Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THERE IS ONE mirror in my house. It is behind a sliding panel in the hallway upstairs. Our faction allows me to stand in front of it on the second day of every third month, the day my mom cuts my hair.

     I sit on the stool and my mother stands behind me with the scissors, trimming. The strands fall on the floor in dark rings.

     When she finishes, she pulls my hair away from my face and ties it into a neat knot. While she is distracted with my hair, I take a glance at the mirror, where I can see how calm she looks and how focused she is. She is well-practiced in the art of losing herself. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself.

     I trail my eyes down to look at my reflection, not for the sake of vanity but out of curiosity. A lot can happen to a person’s appearance in three months. In my reflection, I see a pale face, wide, round eyes, and a small thin nose–I still look like a little girl with my baby fat, though I did turn sixteen a couple of months ago. The other factions celebrate their birthdays, but we don’t. It would be self-indulgent.

     “There,” she says once she pins the knot in place. Her eyes catch mine in the mirror. It is too late to look away, but instead of reprimanding me, she smiles at our reflection. I frown a little. Why isn’t she scolding me for staring at myself?

     “So, today is the day.” She says softly.

     “Yes,” I reply, fidgeting with my hands.

     “Are you nervous?”

     I stare into my eyes for a moment. Today is the day of the aptitude test that will tell me which of the five factions I belong in. And tomorrow, at the Choosing Ceremony, I will decide on a faction; I will decide the rest of my life; I will decide to stay with my family or abandon them.

     “No,” I finally say. “The tests don’t have to change our choices.”

      “Right,” she says as she presses a kiss to my temple. “Now, let’s go get breakfast.”

     “Thank you,” I smile at her. “For cutting my hair.”

     She kisses my cheek once more and then slides the panel back over the mirror. My mother was originally from Erudite, a place where she didn’t have to hide how beautiful she was. And my mother was a beautiful woman. Her body is thin beneath her gray robes. She has high cheekbones and long eyelashes framing her pretty light colored eyes. And her hair is dark, and at night when she lets her hair down, it falls like waves over her shoulders. But she must hide her beauty in Abnegation.

     We walked together to the kitchen. On these mornings, when my mother makes breakfast and my father sets the table, we eat together happily—it is on these days I feel the guiltiest for wanting to leave them.

I meet up with my best friend, Beatrice, and her older brother, Caleb as we normally ride the bus together. The bus stinks of exhaust. Every time it hits a patch of uneven pavement, it jostles Beatrice and I from side to side, even though we’re both gripping our seats to keep us still.

     Caleb stands in the aisle, holding a railing above his head to keep himself steady. Neither him or Beatrice look alike. Beatrice had a narrow face, a long, thin nose, and wide eyes. Caleb had dark hair, a hooked nose, green eyes and dimpled cheeks. When we were younger, Caleb had looked strange but now his features suit him. I’m sure if he wasn’t Abnegation, the girls at school would stare at him.

     Caleb is also much more selfless than both me and Beatrice. He gave up his seat to a surly looking Candor man on the bus without a second thought.

     The Candor man wears a black suit with a white tie—Candor standard uniform. Their faction values honesty and sees the truth as black and white, so that is what they wear.

     The gaps between the buildings began to narrow and the roads are smoother as we near the heart of the city. The building that was once called the Sears Towers—we call it the Hub—emerges from the fog, a black pillar in the skyline. The bus passes under the elevated tracks. I have never been on a train, though they never stop running and there are tracks everywhere. Only the Dauntless ride them.

     Five years ago, volunteer construction workers from Abnegation repaved some of the roads. They started in the middle of the city and worked their way outwards until they ran out of materials. The roads where I live are still cracked and patchy, and it’s not safe to drive on them. I ride the bus with Beatrice and Caleb anyway.

     Caleb’s expression is placid as the bus sways and jolts on the road. The gray robe falls from his arm as he clutches a pole for balance. By the constant shifting in his eyes, I can tell he is watching the people around us—striving to see only them and forget himself. Candor values honesty, but our faction, Abnegation, values selflessness.

