Determinant: One choice will change everything

Chapter 16: Tobias - Anger

Chapter 16: Tobias – Anger

I can't remember the last time I felt this angry without a specific reason, as if I'm furious with the entire world. With my father and whoever scarred Peter like that and with every person who's ever inflicted that kind of violence on a child. With everyone who's stood by and kept quiet, allowing the violence to continue. With the rebels who founded our city and left us festering in a faction system that promoted silence and secrets and lies and hatred. With the NUSA government I've never even seen that drove them to do it in the first place. Even before that, with those who started the wars which led to the serum. With everyone.

I'm angry at myself too. If I'd been as good an instructor as Amar, I would have noticed the common theme in Peter's simulations. Maybe I could have helped him deal with his issues, helped him become a better person the way Amar helped me. Instead, I let him go, let him wallow in his dozens of fears because I didn't like him. And he took his fears out on Tris, attacking her because I did nothing to stop it.

I want to shred everything in sight with my bare fingers. Maybe I should use the punching bags, but there's something satisfying about those new guns – the machine gun that shoots over and over until the target has more holes than paper, and the cannon gun that blasts the entire target with a single shot. That's the kind of destruction I want to render right now.

But there's not much left on the wall, and it's obvious why. The other group is still in the shooting ranges. They haven't broken for lunch yet, and in that moment my fury extends to them too as they stand in my way. Particularly since I know who's in that group. I saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with Caleb as if he must be in charge of anyone connected to Abnegation. And he went with Tori and George, walking quietly with the others like he thought I didn't notice him.

Some distant, objective part of my brain knows I'm far too out of control to face him now, but I grab the largest gun left on the wall and head in that direction anyway. And Peter follows me. I'm not even sure why I invited him. It's not as if I want to talk to him, and I'm certainly not a role model he should be following at the moment.

But I couldn't just leave him there, not after the way he was exposed to the whole group. Amar would never have done that if he'd known, if I'd done my job well enough to know to warn him. Instead, I stood there worrying about myself, about having to expose my skin to strangers, as if that's the worst thing in the world. The self-indulgence of it makes me sick.

I march into the shooting gallery without slowing down, my eyes looking wildly for Marcus. He stands at the fifth range, over halfway across the room, waiting his turn with that false patience, the look of a good Abnegation member, and suddenly all my fury is focused on him. My fingers grip the gun so tightly it might break, and my other hand balls into a fist, ready to strike. I'm halfway there when Lauren blocks my way, pushing a hand against my chest as she moves in front of me. Her eyes are wide with concern. It's no wonder. I'm sure I look like a maniac.

"What's wrong?" she asks, trying to catch my attention, and suddenly I'm reminded of how she kept me with the initiates after Tris stormed away from the fear landscape so long ago. She wanted to calm me down so I wouldn't hurt anyone – so I wouldn't hurt Tris. I didn't look like this then, did I? The thought reaches me through the anger, and I stop. I pull my eyes away from Marcus and force myself to look at Lauren, breathing deeply.

"I just want to shoot," I say desperately. She nods and steps toward a Dauntless man who's currently firing. She taps him on the shoulder and then pulls him away, gesturing me forward to take his place.

I'm vaguely aware of the silence growing around me, and I know people are turning to look, but I ignore them. I reach for ammunition, only to realize there's none here for the gun I'm holding, so I stand there breathing harshly, trying to calm down.

Someone reaches for the gun in my hand, offering me another in its place, and I hear Tori's voice saying, "Here. This one is loaded." I look down, meeting her eyes for the first time since she had me beaten in the Erudite dormitory. There's understanding in them. She knows what it's like to feel this angry, and in this moment, there's no judgment or enmity between us.

"Thanks," I say simply. And then I take the gun and turn toward the target. The Dauntless man claps the ear protectors on my head, and I finally begin firing, feeling calmness spread through me gradually as I loose shot after shot at the target.

When I finish, the room is empty except for me and Peter. He's practicing with the machine gun, and I actually smile at the sight. I'm sure he only picked it because I claimed first dibs earlier. He didn't really seem interested in it before.

He stops after another moment, looking at me with that expression I can only describe as Peter. We both remove our ear protectors, and he says, "So, is it necessary to make that kind of entrance every time, or is the shooting enough to calm down?"

I stare at him for a second, and then suddenly I'm laughing. "Well, at least this way they'll be talking about us equally," I finally say.

"Yeah," he mutters, looking away uncomfortably. "I suppose there's that."

"Nevertheless," I say after another moment, "I've found that shooting does help, and punching bags, and working out in general. Amar is right about that."

Peter shrugs. "Personally, I've found that killing the bastard helps more, but I guess that's just me."

I stare at him, realizing he's serious. "When?" I ask.

He looks away. "Right after he gave me the big one," he says, gesturing over the largest knife scar on his stomach. "He passed out drunk and left me bleeding to death…and I decided not to die."

I nod. Judging by how old the scars looked, Peter was probably only eight or nine at the time. I remember how much I wanted to kill my father then, particularly after I thought my mother had died. I was sure he'd killed her, and I fantasized so much about revenge I don't even remember anything else from that age. So, no, I can't really blame Peter.

"Should we put these back?" he asks, holding up the machine gun, and I nod again.

"Yeah, we'd better clean up after ourselves." With a little smile, I add, "Since I think a couple of people might know we were the last ones here…."