Divergent: Faction Before Blood // RP thread

Ghost // Male // Age 18 // Training Instructor // Erudite to Dauntless

There were three things on Ghost’s mind as he scaled the side of Jeremy Daniels’s house: harlequin masks, lockpicks, and all the horrible, grisly, limb-rending ways he could die if he messed this up. He moved slowly and carefully, wedging hands and feet firmly into chinks in the cool, slick stone, his ascent aided only by the meager light of the crescent moon and a dim orange streetlamp. It wasn’t the fact that he must have been forty feet off the ground that had Ghost’s gloved hands shaking like a bitch as he reached for his lockpicks, but the thought of whatever fate might have in store for him on the other side of this stubborn window. From high above, the stars winked slyly down at him, as if they were in on his scheme and their silence could be bought for the right price.

Between clambering from the trunk of his mark’s car and fleeing said mark’s property before he could be spotted, Ghost’s reconnaissance trip from this afternoon had been limited to a single hooded glance. So he could only hope his lockpick set and limited knowledge of how to use it were up to the challenge of whatever nasty little surprise the third-story windows might have in store for them. There was a flashlight in an inside pocket of Ghost’s coat, and although he would rather not announce his presence to the whole neighborhood with a flaring cone of light, it’d be impossible to charm any lock in the heavy, muted blackness of the dead of night. Ghost twitched the on button as lightly as he could, as if the soft click of the flashlight might be enough to shatter the silence broken only by serenading crickets. Daniels’s house was located on the outskirts of the city, isolated from the neon lights that blazed in late-night storefronts and the drunks stumbling down streets.

Ghost would have pinched the flashlight between his teeth if not for the ornate harlequin mask—a souvenir from this year’s Mardi Gras parade—covering the entirety of his face, so he ended up awkwardly pinning it beneath his armpit as he fiddled with the lock on the window. Thank God it was nothing intricate; semi-rich people not yet important enough to fear assassination put entirely too much faith in high walls for protection. It took him under two minutes to disable the lock, an ignominious amount of time that a professional burglar would have laughed at, but to Ghost was a small victory. It wasn’t his first time breaking and entering, but he’d feared his skills might have rusted in the two years since he’d dispatched his parents’ murderers. He clicked off his flashlight and pocketed it, placing his hands on the underside of the sill with the intention of lifting it, and came up short. Last chance to turn back. Ghost’s heartbeats were so thunderous he felt them in his back, and the thought was barely audible between them.

Had Caspian known of Charlie’s violent dilemma all along when they’d been dating? And done nothing to stop it? Just let that monster use her as his personal punching bag on a daily basis? Because come to think of it, Ghost had never seen more than a few meager inches of Charlie’s bare skin before last night, when she’d worn that slinky ruby dress to the Visiting Day party. And knockout girls like her had no reason to conceal their flawless bodies, unless they were riddled with mysterious bruises. But then he remembered how hard Charlie had fought for her secret, how she’d furiously tried to backtrack each time she inadvertently gave something away. Ghost might have been little more than a stranger to her, and maybe he was just jealous, but he couldn’t imagine her handing that information out freely to anyone, even to a boyfriend. Especially to a boyfriend. No, Caspian was Dauntless enough that if he’d known about Jeremy’s cruelty to his daughter, he’d have put an end to it, Ghost decided. With no other reason to further delay the inevitable, he slid open the sash and climbed inside, unable to shake the feeling that he’d already dug his own grave by coming here and was now lying down in it.

It appeared that he had stumbled upon some kind of office or study, which Ghost found slightly ironic. He doubted a Mercedes-driving Dauntless brute like Jeremy Daniels passed much time studying anything besides strong liquor and well-endowed women. Quiet as a guilty husband coming home from a late night of carousing, Ghost stole into the hallway, peeking into dark rooms until at last he came to a door that leaked a soft snore. He removed one knife from the impressive array hidden in strategic places around his body—in his right boot, secured in a holster on his left thigh, several up his sleeves, and three around his waist—and eased the door open, an inch at a time. Getting into the house and catching Daniels unawares wasn’t nearly as difficult as it should have been, and it put Ghost on edge. Just as an ear-splitting creak erupted from the floorboards beneath his boots. The rhythmic snoring stopped all at once. Ghost’s stomach plummeted, as if a trapdoor had opened up from under him. He had no hope of overpowering Daniels without the element of surprise heavily in his favor.

There was a rustle of sheets as Daniels stirred. Acting on impulse, Ghost dove behind the nearest piece of furniture—a chair in one corner of the room, next to a reading lamp—and the floor emitted another treacherous groan as he did so. If Daniels hadn’t already been awake, now he definitely was, dragging his massive bulk upright in bed. “Sasha? Is that you?” he asked the shadows in a sleep-blurred voice. When no response met his words, Daniels heaved himself out of bed to investigate. A cold sweat broke out over Ghost’s black-clad frame, and it took everything in him to keep from trembling and possibly eliciting another incriminating creak from the floor. Daniels growled something half unintelligible about what he would do to Sasha—presumably the woman Ghost had glimpsed interrupting Charlie’s beating—if she was hiding from him and blearily lumbered around his bedroom. There was a series of crashes and groans, and Ghost wasn’t sure whether Daniels had stumbled into furniture or was deliberately knocking it aside in search of Sasha.

