Breathe
For: scribble_myname
From: lithiumlaughter
Title: Breathe
Fandom: Divergent Trilogy
Rating: Low Teen [mild language, insinuated and off-screen violence, underage drinking]
Author's Notes: The lovely scribble_myname -- I had a feeling that I'd end up getting you *grins* -- wanted something from the Divergent series, specifically focusing on the relationship between Amar and Four as laid out in "Free Four" (where, let us remember, it's pointed out that back in the day, fear simulations were done right at the start. I point this out so it doesn't come across as an inconsistency) For you, ma belle. Enjoy.
The smallest of hat-tips is made to "Fight Club". As should be assumed, no copyright infringement is intended. Just a demonstration of love for the source material.
They tell us on the train to the compound that we'll be put through our paces right from the start.
"First thing you're gonna do is face your fears head on," a guy, about five years older than the rest of us, yells over the wind. He's solidly built, has fairly dark skin and black, black eyes. He'd been introduced to us as Amar.
He refuses to say any more, explaining the details only once we've reached our destination. We're all buzzing hard from the train jump, the compound jump, and everything that we know is about to happen, so we (or at least I) only half hear it as he tell us about how fear simulations work.
"Who's first?" Amar asks once he's done, his glance sweeping across the room.
I grit my teeth and step forward. Is it because I have something to prove? Hell yes. I'm not only a transfer, I'm an Abnegation transfer. And that's not even taking in to account my family - a whole other mess. I need to do this before I lose the bravado my adrenaline is lending me.
Amar's only reaction is to raise an eyebrow. "Alright then," he says, picking up the syringe. "Let's get inside that head of yours then."
***
I come out of my fear landscape what feels like ages later, willing my body to be still and my breathing to be less ragged. I'm not ready to say anything. I'm not ready to talk about what happened while I was under. I just want to close my eyes and fade away to nothing. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me, and then make good on it.
There's nervous chuckles all around.
Laugh it up, I think bitterly. You're all next.
Amar cocks his head to the side when I finally do manage to look up at him, and there's the beginnings of a smile there beneath the stubble on his face.
"Four fears," he says, and I think he's impressed. "Four. "
From that point on, I'm not Tobias. I'm not Marcus' son -- what I feared I would always be known as -- I'm Four.
***
I'm good at sparring.
My relatively skinny build fools people, at least at first, and I use their assumption of my weakness to my advantage. Elbows, knees, fist, drive, drive, drive. Any body part can be a weapon if you move it right.
Once everyone figures out exactly what I can do, people are wary of me. It's smart of them. Sixteen years of repression is being given a physical outlet and there's no way I'm not going to take advantage of it any chance I get.
Today, right now, my foot's at Eric's neck and my breath is coming in heavily. Not as heavily as his though. He's been telling people otherwise, but Eric still isn't quite fast enough to keep up with me.
"Yield," I say. As soon as he says it back, the fight will be over. Dauntless rules: bouts go on as long as they've got to, but end as soon as someone gives.
He twists his head a little, and I put more pressure on his windpipe to remind him of where he is. Don't give me a reason, Eric. Don't.
He doesn't struggle any further though; he just spits to the side, a mess of red staining the floor. It looks like there's a couple teeth there too. For good or ill, I take a mild satisfaction in this.
"Yield," Eric repeats.
I lift my foot and he rolls to the side.
Amar is standing to the side, leaning against the wall. "Alvarez, Chris, you're up," he calls, and I clear the arena for the next combatants.
Eric, choking on a cough, glares at Amar. I brush some dirt of my shoulder and watch the next fight.
***
The one thing I have trouble with is knife-throwing. It bothers me more than it should, I know, but I want to do something about it. I'm going to.
I sneak in to the practice room during our free time. It's empty and the knives are still on the table, thank God. I want to get this. I want to do this right.
I take a couple knives, and I throw and I throw and I throw and I throw and I still can't seem to get it.
"You're not going to hit a target if you keep on like that," a voice behind me says. I'm a little surprised, but I don't flinch. I need to feel competent, and not-flinching is one of the things I do best.
Thanks Dad.
The voice is familiar. I turn around to look at Amar, who is standing in the doorway. He walks forward and shuts the door behind him.
"So what am I doing wrong?" I ask. It's a little more callous than I ought to be with the guy who's overseeing my training, but I've spent too much time throwing and missing to make nice.
