Free Four - Tobias tells the Divergent Knife-Throwing Scene

Free Four - Tobias tells the Divergent Knife-Throwing Scene
Veronica Roth

Fans of the Divergent series by No. 1 New York Times bestselling author Veronica Roth will be thrilled by the knife-throwing scene from Divergent, now told from Four’s perspective.This brief story explores the world of the Divergent series through the eyes of the mysterious but charismatic Tobias Eaton, revealing previously unknown facets of his personality, backstory and relationships.

COPYRIGHT (#ulink_dba14b16-3b20-54e5-a8de-5bb1fdf68dbf)

FREE FOUR: TOBIAS TELLS THE DIVERGENT STORY.

Copyright © 2012 by Veronica Roth.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780007550180

Version: 2016-08-31

CONTENTS

Cover (#udfdf2b3c-cefa-5bc7-9cda-134a4da31eaf)

Title Page (#u1449b604-27e7-5615-8c65-3214dfd9d625)

Copyright (#u3defa245-37b9-5c66-85b3-1cddf0b43441)

Free Four: An Introduction (#u46424ea6-f989-56af-aa4b-af895ff3155b)

Free Four: Tobias Tells the Divergent Story (#u8bb1f585-eeef-51f2-b0ae-7480fe2a1077)

Excerpt from Divergent (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt from Insurgent (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Back Ads (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Veronica Roth (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

FREE FOUR: AN INTRODUCTION (#ulink_f3798b0d-6ed2-597c-9551-488ed089b302)

As part of the lead-up to Insurgent’s publication, I agreed to retell a scene from Divergent from a different point of view: Four’s. Part of what makes Four interesting as a character, to me, is this wall he puts up between himself and other people. Writing from his perspective meant taking down that wall to see what was really behind it, which I thought would be difficult. Strangely, it wasn’t. I think I spent a lot more time in Four’s head than I realized, though I was always writing from Tris’s perspective. I sort of knew how he sounded and what he thought about things. (Obviously it still took a lot of work, but I wasn’t stuck like I thought I might be.)

The biggest challenge was actually choosing the right scene—one that could give the most interesting insights into his character and his relationships. I really wanted to choose something that would change our (I say “our” because it changed mine, too) perceptions about the story and show how limited Tris’s perspective really is, though she is a reliable and observant narrator. I went through the whole book with sticky notes, searching for my best options, and I vacillated between two of them for about a day before landing on the right one. This was really good for me, because it gave me a fuller understanding of Four’s character and what he was going through while Tris was an initiate. I’m confident that some things in this scene will surprise you, because they definitely surprised me.

—Veronica Roth

FREE FOUR: TOBIAS TELLS THE DIVERGENT STORY (#ulink_66c64df3-f1ba-5e41-b4bc-2bd7eb95ca38)

I WOULDN’T HAVE volunteered to train the initiates if not for the smell of the training room—the scent of dust and sweat and sharpened metal. This was the first place I ever felt strong. Every time I breathe this air I feel it again.

At one end of the room is a slab of wood with a target painted on it. Against one wall is a table covered with throwing knives—ugly metal instruments with a hole at one end, perfect for inexperienced initiates. Lined up across from me are the faction transfers, who still bear, in one way or another, the marks of their old factions: the straight-backed Candor, the steady-eyed Erudite, and the Stiff, leaning into her toes so she’s ready to move.

“Tomorrow will be the last day of stage one,” Eric says.

He doesn’t look at me. I hurt his pride yesterday, and not just during capture the flag—Max pulled me aside at breakfast to ask how the initiates were doing, as if Eric was not the one in charge. Eric was sitting at the table next to mine at the time, scowling into his bran muffin.

“You will resume fighting then,” Eric continues. “Today, you’ll be learning how to aim. Everyone picks up three knives, and pay attention while Four demonstrates the correct technique for throwing them.” His eyes fall somewhere north of mine, like he is standing above me. I straighten up. I hate when he treats me like his lackey, like I didn’t knock out one of his teeth during our own initiation.

“Now!”

They scramble for knives like factionless kids over a spare piece of bread, too desperate. All except her, with her deliberate movements, her blond head slipping between the shoulders of taller initiates. She doesn’t try to look comfortable with the blades balancing on her palms, and that is what I like about her, that she knows these weapons are unnatural yet she finds a way to wield them.

Eric walks toward me, and I back away by instinct. I try not to be afraid of him, but I know how smart he is and that if I’m not careful he’ll notice that I keep staring at her, and that will be my undoing. I turn toward the target, a knife in my right hand.

I requested that the knife-throwing be taken from the training curriculum this year, because it serves no actual purpose other than fueling the Dauntless bravado. No one here will ever use it except to impress someone, the way I will impress them now. Eric would say that dazzling people can be useful, which is why he denied my request, but it’s everything I hate about Dauntless.

I hold the knife by its blade so the balance is right. My initiation instructor, Amar, saw that I had a busy mind, so he taught me to tie my movements to my breaths. I inhale, and stare at the target’s center. I exhale, and throw. The knife hits the target. I hear a few of the initiates draw breath at the same time.

I find a rhythm in it: inhale and pass the next knife to my right hand, exhale and turn it with my fingertips, inhale and watch the target, exhale and throw. Everything goes dark around the center of that board. The other factions call us brutish, as if we don’t use our minds, but that is all I do here.

Eric’s voice breaks my daze. “Line up!”

I leave the knives in the board to remind the initiates of what is possible, and stand against the side wall. Amar was also the one who gave me my name, back in the days when the first thing initiates did upon arriving in the Dauntless compound was go through our fear landscapes. He was the sort of person who made a nickname stick, so likable that everyone imitated him.

He’s dead now, but sometimes, in this room, I can still hear him scolding me for holding my breath.

She doesn’t hold her breath. That’s good—one less bad habit to break. But she has a clumsy arm, awkward as a chicken leg.

Knives are flying but, most of the time, not spinning. Even Edward hasn’t figured it out, though he’s usually the quickest, his eyes alive with that Erudite knowledge-craving.

“I think the Stiff’s taken too many hits to the head!” Peter says. “Hey, Stiff! Remember what a knife is?”

I don’t usually hate people, but I hate Peter. I hate that he tries to shrink people, the same way Eric does.

Tris doesn’t answer, just picks up a knife and throws, still with that awkward arm, but it works—I hear metal slam against board, and I smile.

“Hey, Peter,” Tris says. “Remember what a target is?”

I watch each of them, trying not to catch Eric’s eye as he paces like a caged animal behind them. I have to admit that Christina is good—though I don’t like giving credit to Candor smart-mouths—and so is Peter—though I don’t like giving credit to future psychopaths. Al, however, is just a walking, talking sledgehammer, all power and no finesse.