#divergentau

Your eyes burned slightly as you blinked away tears, confused as to why you couldn't find that certain...

Anger.

Wren, a curly haired blonde that belonged in Amity—somehow landed in Dauntless. But during combat, her frail arms would summon the strength of twice the muscle capacity she contains. If you hadn't seen her flip a man twice her size over her figure—

You wouldn't have believed it.

Anyways, Wren had told you that she had reached that certain level of fighting simply by thinking of what angered her most. The the thing was, nothing horrible had happened to you.

You were born and raised in Amity, where the crime rate remained a negative 0–if that were possible, it would be rated just that.

Your ma and pa sheltered you, as you were their only child. You were also extremely close with them, but after getting your screen test back—it was time to begin a new chapter in your life. One that would drag and smash you to the ground like a bug.

Which is what happened now—basically.

Gritting your teeth, you rolled over to dodge one of your opponents lashes. Fortunately, the girl wasn't a merciless bitch, and let you stand up whilst getting back into position. With shaky fists, you gulped, muttering a quick curse before her own swung towards your chin.

But—

The beating never came. The throbbing rush of warm blood thrashing in your veins never crashed. Your jaw was in tact, and you weren't flopped on the ground like a beaten animal.

Your eyes snapped open, flashing over to the strong hand wrapped around Turner's wrist. Turner, the girl you were fighting, gulped as she stood back from Four. His chest radiated of a warm essence that burnt your cheeks—especially with the smirk dripping off his face.

"Turner," he released her grip, not glancing at you, "It appears the Mary Poppins hasn't improved. Isn't fair to you, is it?"

Your throat went dry, remembering how much of a total prick he was. At first, you thought he was hot, so you deemed him to maybe be a good person. But after you figured one of his life goals was to torment and embarrass you—you checked your values and common sense.

His eyes were dark, but still weren't ever fluttered onto your figure—almost as if he didn't even want to look at you. It damaged your confidence more, knowing you were probably going to be factionless if you didn't shape up soon.

Turner only shrugged, dropping her arm back to her side before placing both hands on her hips. She raised a brow at you as you let out a sharp breath, wiping the imaginary dust off your palms before looking down at the ground and stepping off the fighting podium.

Your ears ring as her blows caused you some damage. Chewing on your bottom lip, you held back your defeated thoughts as Wren threw an arm around your shoulder,

"It's okay. I got a few beat downs my first year here. It gets better," she attempted to cheer you up. You merely hummed as she continued, "Anger, _ _. That's what powers you. You need—“

“I know,” you snapped, stopping your feet before rolling your eyes at her, “I know. But I’m not an angry person, and I’m shit at fighting.”

Her eyes narrowed, “Pity isn’t what makes you a Dauntless, _ _,” she stepped towards you, poking a nimble finger into your heart, “So instead of whining, kid, maybe you should just stop thinking and fight.”

Slowly nodding, you stood there as she headed over to the cafeteria for lunch. You noticed that the boxing bag area was empty—and it clicked in your head what Wren said.

Fight.

Bringing your fists up, you got into a fighting stance and threw your first punch. With gritted teeth, you felt the material bruise up your knuckles—but you wanted to feel it. Feel the pain. If you couldn’t feel the pain, then pity would just Pool around in your chest instead.

And you hated pity.

Hissing as you retracted your first, you did it again. Then repeated on the other fist. Every time the cool leather collided with your knuckles, it sent a sharp pain up your hand. But you stood through it, until the next time you swung, you didn’t realize the bag had made its own hit towards you—swinging and hitting your body with a harsh force.

Letting out a grunt, your body slammed into the cold cement of the training sector. Your ribs ached as you didn’t twitch to get up, instead accepting that you were going to be factionless if you didn’t get back up.

Get back up, _ _. You have to.

Sweat dribbled down your forehead as you landed another punch to the bag. You made it a mission to skip lunch so you could train, because you'd rather starve than be factionless. Breathing harshly through your teeth, you felt the muscles slightly tense in your arms.

"Mary poppins hasn't improved, has she?"