Amar takes a deep breath, looking at me carefully and crossing his arms. "There's nothing wrong with the way you're holding the knife, or how you're standing. Your problem is you think about it like it's sparring."
"What?"
"You're trying to throw like you fight: trying to be three steps ahead, trying to outthink an opponent."
My confusion has to show, because he purses his lips. "Just watch me."
He takes one of the knives from the table, and it looks like he's weighing it in his hand for a moment. He must like it, because he smiles before he comes and stands next to me.
"You keep struggling against the knife. You're trying to force it." He does a few feints with the knife, a quick twist. "The knife isn't something you need to fight. It wants to work for you. You've just got to guide it."
He looks directly at the target, there's a second of absolute silence, and then the blade flies from his hand. It strikes at the exact centre of the aged wooden target across the room.
"How is that different from what I do?" I ask.
Amar rubs at his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Do me a favour. Close your eyes and take a deep breath."
It isn't as if I have anything to lose, so I do as he says.
"Keep your eyes closed and keep breathing until I tell you to stop."
I do.
I don't know how long he has me breathing. For the first little while, I'm antsy. I want to be doing something. My brain is scattered everywhere and it's moving too fast: Mom Dad divergence knife test results family knife.
There comes a point where it all starts to quiet. It's not a click or a switch or anything. Everything feels like it's melted into a puddle in a back corner of my mind and there's this...not peace, but something that's other. Other, and good.
"Now open your eyes and take one more breath," Amar says. His voice is far away, even though I can see him right there in my peripheral vision. "Throw on the exhale."
My lungs inflate.
I draw back.
I see the target.
My arm extends.
I release.
My lungs deflate.
There's a thwack noise, and I blink back some surprise. The knife isn't at the centre of the target, not near Amar's, but it's closer than I've ever gotten before. He chuckles.
"Not bad," he says.
***
It's getting easier and easier to get to that quiet place. I go there a lot, actually. It's safe and maybe even comforting.
I'm better at throwing knives. Better to the point where my instructor notices, and where I challenge everyone else in the group in terms of skill.
Eric's knife sits just shy the centre of the target. I throw mine at the same one, and it sticks that precious half-inch to the left. I've hit the centre.
He looks at me, mouth puckered as he taps a knife against his thigh. "Nice shot," he bites out.
The compliment is an insult hidden beneath civility and we both know it. I want to snipe back with words just as passive-aggressive. Amar is looking on from the corner though -- he's come to observe today -- so I say nothing. This isn't what he taught me to for.
I pick up another knife and feel the weight of it in my hand, retreat into the quiet, breathe deep, and throw.
***
Initiation day has come and gone. I'm full-fledged Dauntless now.
I've just finished getting a tattoo. More specifically, my third. The first were the words from the Dauntless Manifesto that had felt so right from the first time I heard them: we believe in ordinary acts of bravery. The Dauntless symbol was the second. I'd gotten it on my initiation day. This third one is the Abnegation symbol, set right below the Dauntless one.
I'm pulling on my shirt when Amar manages to sneak up behind me.
"Nice ink," he says, and I yank my shirt down hard. Turning to face him, I see he's rubbing gently at a bandage on his left forearm. He's just gotten a new tattoo as well. That must be how he knows what I've gotten done. He was probably in the booth right next to the one I'd been in. We leave the parlor, walking side by side.
"You know," Amar says, thoughtfully, eyeing my back for a split second. "I was a transfer too. Erudite."
I've never heard a Dauntless specify that they were a transfer, never mind a transfer saying where they'd originally come from. If you left, that was it. Faction before blood and all that. I probably shouldn't even have gotten the Abnegation hands put on me, but the tattoo artist, Tori, hadn't batted an eyelash when I asked. I realize that I should have found that bizarre, but Amar's words seem more important at this point in time.
I ask Amar way too many questions, but he's opened the door for this one and I genuinely want to know. "Why are you telling me this?"
He looks right at me, and there's a split second where all logic goes out the window and I'm terrified that he can see everything. "Being different isn't bad, Four."
My heart stops and I do my best to step carefully. In this particular instance, the best step to take is to say nothing at all. Could he know? How? Amar shrugs, but it's like the gesture is secondary to the fact he's still looking at me. "It's only what it says on the tin. Different. It's not good or bad. Some people are fine with it, and some aren't. That's all."