Ghost prayed that Daniels would deem his mission futile, give up, and go back to bed, and his hopes were dashed when Daniels’s ponderous footsteps crossed the room. Ghost felt like he might asphyxiate at any moment from holding his breath for so long. There was a slam from the closet to Ghost’s immediate right as Daniels rummaged aggressively through it. “Sasha, I know you’re here, and I’m gonna bash your fucking brains in if you don’t come out right now!” Daniels called, and Ghost wondered how many times this Sasha had snuck into Jeremy’s house at three in the morning with nefarious intentions. Daniels was a determined fucker, and it was only a matter of time—seconds, probably—until he upended the chair Ghost was hiding behind. Think. Ghost attempted to surface from the icy whirlpool of panic dragging him down into its depths, his pulse rapidly ticking away what might have been the final moments of his life.

Desperation, it turned out, was an excellent motivator. A shadowy idea took shape in Ghost’s mind, and he reached into his pocket. Pulled out the single ring he’d taken with him on this mission, for luck. Ghost was normally one to scoff at superstition, but knowing that he carried his mother’s sapphire, one of the precious few mementos he had left of her, had given him the courage he’d needed to stake his life for a girl who deserved the world. He closed his glove over the ring, twisted around the chair, and hurled it at the opposite wall as hard as he could. It struck with a metallic chink! that made Daniels’s head whip around. Made him turn his back. “Sasha, you naughty girl.” Ghost could hear the sickening smile in his voice. “I’ve gotcha now.” Daniels didn’t get more than a step in the purported Sasha’s direction before Ghost lunged, knife in hand.

The task of knocking Daniels over was like trying to shove against a mountain with your bare hands and expecting it to move. Ghost didn’t have much time to deliberate, but in the split second he had between his feet leaving the ground and hurtling into a juggernaut of a man, he scanned Daniels’s hulking frame for a soft target amid all the solid, rippling muscle. A chink in the armor. The blackness was so complete that Ghost had to squint against it, and Daniels was reduced to a silhouette, somehow even darker than the surrounding darkness, like ink poured into oil. Even if that telltale chink existed, Ghost feared he might miss it in the murky shadows. Taking his best guess, he lashed out with one foot at what appeared to be the back of Daniels’s knees, throwing all of his strength behind the blow. An instant before he connected, a new kind of fear that Ghost had previously failed to consider clenched his heart. What if Daniels had been sleeping naked as a jaybird? Ghost acutely hoped that wasn’t true.

He was rewarded with a satisfying howl of pain as his boot found its target. Daniels, thankfully clad in a muscle shirt and shorts, sank to the floor on his knees, and Ghost didn’t have to be told twice to press his advantage. In Dauntless, you always attack while the other guy is down, he remembered telling Selene sometime during one of their private training lessons. Daniels was so impossibly tall that, on his knees, he was barely any shorter than a standing Ghost. Daniels swung a clumsy elbow backward to ward off his attacker, like a bear swatting at a bird, but Ghost was ready for it and sidestepped. Ghost shoulder-charged the kneeling figure before him from behind. Daniels grunted as he sprawled face-down against the floor, flailing gracelessly as he tried to flip over onto his back. He’d only just made it when Ghost pounced again, slamming Jeremy’s shoulder blades soundly against the floorboards. Ghost latched onto him, pinning down a herculean pair of biceps with his knees while Daniels bucked and kicked like a rodeo animal in an effort to throw him off. It would be only a matter of seconds before Daniels’s superior muscle prevailed, so Ghost brought the fight to a swift end by introducing his knife to Daniels’s throat.

Daniels stopped struggling at once when he felt the bite of blade. As he took in the masked figure sitting atop him, a stream of impressively foul obscenities burst forth from his lips, too loud for Ghost’s comfort. He dug the blade in a little harder, provoking a thin trickle of blood. Daniels elicited a pathetic whimper that was unbecoming of a man of such formidable stature. “Shhh. You wouldn’t want my hand to slip, would you?” whispered Ghost. “Because, mon dieu, would zat leave quite a mess.” Normally, his voice was low and smoky and throaty, like the crunch of boots breaking through snow. Ghost was tone-deaf as all hell, but a drunken Caspian had once insisted that the slight raspy edge to his voice would have been great for rock and roll. But tonight he pitched his voice a tad higher and wreathed it in a ridiculously heavy French accent. It seemed unlikely that, after tonight, Daniels might recognize him on his voice alone and seek retribution, but Ghost was taking no chances.

Daniels glared up at him in combined defiance, surprise, fear. “The fuck are you, asshole?” he demanded.

“Not Sasha.” From behind his harlequin mask, chalky white with black-and-red diamonds cascading down the cheeks like kaleidoscopic tears, Ghost gave a rueful smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“How the hell did you get in here, clown? My doors are locked, my windows, locked—”

Ghost interrupted smoothly, “I am ze Jack of Diamonds, not a clown, and locks cannot stop me.” The way he pronounced the J made the word sound more like Zhack. All infamous criminals had a pseudonym, and introducing himself as the Holy Ghost would have been such a dead giveaway, it wasn’t an option. Hence, a pseudonym for a pseudonym.