You felt your lip curl as you delivered another brutal hit, finally taking victory in the bag. You released a grunt as your fists kept colliding with it.

You were going to show that stuck up son of a—

"You're supposed to eat in order to gain muscle. Didn't teach you that back in Amity, huh?" You heard a voice quip, a deep and gravelly voice.

Jumping from surprise, your head snapped over to see Four leaning against one of the bags. His eyes were focused on you, smoky and stormy. You looked away from him instantly, but kept your focus on him, "Skipping lunch won't make you a Dauntles—"

"If someone tells me one more time what does or doesn't make me a Dauntless, I might just fucking shoot myself," you raised your voice, feeling the patience that usually you held snapped like a tree branch. Four's eyes stayed narrowed as he now crossed his arms, the muscles protruding from that caramel, ink covered skin of his.

You gulped, "I meant—"

He stood up straight, a smirk creeping into his plump, pink lips as he stepped towards you, "You're nothing but a farmer. You cannot train remotely enough to become one of us," he hissed, venom laced in his words. Something swirled in his eyes, making your jaw lock,

"You don't have anger. You have self pity, and Dauntless don't pity themselves. They fight, and are willing to give up their life for people. How can you fight others when you're fighting yourself already?"

You blinked, feeling anger begin to rise within you. It was a foreign feeling—but you didn't hate it. If anything, your veins welcomed the poisonous rage, but you bit your tongue.

Four laughed darkly, "You can't even speak up for yourself. Surely, you should go back to those farmers," he continued, making your fists balled up at your sides. As he continued to degrade you and your home, well— people who used to be your home, it rose.

The anger rose. It felt as the ground begun to shake, sudden flashes of all the combat you had witnessed before your eyes playing like a rapid slideshow in your mind. The cracks of the bones whenever someone would slip their foot beneath someone—breaking their balance.

Your eyes flickered up to his. He paused right before you, the scent of cologne filling your nose as your chest heaved deeply. Every sense of angst within you was on fire as he tilted his head.

"You don't belong here. But I doubt you'll be able to go home, since your parents disow—"

Your foot slipped under him, trapping him to the ground with a grunt from him. Your teeth clenched as you aimed to punch him, but he immediately snapped his eyes into yours. With furrowed brows, he grabbed your wrist and striked your leg with a harsh kick.

Your knee buckled, a bullet of pain shooting through your muscles. The cold concrete pavement of the training sector burned the flesh on your cheek, ears ringing as a dull ache formed in your back from the landing.

“C’mon, _ _,” Four chuckled, more so in a tiresome way than a tormenting tone. His chest heaved as I blinked, “Get up. Don’t give up now.”

It clicked. Was he…training you?

A boost if adrenaline shot through you. He believed in you. That was the push you needed to balance your wobbling arms off the ground, barely being able to push your body—but you did. Your fists balked at your sides as you gulped, accidentally melting into his cold eyes.

They weren’t as cold, though. As if the ice had slightly melted—but there was still another thick layer.

“Fighting is a dance,” he murmured firmly, grabbing your arm and spinning you around. You let out a harsh breathe as he held your back against his chest, before roughly pushing you away. You hit one of the punching backs, grunting as he smirked, “Until it’s not.”

“Can’t imagine dancing with you,” your eyes narrowed—only making his smirk grow.

But you didn’t hear a response, instead your eyes noticed he was about to take a step forward. Then, you watched his arm twitch—ducking before delivering a jab to his side. He flinched, which broke the barrier, and you didn’t wait to kick him down to the ground.

With a loud thud, you watched as his braid figure slammed against the ground. Picking up your feet, you darted towards him. Every single insult he’d ever thrown at you replayed in your head. He was trying to anger you.

Did he perhaps…care?

Sliding your knee across the ground, you grabbed both of his hands and held him down. Your hair fell over your face, panting deeply, as you used the rest of your strength to fight off his. His hues twitched to yours, something flashing in his eyes as they met yours.

Your throat became dry. Butterflies erupted in your tummy, a warm feeling hugging your heart.