And then I'm talking before I can think it through, cursing myself as the bitter words fall out. "It's not that easy, and you know it. People who aren't okay with differences--"
"Yeah, well," Amar chuckles, and it's the first time I've ever wanted to use the word 'darkly' to describe anything he's ever said. "If you ever find out how to deal with them, let me know."
We have to be talking about different things. We've got to be.
And yet I can't help but wonder.
***
It's lunchtime, and guy who looks to be about eighteen, maybe a couple years older, rushes in the main door of the mess hall.
"There's a body," he yells, loud enough to get everyone's attention, and the volume in the room has suddenly been turned down to whispers. The news-bringer continues. "Amar. He's dead, over on the pavement by the tracks."
I have never been shell-shocked before. I survived the loss of my mother. I survived my father and his idea of child-rearing. I survived Dauntless training. I have seen and lived awful things. I have never been shell-shocked.
I am shell-shocked now.
Amar is dead.
***
Amar's funeral is strange. It happened quickly, almost right after the discovery of his body. It's Dauntless through and through: fast, effective, and harsh.
I don't feel mournful, which means I ought to be fitting in just fine with whatever it is that's going on around me. The Dauntless do not mourn. It's not in their nature. Instead of grief, there is celebration. A Dauntless funeral is, apparently, a celebration of the deceased's life.
I'm not fitting in at all.
Instead of joining in the 'revelries', I'm standing off in a corner, trying to find the quiet because it's better than the numbness that's starting to fill me.
I'll never know if Amar knew the full truth about who I am. What I am. I'll never know if he was...was one too.
"Hey," a girl says, siding up to me. Her name is Kim: an initiate from the year before. She was trained by Amar too. She's got two bottles of beer in her hands, and presses one in to mine. "Here. Drink up."
I turn the bottle around in my hand, examining the label for no reason beyond it being something to look at that isn't the world around me.
"Cheers," Kim says, raising her drink up in a small salute. I do the same.
"Cheers," I reply hoarsely.
-Fin-
This fic is mirrored at
ineedmyfics.
From: lithiumlaughter
Title: Breathe
Fandom: Divergent Trilogy
Rating: Low Teen [mild language, insinuated and off-screen violence, underage drinking]
Author's Notes: The lovely scribble_myname -- I had a feeling that I'd end up getting you *grins* -- wanted something from the Divergent series, specifically focusing on the relationship between Amar and Four as laid out in "Free Four" (where, let us remember, it's pointed out that back in the day, fear simulations were done right at the start. I point this out so it doesn't come across as an inconsistency) For you, ma belle. Enjoy.
The smallest of hat-tips is made to "Fight Club". As should be assumed, no copyright infringement is intended. Just a demonstration of love for the source material.
They tell us on the train to the compound that we'll be put through our paces right from the start.
"First thing you're gonna do is face your fears head on," a guy, about five years older than the rest of us, yells over the wind. He's solidly built, has fairly dark skin and black, black eyes. He'd been introduced to us as Amar.
He refuses to say any more, explaining the details only once we've reached our destination. We're all buzzing hard from the train jump, the compound jump, and everything that we know is about to happen, so we (or at least I) only half hear it as he tell us about how fear simulations work.
"Who's first?" Amar asks once he's done, his glance sweeping across the room.
I grit my teeth and step forward. Is it because I have something to prove? Hell yes. I'm not only a transfer, I'm an Abnegation transfer. And that's not even taking in to account my family - a whole other mess. I need to do this before I lose the bravado my adrenaline is lending me.
Amar's only reaction is to raise an eyebrow. "Alright then," he says, picking up the syringe. "Let's get inside that head of yours then."
***
I come out of my fear landscape what feels like ages later, willing my body to be still and my breathing to be less ragged. I'm not ready to say anything. I'm not ready to talk about what happened while I was under. I just want to close my eyes and fade away to nothing. My knees threaten to buckle beneath me, and then make good on it.
There's nervous chuckles all around.
Laugh it up, I think bitterly. You're all next.
Amar cocks his head to the side when I finally do manage to look up at him, and there's the beginnings of a smile there beneath the stubble on his face.