     The bus stops in front of the school and I get up, scooting past Beatrice and the Candor man. Beatrice grabs my arm when she stumbles over the man’s shoes. Her slacks are a bit too long but Beatrice has also never been that graceful.

     The Upper Levels building is the oldest of the three schools in the city: Lower Levels, Mid-Levels, and Upper Levels. Like all the other buildings around it, it is made of glass and steel. In front of it is a large metal sculpture that the Dauntless climb after school, daring each other to go higher and higher. Last year Beatrice and I watched one of them fall and break her leg. I was the one that sent Beatrice to go get a nurse while I sat with the Dauntless girl and waited.

     “Aptitude test today.” Beatrice breaks the silence. Caleb is not quite a year older than us, so we are in the same year at school.

     I watch as he nods as we pass through the front doors. I feel the nerves in my stomach coil uncomfortably the second we walk in. The atmosphere feels hungry, like every sixteen-year old is trying to devour as much as they can get off this last day. It is extremely likely that we will not walk these halls again after the Choosing Ceremony—once we choose, our new factions will be responsible for finishing our education.

     Our classes are cut in half today, so we will attend all of them before the aptitude tests, which take place after lunch. My heart rate is already elevated.

     “You aren’t at all worried about what they’ll tell you?” I ask Caleb, tilting my head as I bite my lower lip.

     The three of us pause at the split in the hallway where he will go one way, toward Advanced Math, and we will go the other, toward Faction History.

     He raised his brow at us. “Are you?”

     I bite my lip as I share a look with Beatrice, we’ve both confided in each other our worries about what the tests will tell us—Abnegation, Candor, Erudite, Amity, or Dauntless?

     I watch as Beatrice smiles and shakes her head. “Not really.”

     He smiles back. “Well…have a good day.”

     Beatrice and I walk towards Faction History, I look behind me where I see Caleb disappear behind a corner. He never answered the question.

     “Are you nervous?” Beatrice turns to look at me, anxiety brews in her eyes.

     The hallways are cramped, though the light coming through the windows creates an illusion of space; they are one of the only places where the factions mix at our age. Today the crowd has a new kind of energy, a last day mania.

     “Just a bit,” I answer honestly, Beatrice and I never hide anything from each other so there’s no point denying how I’m truly feeling. “I’m scared of what they’d tell me, what if they tell me I have to leave everything I’ve ever known behind?”

     Before Beatrice can answer, a girl with long curly hair shouts “Hey!” next to my ear, waving at a distant friend, her jacket sleeve smacks me on the cheek. A boy from Erudite wearing a blue sweater shoves Beatrice, she stumbles and loses balance, falling hard on the ground.

     “Out of my way, Stiff!” He snapped, and continued down the hallway.

     I reach down and help Beatrice up, curling my lips into a scowl as everyone watches us but no one helps. “What jerks.” I mutter, looking over Beatrice and making sure she’s all right. “Are you okay?”

     Beatrice huffs and smooths out her gray skirt. “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you? Your cheek is red.”

     My cheek did sting a little, I think that girl had a button or something, it hurt a bit more than a normal sleeve would. “Yeah, it just stings a little. Sometimes, it’s things like this that makes me want to leave a little more.”

     “Tell me about it.” Beatrice murmurs, casting her eyes down to avoid the eyes of everyone around her. Not for selflessness but for self-preservation. We can’t see you, you can’t see us.

     “Nothing is ever going to change,” I say as we continue our walk. “The Erudite have been releasing reports about us for years.”

     The gray clothes, the plain hairstyles, and the unassuming demeanor of our faction are supposed to make it easier for us to forget ourselves, and for others to forget us too. But now they make us a target.

     We pause by a window in the E Wing and wait for the Dauntless to arrive. We do this every morning. At exactly 7:25, the Dauntless prove their bravery by jumping from a moving train.

     Mr. Prior calls the Dauntless “hellions.” They are pierced, tattooed, and black-clothed. Their primary purpose is to guard the fence that surrounds our city. From what, I don’t know. My father used to be a Dauntless, a real disappointment when he transferred.