Feeling the cheeks in your face burn—you felt the world slowly silence around you as your eyes melted onto his. You didn’t know if it was your imagination, or the adrenaline pumping in your veins—but you swore you felt his long fingers slowly graze your thigh.

Wait—

How did they get fre—

And in an instant, you were flipped into the ground. His strong hands held you down, gripping your wrist, as his muscular chest held down yours. Bodies pressed against one another, his grunts filling your ears…it was truly a sight.

A musky scent flooded your senses as you felt like you were high, wanting to reach out and touch that sculpted jaw of his. The stubble poking from his skin is probably scratchy against your palm, but his flesh still looked smooth and supple.

Despite his appearance coming off ragged and rough.

“That’s how you fight like a Dauntless,” He taunted darkly, making your brows raise in shock, “You’ll do just fine in ranks if you uh—“

His eyes fluttered to your lips, before he gulped and squeezed his eyes shut. He pushed himself off the floor, away from you, before dusting off his pants, “You should do just fine, _ _.”

The laughter in the locker room. The familiar neural hum of a partner brushing the edges of your mind. The grounding presence of someone who knew you better than you knew yourself.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since your Jaeger hit the ocean in pieces. Three weeks since you felt your partner’s mind flicker—panic, apology, then nothing.

You stopped showing up to training after the funeral.

You stopped answering calls. Stopped wearing the pilot suit. Stopped pretending you were fine.

You lived in your quarters or in the far end of Hangar Five where your Jaeger’s broken pieces sat like a gravestone.

People gave you space.

Out of pity.

Or fear.

Eric did not stop training.

He trained harder.

Hard enough that his knuckles split open on the strike pads. Hard enough that he dislocated his shoulder in simulation and reset it himself.

He barked at mechanics. Shoved technicians aside. Snapped at command staff.

Rage was easier than grief.

It was hard enough for Eric to trust one person enough to let them into his head.

The Drift wasn’t just compatibility—it was vulnerability.

Exposure.

And he had chosen someone.

Let them see the parts of him no one else ever did.

Now that person was gone.

And the silence inside his mind was unbearable.

So he filled it with fury.

You hadn’t spoken since the memorial.

Not to each other.

Not really to anyone.

Until the sirens screamed again.

KAIJU BREACH – CATEGORY IV

The alarm vibrated through your bones before the announcement even finished.

You were in Hangar Five.

Of course you were.

You always were.

You watched the remaining Jaegers launch through the massive bay doors, one after another, their silhouettes cutting through rain and ocean spray.

You didn’t move.

You weren’t on the roster anymore.

Officially “indefinite leave.”

Unofficially broken.

The comms crackled overhead.

“Contact confirmed. Category IV. Heavy armor. Approaching outer wall.”

You forced yourself not to listen.

Then—

“Wall breach!”

The entire dome shuddered.

Not outer defense.

Not secondary line.

The wall.

A Kaiju roar echoed through the city beyond.

Your heart stuttered.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

The Jaegers were supposed to stop it before that.

“Striker Athena down!” “Gypsy Valkyrie holding but critical!” “We need reinforcements—”

You stood slowly.

There was only one Jaeger left in the dome.

Fastest in the fleet. Built for rapid deployment. Close-quarters combat.

Eric’s.

Crimson Tempest.

And it required two pilots.

You heard him before you saw him.

Boots striking metal. Breathing sharp and fast. Controlled—but barely.

Eric stormed into the hangar, helmet under his arm.

His eyes found you immediately.

Of course they did.

“You’re the only one here that can do this.” he said.

Not accusation.

Not plea.

Statement.

You shook your head instinctively.

“No.”

“The city’s exposed.”

“Find someone else.”

“There is no one else.”

Another tremor shook the dome.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

The Kaiju was inside the perimeter now.

You could hear buildings collapsing.

You wrapped your arms around yourself like you could physically hold the grief inside.

“I can’t do it again.”

Eric’s jaw flexed.

“You think I can?”

That snapped your eyes to his.

There it was.

Not rage.

Not this time.

Something rawer.

“It took me years,” he said, voice tight, “to let someone into my head.”

His partner had been the only one who ever saw past the armor.