"Four fears," he says, and I think he's impressed. "Four. "
From that point on, I'm not Tobias. I'm not Marcus' son -- what I feared I would always be known as -- I'm Four.
***
I'm good at sparring.
My relatively skinny build fools people, at least at first, and I use their assumption of my weakness to my advantage. Elbows, knees, fist, drive, drive, drive. Any body part can be a weapon if you move it right.
Once everyone figures out exactly what I can do, people are wary of me. It's smart of them. Sixteen years of repression is being given a physical outlet and there's no way I'm not going to take advantage of it any chance I get.
Today, right now, my foot's at Eric's neck and my breath is coming in heavily. Not as heavily as his though. He's been telling people otherwise, but Eric still isn't quite fast enough to keep up with me.
"Yield," I say. As soon as he says it back, the fight will be over. Dauntless rules: bouts go on as long as they've got to, but end as soon as someone gives.
He twists his head a little, and I put more pressure on his windpipe to remind him of where he is. Don't give me a reason, Eric. Don't.
He doesn't struggle any further though; he just spits to the side, a mess of red staining the floor. It looks like there's a couple teeth there too. For good or ill, I take a mild satisfaction in this.
"Yield," Eric repeats.
I lift my foot and he rolls to the side.
Amar is standing to the side, leaning against the wall. "Alvarez, Chris, you're up," he calls, and I clear the arena for the next combatants.
Eric, choking on a cough, glares at Amar. I brush some dirt of my shoulder and watch the next fight.
***
The one thing I have trouble with is knife-throwing. It bothers me more than it should, I know, but I want to do something about it. I'm going to.
I sneak in to the practice room during our free time. It's empty and the knives are still on the table, thank God. I want to get this. I want to do this right.
I take a couple knives, and I throw and I throw and I throw and I throw and I still can't seem to get it.
"You're not going to hit a target if you keep on like that," a voice behind me says. I'm a little surprised, but I don't flinch. I need to feel competent, and not-flinching is one of the things I do best.
Thanks Dad.
The voice is familiar. I turn around to look at Amar, who is standing in the doorway. He walks forward and shuts the door behind him.
"So what am I doing wrong?" I ask. It's a little more callous than I ought to be with the guy who's overseeing my training, but I've spent too much time throwing and missing to make nice.
Amar takes a deep breath, looking at me carefully and crossing his arms. "There's nothing wrong with the way you're holding the knife, or how you're standing. Your problem is you think about it like it's sparring."
"What?"
"You're trying to throw like you fight: trying to be three steps ahead, trying to outthink an opponent."
My confusion has to show, because he purses his lips. "Just watch me."
He takes one of the knives from the table, and it looks like he's weighing it in his hand for a moment. He must like it, because he smiles before he comes and stands next to me.
"You keep struggling against the knife. You're trying to force it." He does a few feints with the knife, a quick twist. "The knife isn't something you need to fight. It wants to work for you. You've just got to guide it."
He looks directly at the target, there's a second of absolute silence, and then the blade flies from his hand. It strikes at the exact centre of the aged wooden target across the room.
"How is that different from what I do?" I ask.
Amar rubs at his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Do me a favour. Close your eyes and take a deep breath."
It isn't as if I have anything to lose, so I do as he says.
"Keep your eyes closed and keep breathing until I tell you to stop."
I do.
I don't know how long he has me breathing. For the first little while, I'm antsy. I want to be doing something. My brain is scattered everywhere and it's moving too fast: Mom Dad divergence knife test results family knife.
There comes a point where it all starts to quiet. It's not a click or a switch or anything. Everything feels like it's melted into a puddle in a back corner of my mind and there's this...not peace, but something that's other. Other, and good.
"Now open your eyes and take one more breath," Amar says. His voice is far away, even though I can see him right there in my peripheral vision. "Throw on the exhale."
My lungs inflate.
I draw back.
I see the target.
My arm extends.
I release.
My lungs deflate.
There's a thwack noise, and I blink back some surprise. The knife isn't at the centre of the target, not near Amar's, but it's closer than I've ever gotten before. He chuckles.
"Not bad," he says.
***
It's getting easier and easier to get to that quiet place. I go there a lot, actually. It's safe and maybe even comforting.
I'm better at throwing knives. Better to the point where my instructor notices, and where I challenge everyone else in the group in terms of skill.
