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Divergent: Tobias' POV (3)Part 5: Chapter 10, pgs. 109-111
I fold my arms and look at Peter. His eyes gleam, like he can’t wait to knock Tris out. I see her swallow; I see her gather from within herself all the courage she can muster.
Eric taps his foot, impatient for the fight to begin and end. I, on the other hand, want to freeze this moment in time forever. She’ll try the hardest she can, but it won’t help a bit.
“You okay there, Stiff?” Peter says to Tris, “You look like you’re about to cry. I might go easy on you if you cry.”
A voice inside my head tells me that I can’t let her get hurt, I can’t. But I silence that voice. Life isn’t easy. I want to see her try and lose. I want her to hurt, because then she’ll pick herself back up. In the end, she’ll be stronger.
“Come on Stiff,” Peter says, his eyes glinting. “Just one little tear. Maybe some begging.”
I see anger surge through her. She kicks him, but he g
Divergent: Tobias' POV (2)Part 3: Chapter 7, pgs. 62-69
Lauren and the Dauntless born initiates dissolve into the shadows, and I turn towards the faction transfers, scrutinizing each one of them in turn. Half are from Erudite. The other half is from Candor, oddly enough. Maybe it requires bravery to be honest all the time. I wouldn’t know.
I keep my face placid, no emotion. That is my best armour, and it alone is enough for them to know that I’m not one to be messed with.
“Most of the time I work in the control room, but for the next few weeks, I am your instructor. My name is Four.”
A copper skinned girl with chin length black hair frowns at me, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Four? Like the number?”
I give her an icy glare and raise my eyebrows. “Yes. Is there a problem?”
“Good. We’re about to go into the Pit, which you will someday learn to love. It–”
The girl snickers. “The Pit? Clever name.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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