Four: A Divergent Collection (Divergent Series Prequel Stories) by Veronica Roth A collection of four pre-Divergent stories plus three additional scenes from. Download this ebook at: pellwillfigalus.gq?book= [PDF] Four: A Divergent Collection [PDF] Four: A Divergent Collection. [EbooK Epub] Four: A Divergent Collection (Divergent Series Story) Ebook | READ ONLINE For download this book click button below.
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Four Divergent Stories - Omnibus - Veronica Roth - dokument [*.epub] a chair in the aptitude test room, my body connected to a machine by a series of wires. Download PDF Four: A Divergent Collection, PDF Download Four: A Divergent Book Details Author: Veronica Roth Pages: Publisher. Four: A Divergent Collection: A companion volume to the worldwide bestselling Divergent series, told from the perspective of Tobias. The four.
Most of the time all I see is old furniture, every room bare, bits of trash on the floor. When most of the city's residents left-as they must have, since our current population doesn't fill every building-they must not have left in a hurry, because the spaces they occupied are so clean. Nothing of interest remains.
When I pass one of the buildings on the corner, though, I see something inside. The room just beyond the window is as bare as any of the others I've walked by, but past the doorway inside I can see a single ember, a lit coal.
I frown and pause in front of the window to see if it will open. At first it won't budge, and then I wiggle it back and forth, and it springs upward.
I push my torso through first, and then my legs, toppling to the ground inside in a heap of limbs. My elbows sting as they scrape the floor. The building smells like cooked food and smoke and sweat. I inch toward the ember, listening for voices that will warn me of a factionless presence here, but there's only silence. In the next room, the windows are blacked out by paint and dirt, but a little daylight makes it through them, so I can see that there are curled pallets scattered on the floor all over the room, and old cans with bits of dried food stuck inside them.
In the center of the room is a small charcoal grill. Most of the coals are white, their fuel spent, but one is still lit, suggesting that whoever was here was here recently. And judging by the smell and the abundance of old cans and blankets, there were quite a few of them.
I was always taught that the factionless lived without community, isolated from one another. Now, looking at this place, I wonder why I ever believed it. What would be stopping them from forming groups, just like we have? It's in our nature.
I wheel around and see a smudged, sallow-faced man in the next room, wiping his hands on a ragged towel. That's all. He wears black Candor pants, patched with blue Erudite fabric, and a gray Abnegation shirt, the same as the one I'm wearing. He's lean as a rail, but he looks strong. Strong enough to hurt me, but I don't think he will. He's missing one of his teeth. He moves closer to me and frowns. Then it occurs to me: hidden as my father tries to keep me, he's still the leader of the council, one of the most prominent people in our city, and I still resemble him.
It's been years since I heard it, because my father won't speak it, won't even acknowledge it if he hears it. To be connected to her again, even just in facial resemblance, feels strange, like putting on an old piece of clothing that doesn't quite fit anymore. Most people didn't look closely enough to see all the things we had in common: our long fingers, our hooked noses, our straight, frowned eyebrows.
He hesitates a little. Handing out food and blankets and clothes. Had a memorable face. Plus, she was married to a council leader. Didn't everyone know her? However he knew my mother, it's not because she handed him a can of soup once. But I'm so thirsty to hear more about her that I don't press the issue.
But there is something appealing about it here too, a freedom, a refusal to belong to these arbitrary categories we've made for ourselves.
That's what being factionless is.
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The prohibition against sharing my aptitude test result, or any of my other secrets, is set firmly in the mold that makes me and remakes me daily. It's impossible to change now.
Be the first to like this. No Downloads. Views Total views. Actions Shares. Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. A Divergent Collection [full book] Four: Veronica Roth Pages: Katherine Tegen Books 08 Language: Inglese ISBN Katherine Tegen Books Language: Book Appearances 5. A Divergent Collection" click link in the next page 6. Download or read Four: A Divergent Collection" full book OR. You just clipped your first slide! Clipping is a handy way to collect important slides you want to go back to later.
Divergent Series Ultimate Four-Book Collection
Now customize the name of a clipboard to store your clips. He moves closer to me and frowns.
Then it occurs to me: It's been years since I heard it, because my father won't speak it, won't even acknowledge it if he hears it. To be connected to her again, even just in facial resemblance, feels strange, like putting on an old piece of clothing that doesn't quite fit anymore.