“You think this is funny, huh? A real joke?” Daniels rambled on. The words themselves were irate, but they were stepping on each other’s heels in their haste to get out, and the undercurrent of fear in Daniels’s voice didn’t escape Ghost’s attention. “I suppose now you’re gonna go brag to all your little friends that you beat a Dauntless bigwig like me in a fight, but know this: A backstabbing, balless coward like you never woulda stood a chance against me if he’d fought me face-to-face, like a man. Is this all this was to you, an ego boost?”

Ghost tilted his head and sucked his cheeks in a little. The only betrayal of his lapse in composure was the way his grip tightened on his knife, and it took everything in him not to drive it into Daniels’s neck. He and Daniels had been conversing for hardly a minute, and already Daniels’s pigheadedness was rapidly deteriorating Ghost’s patience. Taunting your captor was the first rule in Things Not to Do When Someone is Holding a Blade to Your Throat 101. “Why don’t you ask me your first good question, like ‘What do you want with me?’ or ‘Why are you here?’” Ghost suggested in an icy voice.

Daniels yelped as the knife suddenly kissed his Adam’s apple, and a little more blood spilled from the cut. “What do you want with me?” he sniveled.

“Funny you should ask. But I zink you have done enough talking for now.” With a flourish, Ghost produced a handkerchief and stuffed it into Daniels’s mouth. “Regarding your question, I’m here to speak to you about your daughter and her mother.” Daniels’s eyebrows slanted low, as if he’d been expecting demands for an astronomical sum of money and was befuddled that he was getting away so easily. “You are not to approach zem ever again. No phone calls, no house visits, nothing. Can you do zat for me?” Daniels slit his eyes, as if loath to make a deal at knifepoint, but begrudgingly nodded once. “Très bien, monsieur. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Ghost tipped his knife away from Daniels’s throat, only to plunge it into his chest just above his heart, careful not to bury it to the hilt. Blood ribboned from the wound. Daniels screamed into his gag. Unfazed, Ghost turned the words backstabbing, balless coward over in his mind as he carefully dragged the knife down and to Daniels’s right, widening the cut. The blade shimmered silver in the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window like a thief. “Careful, Daniels,” he warned as Daniels furiously writhed and squirmed, testing the steadiness of Ghost’s hand. Jeremy let loose another pathetic whimper before heeding Ghost’s advice and stilling. Just a few more inches… Ghost sat back and examined his work. A gruesome fissure pierced the bloodstained fabric of Daniels’s muscle shirt and the underlying skin, slanting from clavicle down to sternum.

“I expect you to keep your word. Because if you lay a hand on Charlotte or Sasha again”—it was a bit of a gamble, assuming the aforementioned Sasha to be the mother who’d come to Charlie’s aid after Daniels had beaten her unconscious, but Ghost suspected as much from the way Daniels had threatened to bash Sasha’s brains in—“I will come back to make a second cut.” And cut your heart out, Ghost thought but didn’t add. Suddenly, a jolt went through him as he looked back at the wound he'd dealt Daniels, and Ghost sucked in his cheeks again. Without meaning to, he'd created a slash that was uncannily similar to the scar bisecting his own chest. A scar he'd acquired settling another score, some while ago. Two years ago, when he'd been hunting down his parents' killers one by one, the last man hadn't gone down without a fight. By then, he must have received word of his fallen comrades and been expecting Ghost. Because before Ghost shot him dead, the man had detached himself from the shadows and gotten a good swipe at Ghost with a dagger. He had almost died that night. But unfortunately for Jeremy Daniels, Ghost hadn't.

Beneath him, Daniels's frantic, shallow breaths leveled out into something steadier and his head lolled, lethargic eyes glazing over. Ghost gave his captive a rough little jostle before he lost consciousness. “Do we have an agreement?”

* * *

The Jack of Diamonds didn’t dare take his mask off until he got off the streets and back to his apartment. Despite Daniels’s agreement to his deal, Jeremy Daniels was a powerful figure within the Dauntless hierarchy and probably had eyes everywhere. By the time Ghost stepped inside his apartment, he was grinning like a fool, even though he’d have to get up for work in just a few hours. Ghost was no stranger to risk-taking, but that had been one of the most dangerous things he’d done in his life, and he’d walked away unscathed. He felt invincible. Fearless. Ready to conquer the world. His father probably couldn’t have cared less, but his mother, he hoped, would have been proud of him if she could see him now. He reached into his pocket for her ring.

And had to clutch at the back of a chair for support when he realized he had left it on the floor of Jeremy Daniels’s bedroom.

Ghost // Male // Age 18 // Training Instructor // Erudite to Dauntless

Ghost clawed at the back of an armchair for balance, the room spinning around him like a carousel. Long ago he had accepted that his fatal addiction would culminate in an abbreviated lifespan, but knowing that he likely had only hours—perhaps a full day, if he was lucky—before death came for him was suddenly too much to bear. His mother’s glitzy sapphire ring had all the subtlety of a fist to the face, and he’d carelessly left it sitting on Jeremy Daniels’s floor. It was only a matter of time until Daniels stumbled upon the ring, traced it back to Ghost, and hunted him down and killed him. And to add insult to injury, Ghost knew that it was all his own stupid fault.