     My eyes cling to them wherever they go. I wonder what a metal ring through the nostril has to do with courage—which is a virtue they most value.

     The train whistle blares, the sound resonating in my chest. The light fixed to the front of the train clicks on and off as the train hurtles past the school, squealing on iron rails.  And as the last few cars pass, a mass exodus of young men and women in dark clothing hurl themselves from the moving cars, some dropping and rolling, others stumbling a few steps before regaining their balance. One of the boys wraps his arm around a girl’s shoulders, laughing.

     Watching them is a foolish practice. I turn away from the window and towards Beatrice, I grab her arm and I give her a gentle tug. “Come on, Bea. We have to go.” We press through the crowd to the Faction History classroom.

Chapter Text

THE TESTS BEGIN after lunch. We sit at the long tables in the cafeteria, and the test administrators call ten names at a time, one for each testing room. I sit beside Beatrice and across from us is our neighbor Susan.

Susan's father travels throughout the city for his job, so he has a car and drives her to and from school every day. He has offered both me and the Prior siblings a ride but I like taking the bus with Beatrice and Caleb would never allow them to accept a ride, no matter how convenient and faster it would be.

The test administrators are mostly Abnegation volunteers, although there is an Erudite in one of the rooms and a Dauntless in another to test those of us from Abnegation, because the rules state that we can't be tested by someone from our own faction. The rules also say that we cannot prepare for the test in any way, so I don't know what to expect.

My gaze drifts away from Susan to the Dauntless table across the room. They are laughing and shouting and playing cards. At another set of tables, the Erudite chatter over books and newspapers, in constant pursuit of knowledge.

A group of Amity girls in yellow and red sit in a circle on the cafeteria floor, playing some kind of hand-slapping game involving a rhyming song. Every few minutes I hear a chorus of laughter from them as someone is eliminated and has to sit in the center of the circle. At the table next to them, Candor boys make wide gestures with their hands. They appear to be arguing about something, but it must not be serious, because some of them are still smiling.

At the Abnegation table, we sit quietly and wait. Faction customs dictate even idle behavior and supersede individual preference. I doubt all the Erudites want to study all the time, or that every Candor enjoys a lively debate, but they can't defy the norms of their factions any more than I can.

Caleb's name is called in the next group. I watch as he moves confidently toward the exit. Neither I nor Beatrice wish him luck or assure him everything will be okay. He knows where he belongs. And I'm sure he's always known. I met him and Beatrice when I was four, he was scolding Beatrice for not giving her jump rope to me on the playground since I had nothing to play with, I of course made a deal with her and we've been friends ever since, Caleb has been like a brother to me as well. He doesn't scold her as much anymore, but we've got his look of disapproval memorized.

Beatrice and I have tried to explain that our instincts are not the same as his—it didn't even occur to me to give my seat to the Candor man on the bus—but he doesn't understand. "Just do what you're supposed to," he always says. It is that easy for him. It should be that easy for us. But it's not and I don't think it ever will.

My stomach curls into a knot of nerves and I feel like throwing up. I close my eyes and lean against Beatrice, ten minutes later Caleb comes back.

He is plaster-pale. He pushes his palm along his legs like Beatrice does when she's nervous and has to wipe her sweat off her palms, I notice his fingers shake. I see Beatrice look at him and open her mouth, maybe to ask him if he's alright but no words come out. She closes her mouth again. She is not allowed to ask him about his results, and he is not allowed to tell us.

An Abnegation speaks the next round of names. Two from Dauntless, two from Erudite, two from Candor, two from Amity, two from Abnegation. Beatrice and Susan are called. 

Another ten minutes pass and Beatrice doesn't come out, my name is called with another person. I stand with shaky legs, I'm nervous about the test and I'm nervous about why Beatrice left early. Did something happen?

I follow the other girl, Cynthia, to the exit. I feel like there is a bubble in my chest that expands the more I walk, threatening to break me apart from the inside.

