just be friends or lovers or siblings, defined instead by the choices we make and the love and loyalty that binds us.
"Better check on him," Cara says, nodding to Tobias.
"Yeah," I say.
I cross the room and stand in front of the windows, staring at what we can see of the compound, which is just more of the same glass and steel, pavement and grass and fences. When he sees me, he stops pacing and stands next to me
instead.
"You all right?" I say to him.
"Yeah." He sits on the windowsill, facing me, so we're at eye level. "I mean, no, not really. Right now I'm just thinking about how meaningless it all was. The faction system, I mean."
He rubs the back of his neck, and I wonder if he's thinking about the tattoos on his back.
"We put everything we had into it," he says. "All of us. Even if we didn't realize we were doing it."
"That's what you're thinking about?" I raise my eyebrows. "Tobias, they were watching us. Everything that happened, everything we did. They didn't intervene, they just invaded our privacy. Constantly."
He rubs his temple with his fingertips. "I guess. That's not what's bothering me, though."
I must give him an incredulous look without meaning to, because he shakes his head. "Tris, I worked in the Dauntless control room. There were cameras everywhere, all the time. I tried to warn you that people were watching you during your initiation, remember?"
I remember his eyes shifting to the ceiling, to the corner. His cryptic warnings, hissed between his teeth. I never realized he was warning me about cameras—it just never occurred to me before.
"It used to bother me," he says. "But I got over it a long time ago. We always thought we were on our own, and now it turns out we were right—they left us on our own. That's just the way it is."
"I guess I don't accept that," I say. "If you see someone in trouble, you should help them. Experiment or not. And . . . God." I cringe. "All the things they saw."
He smiles at me, a little.
"What?" I demand.
"I was just thinking of some of the things they saw," he says, putting his hand on my waist. I glare at him for a moment, but I can't sustain it, not with him grinning at me like that. Not knowing that he's trying to make me feel better. I smile a little.
I sit next to him on the windowsill, my hands wedged between my legs and the wood. "You know, the Bureau setting up the factions is not much different than what we thought happened: A long time ago, a group of people decided that the faction system would be the best way to live—or the way to get people to live the best lives they could."
He doesn't respond at first, just chews on the inside of his lip and looks at our feet, side by side on the floor. My toes brush the ground, not quite reaching it.
"That helps, actually," he says. "But there's so much that was a lie, it's hard to figure out what was true, what was real, what matters."
I take his hand, slipping my fingers between his. He touches his forehead to mine.
I catch myself thinking, Thank God for this, out of habit, and then I understand what he's so concerned about. What if my parents' God, their whole belief system, is just something concocted by a bunch of scientists to keep us under control? And not just their beliefs about God and whatever else is out there, but about right and wrong, about selflessness? Do all those things have to change because we know how our world was made?
I don't know.
The thought rattles me. So I kiss him —slowly, so I can feel the warmth of his mouth and the gentle pressure and his breaths as we pull away.
"Why is it," I say, "that we always find ourselves surrounded by people?"
"I don't know," he says. "Maybe because we're stupid."
I laugh, and it's laughter, not light, that casts out the darkness building within me, that reminds me I am still alive, even in this strange place where everything I've ever known is coming apart. I know some things—I know that I'm not alone, that I have friends, that I'm in love. I know where I came from. I know that I don't want to die, and for me, that's something—more than I could have said a few weeks ago.