Although he was painfully aware that it wouldn’t change anything, his mind raced down rabbithole after rabbithole of what he should have done. He never should have tried to play the hero and save Charlie from an evil villain. He never should have thrown that ring to lure Daniels away from Ghost’s hiding place. He never should have spared Daniels’s life. He’d debated killing Jeremy, and doing so certainly would have put Ghost’s mind at ease. Killing Daniels would have prematurely eliminated a potential threat, denying him the chance to retaliate. But monster or not, Daniels was still Charlie’s father, and Ghost had no right to make up her mind for her on the subject of Jeremy’s continued state of well-being. Ghost had been walking the line with his decision to sneak into her father’s house and teach him a lesson. Outright killing him would have been crossing it.

Ghost’s hands were shaking so badly, he wasn’t sure whether it was from fear, need of another dose, or a combination thereof. His sweat-dampened, form-fitting, all-black garb suddenly felt skintight and constrictive, and he wanted nothing more than to change out of it and his ridiculous mask. Get a grip, he told himself, shoving away from the chair and trudging toward his room, where several hours of macabre lullabies and sleeplessness awaited him. He remembered Alex Young’s curled mouth, a smile lurking under the surface like a fish under thin ice, and how he’d addressed Ghost as the dead man walking during their encounter at the Visiting Day party. Ghost became grateful that he hadn’t eaten anything in the last twelve hours, because he would have been spewing it up all over the living room carpet right now if he had. He was almost certain that it was a figment of his paranoid imagination when he heard a foreboding tread of footsteps and creak of floorboards behind him. Snakelike dread coiled in his stomach, and he was so afraid of what he might find that he almost couldn’t bring himself to turn around.

Rough hands tackled Ghost around the shoulders just as he whirled and he careened backward into the hallway wall, his head colliding with a sickening smack. His vision stuttered and spun with stars. The world went silent and impossibly loud at once as his pulse roared in his ears, muffling all other sound. A twist of vertigo washed over him as he realized his feet dangled limply in the air, no longer rooted to solid ground. Something hot and sticky sluiced through his hair in stark contrast to the blast of cool air rushing over his flushed face, and his eyes flashed open—when had they closed?—when he deduced that his assailant had cast off Ghost’s mask and his face was bare. When his attacker jostled his aching body, horribly sore from carrying Charlie up a ridiculous number of steps and then scaling the side of Jeremy’s house, again for emphasis, Ghost yelped in pain. He struggled feebly against the unrelenting weight pinning him against the wall.

His thoughts felt like they were moving through syrup after the blow to his head, but he knew with cold certainty what this was: Daniels seeking vengeance. How was it possible that he’d hired a hit on Ghost so soon? From the way Daniels had been sprawled semi-conscious in a pool of his own blood when Ghost had left his house, Ghost thought he at least would have had a head start. Maybe Dauntless myth is true and Jeremy Daniels really is the bogeyman, Ghost thought and immediately felt childish, but it was the only remaining explanation. But just because he knew why he was being killed didn’t mean he would go down without a fight; he’d come way too far to die now. He wanted to see Charlie’s face light up with joy every day that passed without her father tormenting her, even if she never learned Ghost was responsible for that development.

Thin and watery sound swam through his ears as he realized his would-be killer was speaking to him. An accompanying cloud of breath, noxious and reeking of liquor, jolted Ghost back to the present. The man was reduced to little more than a silhouette in the darkness of the apartment. But his movements were crystal clear when he formed a fist level with Ghost’s face and warningly reeled his arm back, as if he intended to use his bare hands to paint the wall with Ghost’s brains. Hanging like a ragdoll from the fist knotted in his shirt, Ghost reminded himself that he was supposed to be afraid, but he felt strangely disconnected from the myriad fears that had haunted him moments ago. Then he reminded himself that he was the son of a dangerous swindler. Ghost had shot a butterfly out of the air mid-flight, haggled with Jiao-Long Young, pickpocketed in a bar and framed someone else for it, made Jeremy Daniels whimper like a baby, and survived a terminal illness for six years when he’d been expected to die after one. He would survive tonight as well.

Four years of living on the notorious Baneberry Street had taught Ghost to watch a person’s hands when conversing, not their face, a trick this inept assassin obviously hadn’t learned. Ghost’s hand crept toward his belt in intervals, slowly enough to escape his attacker’s notice, but hastily enough to beat out the bulging knuckles that looked as though they were itching for an excuse to break his nose. Inexplicably, the hitman was still talking rather than killing, but Ghost wasn’t about to correct his form. Hesitation was a weakness, and Ghost’s gloved fingers pried loose one of the knives at his belt and wedged its tip in the delicate skin between two of his rival’s ribs. The thin fabric of the man’s shirt blushed with blood where Ghost’s blade penetrated warningly. “Someone who won’t hesitate to end your miserable ass,” Ghost finally snarled in answer to his assailant’s persistent question, yet his voice came out a little slurred and lacked the vicious edge he’d been striving for.

He squinted his eyes against an unexpected flare of light that, after hitting his head, was as agonizing as witnessing the occurrence of a supernova. Tears welling in his eyes, Ghost emitted a groan, which quickly evolved into a curse as the knife tumbled from his grasp. There was a shout in an annoyingly familiar voice—it was just like Caspian to interject himself uninvited into a situation and needlessly “assist” Ghost when Ghost had the upper hand and spoil his advantage—and he cracked an eye open. Just as the liquor-breathed aggressor promptly dropped Ghost at Caspian’s request. Ghost’s knees buckled and he took a hard seat on the floor. He glared but said nothing as he gathered up his fallen knife and mask and climbed to his feet, trying to conceal how he leaned against the wall for support. It was obvious that Caspian and the unknown man—who was really a boy about Ghost’s age—knew each other, but that didn’t ease Ghost’s hostility. He didn’t feel the need to clarify that, had Caspian not interrupted, he and his knife would have come out on top of their altercation. Ghost dabbed at the blood on the back of his head and carelessly smeared it on the front of his black shirt, where it barely showed.