The only one who survived the intensity of him.

“And now it’s empty,” he continued. “It’s just… quiet.”

The quiet was worse than the screaming.

You knew that.

You felt it too.

“I won’t survive losing someone else in there.” you whispered.

His eyes softened—but only barely.

“Then don’t.”

The words landed heavy.

“We’re not replacing them,” he said. “We’re surviving.”

Another explosion. Closer.

Emergency lights flickered red.

Crimson Tempest was already powering up behind him, systems primed.

The fastest Jaeger in the fleet.

The only one that could reach the city center in time.

He stepped closer.

“If we don’t go,” he said quietly, “more people die.”

Your lungs burned.

You had sworn you were done.

Sworn you wouldn’t risk feeling someone die in your mind ever again.

But the screams outside—

They were real.

You exhaled shakily.

“Fine.”

Strapping in felt wrong.

The space beside you wasn’t supposed to be his.

It wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s anymore.

Eric locked into his harness without looking at you.

“Once we start,” he said, voice steady, “don’t pull away.”

“I won’t.”

Technicians hesitated outside.

“Compatibility hasn’t been tested,” one warned.

Eric’s eyes flicked to you.

Neither of you moved.

“Initiate Drift,” he ordered.

The world detonated.

Memory wasn’t linear—it was collision.

You saw him as a child being taught that weakness gets you killed. You felt the moment he first drifted—how terrifying it was to let someone see his anger and not flinch. You felt the instant his partner died.

Metal screaming. Neural overload. A hand slipping from his grip.

His rage wasn’t random.

It was grief sharpened into a weapon.

He saw you laughing in the cockpit. He saw the impact. Felt the way your partner’s mind shattered against yours.

Your grief was heavy. Ocean-deep. Paralyzing.

His was fire. Violent. Refusing to sit still.

The neural pathways screamed under the strain.

For a second you thought you’d both hemorrhage.

Then—

Something aligned.

Not softness.

Not balance.

Understanding.

You both knew what it meant to lose the only person who understood your mind.

You weren’t replacing them.

You were carrying them.

Together.

The screaming stopped.

DRIFT STABLE.

You both exhaled at the same time.

Eric’s voice steadied inside the shared space.

“Let’s move.”

The Kaiju towered between burning buildings, armored plates glistening in rain.

It had already torn through two city blocks.

The other Jaegers were too far out. Too damaged.

Crimson Tempest dropped from its launch platform like a falling god.

Impact cracked the street beneath you.

The Kaiju turned.

Roared.

You felt Eric’s instinct to charge head-on.

You layered strategy over it. Angles. Weak points. Timing.

The synchronization felt… natural.

Fast.

Crimson Tempest moved like it had been waiting for this pairing.

You ducked under a claw strike. Eric drove a powered fist into the Kaiju’s rib plating.

It countered.

Slammed into you.

Pain rippled through your nervous systems—but you absorbed it together.

No panic.

No spiraling.

Just focus.

“Left flank compromised,” you warned.

“Redirecting power,” he replied instantly.

The Kaiju lunged toward a cluster of trapped civilians.

That did it.

Your grief turned to fury. His fury sharpened into precision.

Together you activated the twin plasma blades.

You stepped forward in perfect synchronization.

One blade severed its forelimb. The second drove straight through its throat.

Blue blood exploded across the street.

The Kaiju collapsed.

Silence followed.

Rain hissed against metal armor.

Inside the conn-pod, your breathing slowly synced.

No one died in your head.

No mind went dark.

Just two heartbeats. Two pilots. Alive.

The Drift lingered softly.

Eric’s voice, quieter now.

“We didn’t break.”

You swallowed.

“No.”

Outside, command confirmed:

CATEGORY IV NEUTRALIZED.

Back at the shatterdome hen the neural link disengaged, the absence wasn’t suffocating.

It wasn’t empty.

It was… steady.

You looked at him.

For the first time in three weeks, the rage in his eyes had dulled.

Not gone.

But tempered.

“We’re not replacing them,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed.

A pause.

“But we’re not alone either.”

And for the first time since the ocean swallowed everything—