Four/Tobias Eaton Imagines

Still Dauntless

Dauntless initiation is tough. Dauntless initiation is dangerous. To be fair, so are you.

However, it doesn't appear that the other transfers see it that way. It's strange- you've done nothing to upset them, nothing to show that you're any more of a target than any of the others. Yet their sly glances and pointing fingers remain.

This morning, however, you've grown sick of it. You came to Dauntless to feel powerful, and having this motley assortment of kids barely big enough to fit in their standard issue black slacks whisper about your strengths behind your back isn't worth it. Technically, you shouldn't be doing anything to single yourself out in front of the initiation instructors, but you're not afraid of either of them. Specifically, you're not afraid of Four.

Your relationship with Four is a complicated one. For someone who seems to pride himself on not being like the other Dauntless, on being strong and brave because of his morals and not in spite of them, he still seems willing to get close to you. You've found yourself talking with him late into the night many times, and it still surprises you. Is this really the same man who has some of the other initiates whispering in fear?

If anyone, he'd support you in taking back your pride from the other initiates. You've seen his quiet glances across training rooms, behind glaring faces, down two tables or three in the cafeteria. Sometimes, it's like the two of you talk in an entirely different language, one only the two of you can understand. A slight raise of his hands while you're fighting means that you need to keep your guard up, a flex of his wrists means that you need to fix your posture while you're throwing knives. It's as if you can read his mind and see him reading yours, which is why you know he'd have your back if you ended up disobeying rules during initiation to prove a point to the other initiates.

So, when you find yourself on the outskirts of drills yet again during initiation, you know that you'll have to do something. The day itself is fairly innocuous- everyone's lined up in front of punching bags, practicing their form. You'll spend another few minutes here before you switch to direct matches in the fighting rings.

Your knuckles are already faintly splotched with green and purple bruises, both from the punching bag and from the matches of the previous days. Honestly, you don't know what you've done to get on the nerves of some of the other initiates. You mind your own business, aren't a total pushover, and are firmly lodged in the middle half of the initiate rankings, so it's not like you're going anywhere. You've proven yourself time and time again, yet it seems that you're still not good enough to them.

The murmurs come soon enough, they always do. It starts as a single word under a quiet breath, then picks up steam like a locomotive and spreads on a hawk's wings around the room. You swear that you could see the individual words soaring up to the rafters, tangling themselves up in the beams and wires of the ceiling before swooping down to nestle in the ears of everyone there. Sometimes, you're not even sure that some of the whispered words are even about you, but enough of them are that you'd damn the rest. Is everything not black and bloody here? Is there truly space for kind words amongst the mess?

You keep your fists in position. One hit, two hits, three. Keep your guard up, angle your wrists. Thumbs on the outside, don't hurt your hands. The punching bag sways in front of you, and the chain links tying it to the ceiling clink with every brutal hit. One hit, two hits, three. If you stay with the drills, will the voices go away?

Then you hear it at last- your name, plucked from the rest like a fresh fruit. You can hear it from the lips of a particularly troublesome trainee, and turn it over and over in your mind like a polished stone until you swear that it loses all meaning to you. Y/N is weak. Y/N isn't brave like the rest of us. Y/N is. Y/N isn't. Y/N.