As it turned out, Caspian provided more than enough words for the three of them, babbling about what the hell was going on, how it was the middle of the night… And then his cornflower gaze finally settled on Ghost’s ominous attire, disturbing array of knives, and unsettling harlequin mask. And then came the question that Ghost knew would eventually come, but would have liked to put off for as long as possible. And then he was at a loss. Ghost had always prided himself on his ability to lie on the spot, but being clad in all soulless-black clothes with several visible knives protruding from them and a harlequin mask tucked under one arm when the next Mardi Gras parade was eight months away created a fairly incriminating picture. Before he could decide whether the truth was a good idea, he blurted, “Teaching someone a lesson!” with hands on hips, feet apart, and chin tipped up defiantly, as if daring someone to tell him it wasn’t true. Maybe he could shock the other boys into silence.

Caspian gave him a pointed look, but didn’t press. Likely because he knew Ghost wouldn’t cede any more information about his clandestine doings. Caspian changed tack entirely and made introductions between Ghost and the brute who’d sprung at him—Maverick. Without further ado, Caspian rattled off a highly improbable story about having been reunited with his long-lost brother who he once assumed had died in the same fire that killed their parents. Ghost’s cruel face appeared bored throughout, and at one point he unsheathed the knife in his boot and idly toyed at his perfect lips with its sharp tip. At the dreary, long-awaited end of Caspian’s story, Ghost’s eyes cut suspiciously to the purported Maverick, who hadn’t made a peep, as if hearing the maudlin, nauseating tale of woe in its entirety had genuinely upset him. “If you haven’t seen your brother in six years, how can you be sure this is him? How do you know he isn’t just an opportunist who heard all about your mysterious illness and wants to be included in the will?” he asked Caspian, who was no stranger to money. A con was the first logical conclusion Ghost had drawn from Caspian’s starry-eyed account, not because it sounded like something Ghost might attempt… but because, well, it sounded like something Ghost might attempt.

Both brothers’—well, maybe brothers—expressions darkened like thunderclouds about to let loose, and both objected vehemently, and both took a threatening step toward Ghost, all in uncanny unison. If this Maverick really was a con artist, he wasn’t half bad. “Oh, would you look at the time,” Ghost interrupted, making a show out of stifling a yawn. He wasn’t keen on two Dauntless brutes each at least five inches taller than Ghost ganging up on him in the wee hours of the morning. “Good night, Caspian, sweetheart. Maverick the Charlatan.” He sidled out of the living room and into the bathroom, where he loosed a short cry upon seeing the disorderly, obviously used state of his towel, hanging from the rack in a carelessly wrinkled mess. Adorning it was a small clump of hair that was too short and not quite dark enough to belong to Ghost. “Who used my towel?!” he yelled into the living room. It was a small assurance knowing that Maverick, with his ungodly foul breath, had most definitely not used Ghost’s toothbrush.

* * *

It was two a.m. the next morning, and no sound came from within the barracks. Ghost hadn’t slept a wink ever since his failed invasion of Jeremy’s, and it sure showed. Lackluster hair the color of soot hung in disarray over his forehead, shadowing a bloodshot, unearthly gaze. His black skinny jeans—the only kind that would fit his lean legs—were uncouthly torn at the knees from function rather than fashion and were half tucked into unpolished boots. Combined with a button-down in desperate need of ironing, he looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed or fallen from a low window. Perhaps he’d been wrong when he had mistaken Maverick for a henchman sent by Jeremy Daniels, but that didn’t mean Daniels hadn’t already found Ghost’s ring and was actively hunting him down.

Due to a combination of Caspian’s recent ailment and capture the flag requiring darkness to be properly played, afternoon training had been blessedly canceled. But you never get something for nothing, and what the initiates didn’t yet know but would soon find out was that training had been postponed for late, late that night. Since the instructors had gotten the afternoon off, Ghost hadn’t yet had an excuse to see Charlie. After the severe beating she’d sustained the previous day at the hands of her father, he half doubted she would be attending tonight’s game. The thought of her being hospitalized—or worse—was enough to twist his stomach in knots, so Ghost tried to avoid thinking about Charlie altogether. Or about Jeremy choking the life out of him. Or about Caspian’s seemingly escalating illness. Or about anything, really.

Ghost fumbled with his keys. He was so tired, his concentration was unraveling at the edges, and it took him more than one attempt to open the door to the barracks. Finally, he flung it wide and rapped against the metal as loud as he could, until his knuckles hurt, until the mussed heads of sleeping initiates peeled themselves off pillows. “Everyone up. Assemble at the tracks outside the compound. Your train leaves in ten minutes,” he said airily, deliberately being terse. Ghost sauntered toward the aforementioned location, where Harper and not Caspian, but Maverick, were waiting for him.

