Page 159 of The Sixth Fraction

“You need to delete the attack simulation data from the system, so there’s no record of the past few hours,” Caleb says.

I have to stall. I have to give Tris enough time to face her fear simulation and surface from it.

“Right,” I say. “Because there’s a whole elaborate plan to frame me for all of this. Marcus Eaton’s messed-up son exacts revenge on Abnegation using his position as a simulation technician and his connections to the factionless—that’s the story, right?”

“I don’t know.” Caleb pushes the gun harder into my head. “My job was to get my father out and then find my way back here to scrub the record. That’s all.”

“But there’s a little problem, isn’t there? Because I’m here, and you didn’t expect me to be here.”

I can’t be sure, but I think his grip on the gun falters a little.

“Delete the data, Eaton.”

“I don’t think—”

There’s a clicking sound as he pulls back the hammer of the gun. “Do it.”

I can’t delay any longer. I put my hands in the flames, watching the light dance around my fingers. There’s a buzz in my head as I connect to the system, which feels familiar, almost comforting, like the Dauntless computer is an old friend.

“Delete all records from the past two hours,” I say, and the computer recognizes me, as usual. Later, when they look at its logs, they’ll see that data was deleted from the system, and they’ll see that I did it. Just another piece of evidence they’ll use to frame me.

“Good. Now I need to confirm it. Tell it to show me the records from this morning,” Caleb says.

I do, this time without speaking. The flames turn briefly blue, as they do whenever a requested log isn’t found.

The simulation data is gone. Tris is still standing across from me, her eyes glazed, caught in her fear simulation.

I’m done with what he told me to do. And there’s still a gun to my head.

Chapter 58

Tris

I open my eyes, and I’m in a field.

It’s unlike any field I’ve seen before. My life has been a cityscape, concrete and metal and glass. Even as a child, when I visited Amity with other Abnegation, their fields were orderly, the crops planted in tidy lines with enough space to walk between the plants. This field, though, is wild. Overgrown grass and wildflowers, thistles and low bushes, dead trees with crooked branches twisting into the sky.

The sky is the sickly yellow color of an approaching storm, the clouds heavy with rain. Wind blows hard against my face, pressing my clothes tight to my body. I hear a bird cawing, and turn my head to see a crow perched on one of the dead tree branches. It turns its head to look me in the eye, and caws again.

This fear simulation isn’t like the other one. I feel panic clawing at me like a hand around my throat, but I don’t know why. Everything around me is still and quiet. But I know something is coming, and I know it will be bad.

I hear something behind me. A soft clatter. And the rough, rhythmic squawking of an entire flock of crows, distant but unmistakable. I look over my shoulder to see them, an oblong shape in the air that twists and writhes as they vary their flight pattern.

Then they dive. I throw my arms over my head to shield my face. A beak pecks at my arms; talons cling to my hands, my shoulders, the back of my neck. They prick at my skin. A bird caws right in my ear, like a demand. I scream, and shake out my hand violently, trying to throw one of them off, but that only leaves my cheek vulnerable to another beak.

Feathers brush against my arms, and a bird wriggles beneath my elbow to peck at my head. I scream again, and fall to my knees, wrapping myself into an even tighter ball. I know I’m panicking. I know I need to think. But all I can do is sob into my knees, into the grass, as they shriek and squawk and chatter all around me.

It’s not real, I remind myself. It’s not real.

It’s not real, but I don’t know what to do. There’s no gun to shoot, no escape hatch to open to get me away from this place and away from the wriggling, pecking, poking, clawing of these birds. There’s nothing I can do.

There’s nothing you can do, I say to myself, and it feels, somehow, like wisdom.

There’s nothing you can do. I force my arms to unwind from my head. Birds scratch at my cheeks, they peck at the corner of my eye, their feathers jab into my ears.

There’s nothing you can do. I breathe deep, and tip my head back to the sky. All I can see, when I open my eyes, is feathers.

The pain is fierce and biting, but I’m far away from it.