The Transfers of Dauntless | Newt x Reader

13 | The Furthest Wall

The first thing I notice about the room Mark leads us into after lunch is the temperature - cold, chilling air, and a stale, almost musty aroma, though the room is almost as large as the dining hall. The second thing is the line of black punching bags situated in three-foot intervals on the furthest wall from the doors. The third thing is the large, painted white circle in the centre of the room, and the fourth is the chalkboard hanging on the wall next to the punching bags. Scattered and broken pieces of chalk lay fragmented on the floor under the board, sending chalk dust everywhere. Names are listed on the green chalkboard - ours. Apparently technology isn't a priority for the Dauntless. Briefly, I wonder what is.

Newt's words from lunch come back to me - "Something 'bout winning a bloody fight" - and I think I know the answer.

With the seven of us transfers lined up in the centre of the room, Mark appears to read my mind. "This afternoon will be your first step in learning to fight as a member of the Dauntless faction. Although some of you may have learnt to fight in different ways already-" he pauses to sweep his eyes over Minho, Brenda and Frypan "-your training in the first stage will be physical. Any questions?"

"What are we actually doing here?" Thomas asks, unsurprisingly, his eyebrows raised and lips open just slightly. "Will we fight?"

Mark laughs, a contagious chuckle that lasts for a few seconds longer than what should be considered normal. "Of course. Today's session will be about technique, about getting the basic skills ready for hand-to-hand combat, to prepare yourselves for fighting each other, which will happen soon. Tomorrow, actually."

If everyone wasn't already holding their breath, the room would have fallen silent. I guess we all knew we were going to have to test combat skills against each other, but none of us would have known that it'd be as soon as tomorrow.

Mark walks over towards the first punching bag, the largest, most worn out one. He begins to demonstrate punches in quick succession, and I know straight away that I won't be able to keep track of more than about two of them. His first punch causes more than one puff of dust to come out of the punching bag, and it's even worse when he starts demonstrating kicking techniques.

We split off onto each of the ten punching bags lined up on the furthest wall from the entrance, leaving several spare. I make a beeline for the lowest-hanging one, furthest away from the door. Newt chooses the one next to me, with Fry nearest to him. At first, I just stand in front of it, with no idea where to start, until Mark gives me a pointed look and a glance at everyone else, who have all already started.

I'm certainly not proud of my first attempt, in which I weakly thrust my arm out so my fist hits the base of the bag. My second attempt is slightly better, but only just - the punching bag moves further than I thought it would, but a jolt of pain is sent through my fist. As I adjust the position of my feet, I draw my arm back for the next strike, before I'm stopped by a hand on my upper arm. Newt's brown eyes meet mine as I turn and stop, pulling my arm away.

"What?" I ask, confused, but not disheartened, as to why he stopped me.

"You've never punched anythin' before, have ya?" he says, and I shrug.

"Uh, no. I've never had a reason to before, I guess." I shift my weight from side to side, oddly embarrassed.

His only response is to pull my hand back himself and readjust my finger placement. "Thumb on the outside," he says, "or you'll break ya hand."

The touch of his hand on mine sends sparks through my fingers, and I look up at him as he continues. "Also, stand with your feet apart, like this." He demonstrates foot placement by turning around and standing with his front to my back, his left foot in front of the right.

I jerk away at the closeness of his body to mine, disappointed in myself for not wanting to move sooner.

"Better?" Newt asks, and I nod, modifying my feet so they point directly towards the punching bag, with my heels up.

I mimic a punch, and it feels stronger, like I could actually inflict damage upon someone.

"Where'd you learn this?" I say to Newt, curious. The chances he learnt how to harm someone in Amity are zero - it is the faction of peace, after all.

"Mark taught us," he replies. "About two seconds ago-"

I frown. "He didn't say all of that."

He looks me in the eyes seriously, and I have the fleeting feeling I've pressed too hard, before he responds. "I wasn't well-liked in Amity. Sometimes- I had to- well, I had to teach myself self-defence sometimes."

I ponder what he means for a brief second, and frown again.

•••

Mark dismisses us for the evening only a short time later, when I've managed to drastically improve my fighting techniques due to Newt's vague help. Walking back to the dormitory before dinner, my knuckles hurt even more, but I do feel strangely refreshed - I guess the exercise helped.

Frypan taps me on the shoulder on our way, looking even more tired and worn-out than I feel. "How'd you find that?" he asks, panting.

I laugh. "It was okay. But tiring."

"It sure was," he agrees.

Minho, who's walking in front of us, turns around so he's walking backwards. "It wasn't that bad."

I raise an eyebrow at him, and he crosses his arms. "You know what would make us all feel better?" he asks.

"What?" Fry and I ask at the same time, our words in complete sync.

He turns and reaches two arms out to stop all seven of us in our tracks, making sure we're all giving him our undivided attention, before continuing with a statement that kind of terrifies me.

"We should get tattoos."

•••

A/N: Hey guys! I'm really sorry that this has been the first update in months. It's been a stressful time for me lately, and I apologise that I haven't had much time to write. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!

(is anyone even here anymore lmao)