Maverick had been an irksome presence in Caspian and Ghost’s shared apartment all day, freeloading and mooching and constantly in Ghost’s way whenever he wanted to use the shower or the television. When Caspian had called out sick yet again, Maverick had eagerly volunteered to fill in for him, much to Ghost’s dismay. Sure, without Maverick the Charlatan, there would be more of a burden falling on Ghost’s and Harper’s shoulders, but it was a sacrifice he’d have been willing to make. Unlike yesterday, the night was cool, and Ghost was glad that he’d worn a shirt with long sleeves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, where for once his rings didn’t catch on any fabric, because he wasn’t wearing them; he wasn’t keen on making the same mistake he’d made last night and inadvertently drop another calling card somewhere. Upon reaching the tracks, Ghost cast one venomous glance in Maverick’s direction, and decided to ignore him. That left Harper as his only option for conversation. “You can stop sulking now, Harper, love. I’ve arrived,” he drawled. Too lazy to reach up, Ghost tossed his head to flick the bangs out of his eyes and graced her with his most devastating smile. “You’re not much to look at as it is, but it’d be a shame to see you wrinkle up before your time.”

Ghost // Male // Age 18 // Training Instructor // Erudite to Dauntless

As much as it hurt to admit, Harper radiated capability like a machine—an attribute that was as necessary as it was admirable, considering her status as the newbie instructor. Thus, it went without saying that she would manage all the chores that came with the position while the others sat back and watched, that she was essentially the bitch of the group, but she didn’t seem to get that. As Ghost indulged her in pointing out his flaws for him—Harper wasn’t the first to extend him such a favor—he performed an eyeroll that should have given him a spectacular view of the inside of his skull, but otherwise remained silent. “Yes, because ‘good responsibility and leadership’ is definitely something I want written on my headstone,” he snorted when there finally seemed to be a break in her lecture. Ghost laughed, a harsh, brittle sound like a step on thin ice. “God, Harper, when did you become such an insufferable rule-follower? You’d make a good Erudite, if only you had the smarts to back up your pedantry.”

Something in her gaze shifted, and when Harper looked at him again, her eyes cut like diamonds. Ghost began to wonder if he’d underestimated her ever since that night he had shot her loathsome boyfriend dead and spat on the corpse right in front of her, and she’d done nothing to stop him. Harper definitely had more mettle than her brother, a hypothesis that was confirmed when her next words penetrated Ghost to his core. His smugness slipped like a poorly laced mask. First a hairline crack, and then an ever-widening rift that veered wildly out of his control and had him scrambling to gather up the irreparable fragments of his composure. A black bolt of horror went through him, and suddenly Ghost became hyperaware of the shadows beneath his eyes, the way that his skin felt waxy and stretched too tight over his drawn features. Was he really that transparent? Harper barely knew him, and even she had caught on to the way that Ghost was coming apart at the seams. It made his pulse throttle, as if the shadow of his own impending doom loomed over him, visible to everyone except him. It filled him with a cold, illogical fear that if he turned around, Jeremy Daniels would be standing right behind him.

Ghost didn’t realize how his countenance had hollowed out in terror until he felt a swirl of dizziness from the speed at which the blood must have left his face. Despite his knack for maintaining an inscrutable poker face, he couldn’t wrestle his unguarded, vulnerable expression under control now that he knew Harper had already seen it slip, and ended up tipping his face into shadow so that she couldn’t read it further. Ghost played off his lapse in equanimity as if it had all been part of an act, just another smirky insult and flippant comment, as Harper had said. He placed a theatrical hand on his chest. “Oh, no! What gave me away? The secret meth lab in my basement, or my disturbingly comprehensive collection of knives? Please don’t turn me in!” he begged, with an exaggerated display of clasping his hands in earnestness. Selling drugs and unlawful violence, both crimes that Ghost could be locked away for, if anyone found out. A prickle of unease crept over him at how close his charade had hit to the truth. That’s all it is to Harper: a charade, he told himself. But if she’d made those accusations just to rattle him, she’d done an awfully good job of it.

He molded his face into a crooked smile, one he hoped didn’t appear too forced. “In all seriousness, Harper, love, I’m flattered that you pay my every move such undivided attention. And here I thought you’d turned dyke after your little spat with poor Drex.” Ghost threw her an obnoxious wink, as if now Harper were the one with something to hide. By putting her on the spot, hopefully he’d divert attention away from himself. Ghost was aware of Maverick’s gaze absorbing the exchange, and he knew taunting Harper was flirting with danger like a matador waving a red cape, but fortunately, the arrival of Charlie spared him Harper’s response. Ghost’s heart first leapt when she said his name in greeting, then clenched when he remembered how her father was probably hunting him down this very moment… and then sank when Charlie’s fawning gaze latched onto Maverick. Christ, Ghost would have thought the guy was a celebrity by the way everyone swooned in his presence. Jealousy flashed hot and cold up his spine, and the kiss Charlie had bestowed upon his cheek yesterday now felt like cheap jewelry. In spite of everyone’s apparent recognition of Maverick, Ghost clung even more fervently to his belief that Maverick was an imposter.