Waiting for us outside the cafeteria is a row of ten rooms. They are used only for the aptitude tests, so I have never been in one before. Unlike the other rooms in the school, they are separated, not by glass, but by mirrors. I watch myself, pale and anxious, walking towards one of the doors. Cynthia grins nervously at me as she walks into room 5 and I walk into room 6, where a dauntless woman waits for me.

She is not as severe-looking as the young Dauntless I have seen. She has small, dark, angular eyes and wears a black blazer—like a man's suit—and jeans. It is only when she turns to close the door that I see a tattoo on the back of her neck, a black-and-white hawk with a red eye. "Your tattoo," I blurt out, nervous by the silence. She turns to me. "Does–does it mean something?"

She raises a thin brow and I flush embarrassed, I clear my throat and look away. Mirrors cover the inner walls of the room. I can see my reflection from all angles: the gray fabric obscuring the shape of my back, my flushed neck, and my trembling fingers. The ceiling glows white with light. In the center of the room is a reclined chair, like a dentist's, with a machine next to it. It looks like a place where terrible things happen.

"Don't worry," the woman says. "It doesn't hurt."

Her hair is black and straight, but in the light I see it is streaked with gray.

"Have a seat and get comfortable," she says. "My name is Tori."

Shakily I sit in the chair and recline, putting my head on the headrest. The lights hurt my eyes and I get a headache. Tori busies herself with the machine on my right. I try to focus on her and not on the wires in her hands.

"So, why the hawk?" I couldn't help but blurt out as she attached an electrode to my forehead.

"Second curious Abnegation I've met," she says and I flush.

Curiosity is a betrayal to our Abnegation values. I shouldn't be asking too many questions but I can't help but ask, "Second Abnegation?"

She raises a brow at me with a tiny smile. "Yes, second." She says nothing more about the other Abnegation.

Humming a little, she presses another electrode to my forehead before explaining, "In some parts of the ancient world, the hawk symbolized the sun. Back when I got this, I figured if I always had the sun on me, I wouldn't be afraid of the dark."

I bit my lip to stop myself from asking another question but the curiosity was too big and I blurted, "you're afraid of the dark?"

"I was afraid of the dark," she corrects me. She pressed the next electrode to her own forehead, and attached a wire to it. She shrugs. "Now it reminds me of the fear I've overcome."

She stands behind me. I squeeze the armrest so tightly that my knuckles go pale. She tugs the wires toward her, attaching them to me, to her, and to the machine behind her. Then she hands me a vial of clear liquid.

"Drink this," she says.

"What is it?" My throat is suddenly very dry and I swallow hard. "What's going to happen?"

"Can't tell you that. Just trust me."

How do you trust someone you've barely met? Holding my breath, I toss the vial back and into my mouth. My eyes close.

When my eyes open again, an instant has passed, but I am somewhere else. I stand in the cafeteria again, but all the long tables are empty, and I see through the glass walls that it's snowing. On the table in front of me are two baskets. In one is a hunk of cheese, and in the other, a knife the length of my forearm.

Behind me, a woman's voice says, "Choose." 

"Why?" I ask.

"Choose." She repeats.

I look over my shoulder, but no one is there. I turn back to the baskets. "What will I do with them?"

"Choose!" She yells.

The moment she screams at me, my fears disappear and stubbornness replaces it. I square my shoulders and cross my arms with a scowl. I've never been good at doing what I'm told.

"Have it your way." She says.

The baskets disappear. I hear a door squeak and turn to see who it is. I see not a 'who' but a 'what'. A dog with a pointed nose stands a few yards away from me. It crouches low and creeps towards me, its lips peeling back from its white teeth. A growl gurgles from deep within its throat, and I see why the cheese would have come in handy. Or the knife. But it's too late now.

I think about running, but the dog will be faster than me. I can't wrestle it to the ground, my arms are thin and weak right now. My head pounds. I have to make a decision. If I can jump over one of the tables and use it as a shield—no, I'm too short to jump over the tables, and not strong enough to flip one over.

The dog snarls, and I can almost feel the sound vibrate in my skull.

My biology textbook said dogs can smell fear because of a chemical secreted by human glands in a state of duress, the same chemical a dog's prey secretes. Smelling fear leads them to attack. The dog inches towards me, it's nails scraping against the floor.

