After I finished mine, I had hurried home, hoping my parents wouldn't ask what took me so long. Lucky for me, my father was spending his night at the lab, and my mother apparently been emergency called in to the hospital that she worked at.

I began meeting with Alexander on weekends in his office, where he introduced me to more art, and then gradually poetry. I was hooked. My friends never questioned where I was, they were more interested in their own lives, and my parents were more married to their work then each other, or me. And as for Alexander- he could have lit a library on fire and still wouldn't be kicked out of the faction.

It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and we were both perched near his sun filled windows. Alexander read poetry to me from a crumbling leather journal. And I can remember the poem exactly because of the way it had sounded on his lips:

"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps."

My pulse was hammering and a visible shudder had racked through my body. "What poem is that?"

His eyes had bore into mine, and I met his stare. "It's the first stanza of one of Pablo Neruda's love sonnets." The blue in his eyes were steadily taken over by black as he looked at me. I'm sure mine had looked the same.

One of his hands left the book on his lap and gently pushed a lock of my pin-straight hair behind my ear. "When do you turn sixteen Lyra?"

Sixteen: the year of legal adulthood. On April twenty-first (the first day of the new year) every sixteen year old would take part in the Choosing Ceremony. My birthday was in May, so I would be almost seventeen when I chose my faction. "May second, why?"

Alexander's voice was heavy with something that I hadn't yet recognized as desire, "That is only two months away… I can wait two months."

"Wait for what?"

His blue eyes had been so intense. I had almost wanted to look away, but was ensnared.

"To kiss you."

Two months had never passed so slowly. But as torturous as they had been, they were amazing too. The anticipatory tension between us was driving both my mind and body crazy. Every innocent touch seemed to linger with intent. Every stray glance was loaded. Every word was intense.

My birthday had fallen on a Thursday, a day I attended his night class. I had a nice dinner with my parents, and was even gifted tiny diamond studs.

"The stone that reflects light," my mother informed me.

Thankfully I was in Erudite, or else my parents might have excused me from class to celebrate with my friends. But naturally school came before birthday celebrations, and I couldn't have been more grateful.

I hadn't made it to lecture early due to my family dinner. When I had planted myself in the familiar seat and organized my tablet, I looked up to meet Alexander's blue eyes. He sent me a sly smile, and I had blushed, but smiled back just the same. I impatiently listened to his lecture, and eagerly waited for the rest of my classmates to disappear when it was over.

Alexander hadn't spoken a word to me when he approached. He had just taken my hand and led me to his office, closing and locking the door behind us. When I turned around he had a painting of Young Lovers on a Swing with a small slice of chocolate cake and a single lit candle in it. I had turned back to him, my heart beating in my ears and goosebumps trailing up my spine.

"Happy birthday Lyra," he had said before gently cupping my face and kissing me.

A/N: Hi everyone, hope you enjoyed the first chapter! There won't be any Eric for a couple of chapters (maybe 2 more) as I need to establish Lyra's back-story.

Please Review and let me know what you think!

: ) Nyx