Ghost turned his back on the nauseating scene just as a shrill whistle pierced the air. He blinked his heavy eyes in confusion before he remembered what it meant. The train. Sure enough, its lights were visible against the night like jewels atop black cloth. Ghost exhaled a weary sigh, and even that felt like a laborious task. He barely felt capable of standing on his own two feet let alone running, but sure enough, he broke into a jog alongside the initiates and his colleagues. Bunching up his already exhausted leg muscles, he tossed himself sideways and rolled haphazardly onto the train. The memory of one initiate getting sucked under the wheels of the train hadn’t made for a pretty sight, and it was motivation enough for Ghost to conjure the necessary strength. All his years of dance felt like they’d gone to waste as a panting Ghost used a metal bar to clumsily claw his way to his feet, scrambling for purchase on the lurching train and narrowly avoiding getting trampled by an incoming initiate. When he stood, his ripped, wrinkled clothes were remarkably even more disheveled than they’d initially been.

Once all the initiates had settled aboard the train—sadly, none had gotten left behind this time, it seemed—they had almost a half hour ride before they arrived at their destination, the abandoned ruins at the edge of the city. Ghost answered no questions as to where they were going or what they were doing, waving off any approaching initiates with a tired flick of his wrist. Since Harper deemed herself so responsible, he’d delegate the responsibility of informing to her, and so he gave her a bloodshot look that said, Time to shine, darling. Throughout Harper’s tedious explanation of the rules of capture the flag and the guns loaded with neurostim darts they’d be using—already loaded onto the train for convenience’s sake—Ghost fixed Maverick beneath an unwavering glare. Instead of looking away, each time the other boy met his gaze Ghost gave a slow curl of his lips. That and the task of trying to keep his balance on the moving train were the only things keeping his eyes from drifting shut, as Ghost was so tired he had no doubt he could’ve fallen asleep standing up.

Harper declared herself and Ghost captains of the opposing teams, and the opportunity to mop the floor with Harper roused him from his near slumber. As an ace sharpshooter, Ghost’s team had proven victorious during both of his previous experiences playing capture the flag, and Ghost liked to believe that he’d been a pivotal piece of that victory. And half asleep or not, after tonight his record would be three-for-three. At Harper’s cue, Ghost fumbled into his pocket and produced a nickel. The winner of the coin toss got first pick for their team. “I’ll let you call the coin,” he told Harper, struggling to keep from slurring, “for I am a perfect gentleman.” Ghost’s voice was filthy with insincerity during that last part. He flicked his thumb just as Harper called heads, and the coin morphed into a silvery blur as it arced into the air and clinked against the floor on… “Tough luck,” said Ghost, when the tails side of the coin winked mockingly up at Harper. His brown eyes lazily grazed over the initiates, and he stroked a thumb under his chin as a truly terrible idea occurred to him. He knew whom he would pick but kept his gaze on Harper as he declared, “Finley.” What better way to get under her skin than by stealing her precious baby brother? And Ghost broke into a smile so disturbing that it could have made angels weep.

Ghost // Male // Age 18 // Training Instructor // Erudite to Dauntless

Aubrey had all the discretion of a herd of elephants, despite that Ghost was well within earshot of her criticism. She snorted an unladylike laugh at her own joke, and he offered nothing in return but a frosty stare, the sort of look Mrs. Whist had once told him could put out a lit cigar. If Divergents really existed, he hoped she was one of them; Ghost would hand her over to Dr. Y with a song in his black heart. Vengeance is a dish best served cold, and with six neurostim darts at the disposal of the best marksman in the compound, vengeance on Aubrey Stark would be frigid indeed.

Feeling the warmth of a gaze on him, Ghost’s eyes flickered just past Aubrey, to where Charlie sprawled in one corner of the train, isolated from the initiates’ usual irrepressible chatter. There was a violet bruise beneath her eye like a crack in a glass windowpane, and there was a long, heady, stomach-lurching pause between Ghost meeting her eyes to when they finally jumped away, as if she were so drained that she hadn’t caught herself staring. Was he imagining it, or did something dark and accusatory lurk in those espresso orbs? Regardless, Ghost wanted to rush toward her, fold her in his arms, and kiss her bruises till they hurt no more. But the prying eyes of Harper, Maverick, and dozens of initiates rooted him where he stood. He doubted Charlie would appreciate him outing her most closely-guarded secret like that. Something softened in Ghost’s stare as he watched her, and Charlie’s present frailty was almost enough to suck the anger out of him. Almost.

He and Harper alternated picks until all the initiates had been divvied up into two teams. Minus Finn and Christian Parks’s skinny blond girlfriend, Ghost’s team consisted entirely of transfers, and not by accident. There was a certain look to most of the kids he’d chosen: slight and agile, lean and hungry, as if starved for a victory and willing to use any means necessary to secure this one. For the next few minutes until their arrival, Ghost twirled his neurostim gun around his finger, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, when really, it was a feeble distraction to keep his demons at bay. He was so tired, he felt… rickety, as if he might collapse like poorly made furniture if pressed. But the show must go on.

As kids rushed to arm themselves and their destination—uninhabited, ivy-ridden ruins of the city—loomed on the dark horizon, Ghost brushed past Aubrey Stark and, without an ounce of contrition, thrust his elbow into Maverick’s ribs to get his attention. “You’ll be on Miss Day’s team,” Ghost declared to the other boy, in a careless sort of tone that didn’t match the command he’d issued. So that I have an excuse to lay you in the ground, he finished privately, but he let the threat dangle. He was Sisyphus’s boulder rolling down that cursed mountain, and he intended to flatten everything in his path. Ghost graced Maverick with the thinnest of smiles. “Best of luck to you,” he said, but he pronounced the words more like a malicious hex in an archaic language.