I can't run. I can't fight. Instead I breathe in the smell of the dog's foul breath and try not to think about what it just ate. There are no whites in its eyes, just a black gleam.

What else do I know about dogs? I shouldn't look it in the eyes. It's a sign of aggression. I remember asking my dad for a pet dog when I was younger, and now, staring at the ground in front of the dog's paws, I can't remember why. It comes closer, still growling. If staring into its eyes is a sign of aggression, what's a sign of submission?

My breaths are loud and steady, I sink to my knees. The last thing I want to do is lie down on the ground in front of the dog—making its teeth level with my face—but it's the best option I have. I stretch my legs out behind me and lean on my elbows. The dog creeps closer, and closer, until I feel its warm breath on my face. My arms are shaking.

It barks in my ear, and I clench my teeth to keep from either screaming or flinching away.

Something rough and wet touches my cheek. The dog's growling stops and when I lift my head to look at it again, it is panting. I scrunch my nose in disgust when I realize the dog licked me. I slowly wipe the dog drool off and sit on my knees. The dog props its paws on my thighs and licks my chin. I cringe and wipe the drool from my skin. I let out a laugh of relief. The snarling dog was gone and in its place was something much more calm.

"You're not such a vicious beast, are you?"

I get up slowly so I don't startle it, but it's practically a different animal. I stretch out my hand carefully so I can draw it back if I need to. The dog nudges my hand with its head. I am suddenly glad I didn't pick up the knife.

I blink, and when I open my eyes, a child stands across the room wearing a white dress. She stretches out both hands and squeals, "Puppy!"

As she runs toward the dog at my side, I open my mouth to warn her, but I am too late. The dog turns. Instead of growling, it barks and snarls and snaps, and its muscles bunch up like coiled wire. It's about to pounce. I don't breathe, I don't think, I just jump; I hurl my body on top of the dog, wrapping my arms around its thick neck.

My head hits the ground. The dog is gone, and so is the little girl. Instead I am alone—in the testing room, now empty. I turn in a slow circle and can't see myself in any of the mirrors. I push the door open and walk into the hallway, but it isn't a hallway; it's a bus, and all the seats are taken. 

I stand in the aisle and hold on to a pole. Sitting near me is a man with a newspaper. I can't see his face over the top of the paper, but I can see his hands. They are scarred, like he was burned, and they clench around the paper like he wants to crumple it.

"Do you know this guy?" he asks. He taps the picture on the front page of the newspaper. The headline reads, "Brutal Murderer Finally Apprehended!" I stare at the word "murderer." It has been a long time since I last read that word, but even its shape fills me with dread.

In the picture beneath the headline is a young man with a plain face and a beard. I feel like I do know him, but I don't remember how. And at the same time, I feel like it would be a bad idea to tell the man that.

"Well?" I hear anger in his voice. "Do you?"

A bad idea—no, a very bad idea. My heart pounds and I clutch the pole to keep my hands from shaking, from giving me away. If I tell him that I might know the man from the article, something bad will happen to me. But, maybe I can convince him that I don't. I can clear my throat and shrug my shoulders—it wouldn't exactly be a lie. Because I don't know if I know that man, I just have this feeling that I do or that I'm supposed to.

I clear my throat.

"Do you?" he repeats.

I shrug my shoulders. Not a lie—I really don't know.

"Well?"

A shudder goes through me. My fear is irrational; this is just a test, it isn't real. "I don't know." I try to keep my voice casual. "I'm not sure."

He stands, and I finally see his face. He wears sunglasses and his mouth is bent into a snarl. His cheek is rippled with scars, like his hands. He leans close to my face. His breath smells like cigarettes. Not real, I remind myself. This isn't real. 

"You're lying," he says. "You're lying!"

"I am not."

"I can see it in your eyes."

I square my shoulders and narrow my eyes. "No, you cannot."

"If you know him," he says in a low voice. "You could save me. You could save me!"

I inhale deeply and grit my teeth. "Well," I exhale harshly. "I'm sorry that I don't know."