Page 63 of The Sixth Fraction

“Thanks,” he says, and he walks out of the alley. With a glance over his shoulder, he’s gone.

Chapter 21

Tris

Factionless self-defense lessons are held every afternoon, right before dinner, in a lightless room on one of the Rookery’s upper floors. Unlike the morning runs and the field trips, they’re optional.

I’ve watched people train before, running in circles to warm up, then going over technique, sparring with each other, doing exercises to build up their strength, stretching. I wasn’t allowed to start until I could get on and off a train with some reliability, so today is my first day.

I put on some clothes the Mender gave me, soft and loose and easy to move in, and lace up my boots. My hair is pulled back but not pinned tight to my head; I stopped that when I stopped dressing like an Abnegation girl. I can feel it swinging back and forth as I walk, the ponytail brushing the nape of my neck.

What few windows there were in the training room are boarded up now, but the sun still glows behind them like they’re on fire. Gretchen gives me a look when I join Colin and Rory at the back of the group but doesn’t say anything.

Thanks to the mandatory daily runs I’ve been going on, the warm-up isn’t difficult, though I have to listen to Colin and Rory bicker the whole time. Then we gather around to watch a demonstration on how to break out of a rear choke hold—chin down, grab arm, step forward, throw.

I realize right away that I’m not going to be able to do it. We split off into groups to practice, and I give Colin an uneasy look.

“I can’t throw you,” I say.

Colin isn’t that tall, for a boy, but he’s still a lot taller than I am. And Rory towers over us both.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yesterday was all about groin kicks, that would have been better for you.” He winces a little. “Wasn’t fun for me, though.”

“Little spy!” Gretchen calls out. She beckons to me. “Come here.”

Gretchen leads me away from the group, closer to one of the windows. I can feel the heat from outside emanating from the wood boards that seal us off from the world. Gretchen is taller than I am—as tall as Rory, maybe—and sturdier, her hair dark and her cheeks perpetually pink. She crosses her arms and looks down at me.

“It’s Tris, right?” she asks, and I nod. “What are you hoping to get out of this, Tris?”

She’s giving me a critical look, one eyebrow raised. I remember the way Colin reacted to me wanting to try for the Foxes: with immediate doubt. Calling me small and weak.

“Listen, you’re welcome to join us for conditioning and strength training, but I don’t want to waste your time,” she says. “There are some things skill just can’t overcome. If I go up against an opponent who’s a lot bigger than I am, even if they’re a lot worse than I am, do you know what I’m gonna do?”

I shake my head.

“Run,” she says, her eyes intent on mine. “Your best bet is to be as quick as possible.”

“But,” I say, “you can’t always run, can you? What if you get cornered?”

“Then you scream as loud as you can,” Gretchen says. “But overall, your goal should be to not get cornered. Be quick, be evasive, don’t get into a position where you have to fight someone who’s bigger than you, because Tris . . . everyone is bigger than you.”

Anger burns in my cheeks, in my chest.

“So you think, in a crisis, I should either run like a coward or scream for help,” I say. “On the off chance that someone bigger and stronger than me is around. Those are my only options.”

“The goal is survival,” Gretchen says. “This isn’t Dauntless; we don’t care about flashy displays of technique here. You want to be a Fox, find some other useful skill to practice, to make up for your lack in this area. But otherwise . . . don’t waste your time with this stuff.”

Tears prick at my eyes. I’ve never been one to cry when I’m sad, but I always cry when I’m angry. It’s like anger is this force of nature inside me, and it demands release. And since all anyone has ever told me to do is control myself, I guess the only release possible is through tears.

I blink them back. Gretchen puts a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” she says. “There’s a lot of ways to be useful here. It’s like a body—not everything’s an arm or a leg. Every part does its job. Every part is important.”

Yeah, I think. But I’m pretty sure you’d rather lose a finger than an arm.

“My feelings aren’t hurt,” I say coldly. “I just don’t agree with you.”

Gretchen takes her hand away. She shrugs.