Eric's knife sits just shy the centre of the target. I throw mine at the same one, and it sticks that precious half-inch to the left. I've hit the centre.
He looks at me, mouth puckered as he taps a knife against his thigh. "Nice shot," he bites out.
The compliment is an insult hidden beneath civility and we both know it. I want to snipe back with words just as passive-aggressive. Amar is looking on from the corner though -- he's come to observe today -- so I say nothing. This isn't what he taught me to for.
I pick up another knife and feel the weight of it in my hand, retreat into the quiet, breathe deep, and throw.
***
Initiation day has come and gone. I'm full-fledged Dauntless now.
I've just finished getting a tattoo. More specifically, my third. The first were the words from the Dauntless Manifesto that had felt so right from the first time I heard them: we believe in ordinary acts of bravery. The Dauntless symbol was the second. I'd gotten it on my initiation day. This third one is the Abnegation symbol, set right below the Dauntless one.
I'm pulling on my shirt when Amar manages to sneak up behind me.
"Nice ink," he says, and I yank my shirt down hard. Turning to face him, I see he's rubbing gently at a bandage on his left forearm. He's just gotten a new tattoo as well. That must be how he knows what I've gotten done. He was probably in the booth right next to the one I'd been in. We leave the parlor, walking side by side.
"You know," Amar says, thoughtfully, eyeing my back for a split second. "I was a transfer too. Erudite."
I've never heard a Dauntless specify that they were a transfer, never mind a transfer saying where they'd originally come from. If you left, that was it. Faction before blood and all that. I probably shouldn't even have gotten the Abnegation hands put on me, but the tattoo artist, Tori, hadn't batted an eyelash when I asked. I realize that I should have found that bizarre, but Amar's words seem more important at this point in time.
I ask Amar way too many questions, but he's opened the door for this one and I genuinely want to know. "Why are you telling me this?"
He looks right at me, and there's a split second where all logic goes out the window and I'm terrified that he can see everything. "Being different isn't bad, Four."
My heart stops and I do my best to step carefully. In this particular instance, the best step to take is to say nothing at all. Could he know? How? Amar shrugs, but it's like the gesture is secondary to the fact he's still looking at me. "It's only what it says on the tin. Different. It's not good or bad. Some people are fine with it, and some aren't. That's all."
And then I'm talking before I can think it through, cursing myself as the bitter words fall out. "It's not that easy, and you know it. People who aren't okay with differences--"
"Yeah, well," Amar chuckles, and it's the first time I've ever wanted to use the word 'darkly' to describe anything he's ever said. "If you ever find out how to deal with them, let me know."
We have to be talking about different things. We've got to be.
And yet I can't help but wonder.
***
It's lunchtime, and guy who looks to be about eighteen, maybe a couple years older, rushes in the main door of the mess hall.
"There's a body," he yells, loud enough to get everyone's attention, and the volume in the room has suddenly been turned down to whispers. The news-bringer continues. "Amar. He's dead, over on the pavement by the tracks."
I have never been shell-shocked before. I survived the loss of my mother. I survived my father and his idea of child-rearing. I survived Dauntless training. I have seen and lived awful things. I have never been shell-shocked.
I am shell-shocked now.
Amar is dead.
***
Amar's funeral is strange. It happened quickly, almost right after the discovery of his body. It's Dauntless through and through: fast, effective, and harsh.
I don't feel mournful, which means I ought to be fitting in just fine with whatever it is that's going on around me. The Dauntless do not mourn. It's not in their nature. Instead of grief, there is celebration. A Dauntless funeral is, apparently, a celebration of the deceased's life.
I'm not fitting in at all.
Instead of joining in the 'revelries', I'm standing off in a corner, trying to find the quiet because it's better than the numbness that's starting to fill me.
I'll never know if Amar knew the full truth about who I am. What I am. I'll never know if he was...was one too.
"Hey," a girl says, siding up to me. Her name is Kim: an initiate from the year before. She was trained by Amar too. She's got two bottles of beer in her hands, and presses one in to mine. "Here. Drink up."
I turn the bottle around in my hand, examining the label for no reason beyond it being something to look at that isn't the world around me.
"Cheers," Kim says, raising her drink up in a small salute. I do the same.
"Cheers," I reply hoarsely.
-Fin-
This fic is mirrored at
ineedmyfics.