Page 34 of The Sixth Fraction

Don’t think, I tell myself. Just jump.

I tilt forward, and fall. All I feel is the racing of my heart. The drop of my stomach. Rushing air. The horror of the street surging toward me.

I hit the ground, and there’s a moment of blinding pain before I open my eyes, and find myself standing in the simulation room of Dauntless headquarters.

I run a hand over the back of my neck to wipe off the sweat there. I’m breathing hard and tasting copper. I bit my tongue.

The simulation room is intended to be a blank slate, the stone walls rough and unadorned. Its metal door is closed. I don’t bother to wait for my heart to slow down before nudging it open with my shoulder.

The antechamber is round and squat, with a low stone ceiling that sometimes makes me feel like hunching over. At its center is a metal crucible so big I couldn’t get my arms around it if I tried, simulated flames burning in the middle of it.

When we take new initiates in here to get acquainted with the Dauntless simulation generator, they have to stick their hands in the fire, which won’t burn them but looks like it might. The expression on their faces is always priceless.

In my opinion, though, this is the heart of Dauntless. This is where our connection to the faction’s mission of eradicating fear is at its purest. We face our fears here. We face ourselves here.

I reach out and let the flames dance over my fingers. They don’t feel like anything, but if I ask for another fear simulation, they’ll give me one. I drag my free hand over my forehead to wipe off sweat. I’ve probably had enough for one day.

I hear running footsteps, and a second later Uriah bursts into the room. He gives the flames an uneasy look. No surprise—most people feel nervous in the simulation room. When a place holds all your worst fears, it’s only natural to dread going there.

“Thought I might find you here,” he says, breathless. “You gotta come to the training room. There’s trouble.”

I’ve known Uriah for awhile. He’s my best friend’s little brother. He’s eager and clumsy as a puppy, but he doesn’t usually exaggerate.

I sigh. “All right.”

Most of the time, this is where I work. Every Dauntless has to go back to the simulation room twice a year, and in between, they usually schedule a couple practice sessions. I’m the one who conducts them. But for the three months of Dauntless initiation, I’m an instructor. Specifically, I teach the transfer initiates, the ones who came from other factions. And this year, there’s almost always trouble.

I jog after Uriah down a few dark passageways, following the bright orange of his shoelaces. We emerge at the top of the steps that wrap around the Pit; an underground hub for Dauntless activity with a deep chasm at the very bottom. All along its spiraling edge is the market, where you can find pretty much anything you need—provided that what you need, on top of the usual necessities, is an endless supply of black clothing and body modification.

I stay close to the wall. I may not be as high up as I was in my fear simulation, but I would still die if I fell off the edge here. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, you know,” Uriah calls over his shoulder. “That Peter guy, as usual.”

I roll my eyes. Peter, a Candor-born initiate who’s always flanked by his favorite lackeys, has made me uneasy from the start. Since our leaders made Dauntless initiation more competitive with a limited number of slots, it’s really brought out the worst in some people. Even the initiates who aren’t sadistic assholes are wound tight.

Uriah goes on: “Peter challenged one of the girls—that other Candor—to fight him, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Cornered her. That’s when I went to find you.”

We reach the bottom of the Pit, where a group of kids are standing at the railing, looking down into the water that flows through the chasm. We turn right and run toward the training rooms.

The largest training room is cavernous, with equipment on each wall—targets for shooting practice; mats for grappling; punching bags, gloves, and wraps for boxing; weights for strength training. There are three white circles painted on the ground—the fighting arenas. There’s a crowd gathered around the farthest one.

Peter—tall and pale, with dark brown hair and a perpetual smirk—stands over the fallen form of Christina—also tall, her skin dark brown and her black hair in four thick braids against her scalp—who’s spitting blood on the training room floor. It took Uriah a few minutes to get to me, which means Christina must have held her own for a while before she went down. Impressive. I should make sure she moves up a rank.

Gathered all around the arena are the other initiates, some of them looking outraged, others just interested. The outraged ones are held back from intervening by Peter’s lackeys: Molly, the strongest of all the girls, and Drew, squirrelly but volatile.

Peter, the ringleader of it all, is drawing his foot back to kick Christina in the ribs when I speak up.

“Excuse me,” I say.

Everyone goes quiet. Peter lowers his foot and looks up at me. His hair is sticking to his forehead, and his eyes are bright with what looks to me like glee. My heart races, but I keep my voice level.

“What exactly is going on here?” I step closer.

The initiates gathered in front of me step out of my way, leaving me a clear path to Peter.

“Training,” Peter says, without a trace of shame. “Something wrong with that?”

“ ‘Training’ requires two voluntary opponents,” I say. “What you’re doing is called ‘being an asshole.’ ”