Ghost flung himself out of the train, rolled once, twice, and came up standing, his vision spinning with a slow, giddy floatiness as if he’d downed one too many drinks at the Glass Serpent. He’d always been light on his feet, and chuckled softly when he saw some of the clumsier initiates end up with a mouthful of gravel. Other than the persistent chirping of crickets, the abandoned city was silent, like the hush before a stage curtain lifts. It unsettled Ghost, who was used to the infinite hubbub typical of concrete jungles, more than he cared to admit; even the factionless knew better than to wander here. Rumor had it these ruins were haunted with the lost souls who’d perished two hundred years ago in the war that had resolved itself with the faction system.

Pain prickled in his knee, and Ghost glanced down to see that the holes in his jeans had stretched a little wider after his tumble from the train, and the seeping blood was invisible against the black fabric and even blacker night. He always looked a little disheveled, but now his appearance was all wild, almost violently reckless—as if he’d come from a fight, instead of just stepping into one.

Harper and Ghost conferred briefly to determine that her team would hide their flag in the south side of the city, and his, the north. A rush of nervous excitement overcame him, temporarily prevailing over his deep-set exhaustion, and he repeatedly knotted his fist in the metallic silver banner that was his team’s flag. Maybe Jeremy Daniels would track down the Jack of Diamonds before the night ended and slit Ghost’s throat in his sleep. Maybe Ghost would never get the chance to go down with a fight. If so, he’d better make this last one count, even if it was a game.

The opposing captain corralled her team and started off to their designated territory, and Ghost followed suit with his own. His eyes swept across the half-shadowed faces one last time, and with a jolt of surprise, noted that he was one of only three males, the others being Finn and a small Amity kid. But so long as his teammates prevailed in the end, Ghost couldn’t care less about their gender. Dauntless had taught him the hard way to never underestimate seemingly insignificant little girls. When the rival team was out of earshot, Ghost pushed to the head of the group, deeming it time to delegate roles. After all, he was the ringmaster of this operation, and if his team lost, it’d be him shouldering the majority of the blame.

He played as if he had already won, because there was no other way to play.

“This is a game of neither strategy nor sharpshooting. At least, not for you. For you, it’s a measure of your ability to trust a designated leader and follow his orders, that leader being me.” Ghost’s voice was smooth and his smile was all sharp edges. He was on a roll, and he didn’t break his stride for the chorus of objections that followed his words. “Finley and Justice, you’ll guard the flag, which you’ll hang from the topmost car on the Ferris wheel.” Ghost couldn't resist the prospect of hiding his team's flag in his namesake; it was a taunt to Harper, since it was so obvious. She was sharp enough that he'd be surprised if she didn't guess right, but even so, she'd have a hell of a time getting up there with Justice and her own brother ready to shoot her down. He deemed it beneath him to point out the Ferris wheel’s unmistakable silhouette to the two aforementioned initiates, so he didn’t. Instead he smirked and offered an unsympathetic “Hope you’re not afraid of heights.” He knew Finn was a weenie and would probably protest his job, but hopefully Justice would set an example and convince him to suck it up for fear of being shown up. Aside from their name and pronouns, Ghost didn’t know much about Justice—only that he was infinitely prettier than them, disheveled as he was. There was nothing delicate about Justice; they were built like an ox, tall and broad and well-suited to the role of guard, and Ghost was none of those things.

“Blair, Gram, Jenna, anyone I haven’t yet named… you’re all to create a diversion. March into the south side with guns blazing and get their attention in any way you must. Make a show of it.” Ghost tugged at his lower lip with two pale fingers as he thought. “And you.” He swiveled to Lizzie, the smallest of the bunch at five-foot-nothing. “You’re going to be my little flying squirrel.” In the faint light, Ghost’s grin could have been mistaken for a minuscule cutlass. “See how the row houses along the streets are all cramped together? You and I are going to traverse the city via rooftops in search of the flag, because no one ever expects a threat from above.” Ghost cleared his throat. “I hope no one has questions, because we’ve wasted enough time talking. Get to work.”

Ghost abruptly turned on heel to leave and almost slammed into Charlie, who’d been standing a pace behind him. She looked hopelessly lost as she fisted her medical bag in both hands, an unspoken question in her eyes. Ghost immediately felt bad for getting wrapped up in the game and forgetting all about her. “Um… hi,” he said in a strained voice, all too conscious of the snickering initiates around him. Swearing under his breath, he closed his hand around Charlie’s sleeve, mindful not to press too hard on a bruise, and towed her away from the group by her wrist. A cold yet strangely possessive touch.

“You don’t have to play if you don’t want to,” Ghost said in a near whisper, his voice a wisp of woodsmoke on the wind. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt an acute urge to apologize. But if he did that, he’d be confessing to attacking Jeremy, and that was a secret Ghost planned on taking to the grave. He raised his gaze, not realizing until then that he’d lowered it, and discreetly adjusted his posture so that he wasn’t quite so folded in on himself. In the glow of the moon Charlie looked pearled and fine, a girl fashioned from precious stones and the insides of seashells. She would hate Ghost if she knew even half the things he’d done. “No one will mind if you want to sit this one out.”