Most people didn't look closely enough to see all the things we had in common: He hesitates a little. Handing out food and blankets and clothes.
Had a memorable face. Plus, she was married to a council leader. Didn't everyone know her?
However he knew my mother, it's not because she handed him a can of soup once. But I'm so thirsty to hear more about her that I don't press the issue. But there is something appealing about it here too, a freedom, a refusal to belong to these arbitrary categories we've made for ourselves. That's what being factionless is. The prohibition against sharing my aptitude test result, or any of my other secrets, is set firmly in the mold that makes me and remakes me daily.
It's impossible to change now. It was the path of least resistance. He shouldn't be telling me about my mother like she belongs to him and not to me, shouldn't be making me question everything I remember about her just because she may or may not have served him food once. He shouldn't be telling me anything at all-he's nobody, factionless, separate, nothing.
Living out of cans in broken-down buildings. Doesn't sound so great to me. I know I'll find an alley door somewhere back there; I don't care where as long as I can get out of here quickly. I pick a path across the floor, careful not to step on any of the blankets. When I reach the hallway, the man says, "I'd rather eat out of a can than be strangled by a faction. When I get home, I sit on the front step and take deep breaths of the cool spring air for a few minutes.
My mother was the one who taught me to steal moments like these, moments of freedom, though she didn't know it. I watched her take them, slipping out the door after dark when my father was asleep, creeping back home when sunlight was just appearing behind the buildings.
She took them even when she was with us, standing over the sink with her eyes closed, so distant from the present that she didn't even hear me when I spoke to her.
But I learned something else from watching her too, which is that the free moments always have to end. I get up, brushing flecks of cement from my gray slacks, and push the door open. My father sits in the easy chair in the living room, surrounded by paperwork. I pull up straight, tall, so that he can't scold me for slouching.
I move toward the stairs. Maybe he will let me go to my room unnoticed.
I cross the room, stepping carefully over a stack of papers on the carpet, and sit where he points, right on the edge of the cushion so I can stand up quickly. I hear tension in his voice, the kind that only develops after a difficult day at work. I should be careful. That was strange. But I don't want to talk to him about it now, not when I can see the stress brewing inside him like a storm. I don't look at him. The woman barely looked at me on my way out of the room.
I promise. My skin pulses from where he gripped it. You should go to your room.
The food all tastes the same, like dust and paste. I keep my eyes fixed on the door so I don't collide with my father's coworkers. He wouldn't like it if I was still down here when they came. I am finishing off a glass of water when the first council member appears on the doorstep, and I hurry through the living room before my father reaches the door. He waits with his hand on the knob, his eyebrows raised at me as I slip around the banister. He points up the stairs and I climb them, fast, as he opens the door.
He's one of my father's closest friends at work, which means nothing, because no one really knows my father.
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Not even me. From the top of the stairs I look down at Andrew. He's wiping his shoes on the mat. I see him and his family sometimes, a perfect Abnegation unit, Natalie and Andrew, and the son and daughter-not twins, but both two years younger than I am in school-all walking sedately down the sidewalk and bobbing their heads at passersby. Natalie organizes all the factionless volunteer efforts among the Abnegation-my mother must have known her, though she rarely attended Abnegation social events, preferring to keep her secrets like I keep mine, hidden away in this house.
Andrew meets my eyes, and I rush down the hallway to my bedroom, closing the door behind me.
Four Divergent Stories: The Transfer, The Initiate, The Son, and The Traitor (Divergent Series)
To all appearances, my room is as sparse and clean as every other Abnegation room.The Erudite table is covered in reading material, but they aren't all studying-they're just making a show of it, trading conversation instead of ideas, their eyes snapping back to the words every time they think someone's watching them. I know I'll find an alley door somewhere back there; I don't care where as long as I can get out of here quickly.
To be connected to her again, even just in facial resemblance, feels strange, like putting on an old piece of clothing that doesn't quite fit anymore.
It feels like the entire city is rushing past me in a blur, the buildings blending together. Why not share! You just clipped your first slide! Embeds 0 No embeds. But there is something appealing about it here too, a freedom, a refusal to belong to these arbitrary categories we've made for ourselves.