A long time ago, I used to question why more authors didn't kill main characters. It would make it more believable, I said. Just take Harry Potter, for example – it's unrealistic that the entire trio survived. I'm sorry, it just is. Also, it would redeem the characters if they started to get on our nerves over the course of the series. I just thought it was a good idea
I take it ALL BACK!
Not that I don't admire Veronica Roth for (spoilers ;) killing Tris. Because I do! But it's so unfair. And really, she's been shot plenty of times – why would she die then, after she'd already won? As soon as I finished reading Allegiant, I basically ran upstairs to rewrite the end into something a little happier. Because the whole scattering-ashes thing? I was sobbing. :')
Standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing but my computer, and even that is conditional.
Tobias
"What is it?" I say.
Cara shakes her head.
"Where's Tris?" I say
"I'm sorry, Tobias."
"Sorry about what?" Christina says roughly. "Tell us what happened!"
"Tris went into the Weapons Lab instead of Caleb," Cara says. "She survived the death serum, and set off the memory serum, but she . . . she was shot."
I don't process the words, I can't, not because Tris hasn't been shot before but because the words have never been uttered with a tone quite so heavy with finality. Like there's no hope. But I must somehow hear what Cara is telling me, because I go immediately into recovery mode, processing my options and selecting the best one. There's no choice, really. There's only one thing left to do.
"We have to get her out of there," I say. If any of her is still here. The words hover unsaid, lingering on the fringes of all of our consciouses.
Cara cringes. "We're not sure if the death serum is still in the air, Tobias. We can't risk any more deaths. Not today. We're waiting for the all-clear."
But I'm already gone, having taken off down the hallway immediately after uttering my intentions. Even if they have already given up hope, I cannot.
There's a small part of me that stops to think that since I could resist the simulations, like her – like Tris, I force myself to think her name, who is not dead – that maybe the death serum won't have any effect on me, either. Even though I couldn't resist the truth serum, there is a chance. But the rest of me doesn't care, anyway. If she dies, I die. One way or the other. I was going to be by her side, no matter what.
My lungs get a little tight, my breathing labored, and tears sting my eyes, but before my body even registers its desire to collapse I am through, breathing pure air and feeling like it's harder to draw a breath at the same time because I see her.
Her broken body.
Tris.
I must be imagining the blood, the stillness, the horrible feel of emptiness that hovers in the air. Because if it is real, if it is truly possible that a body can bleed that much and turn so pale, then I must resign myself to the fact that there is nothing in this world left to hope for and accept that humanity at its core is the wickedness we fought so hard and gave so much to suppress.
The walk to where she lies across the room is the longest thirty seconds of my life. My mind goes back to her walk to her execution, and I wonder if this is similar to how that felt for her. Life as I know it will be ended in an entirely different way when I reach her, but it will end all the same.
I can't force myself to touch her.
I'm not quite sure why. There's a certain reverence, I'm sure, the reluctance to move her from the calm figure stretched out on the red-streaked tile. If there are guardian angels cradling her, I don't want to get in their way.
But it's mostly terror. Once I feel her lack of pulse, once I realize that no breath leaves her lips any longer, I will be forced to accept the truth that I hope for all I'm worth is only a nightmare.
Finally I can't take it any more, I just have to feel her skin on mine, even if she is cold, so cold, almost like ice. How long? I think dimly, in a blind panic. How long have they left her here, all alone?
And then I realize the truth – that it's been less than an hour, and that the air in the weapons room is much colder than the rest of the compound in order to preserve the viruses and elongate their usefulness. The idea of the refrigeration reminds me of something we'd learned about once in school in what seems now like another life altogether, and an idea, a crazy, desperate idea, starts to form in my mind.
There is a red button blinking on the screen of one of the monitors in the room, similar to the com used in various other control rooms I've seen. I press it, and voices emit from a speaker.
"Control to Weapons. What's going on down there?"
I steel myself. "There's been an accident. We need a stretcher, a defibrillator, and whatever life support you can get down the hall." The call made, I return to Tris's side and arrange myself cross-legged at her head. There is no blood staining her face, and I can almost pretend she is sleeping. Her hair forms a halo of gold around her head, and I carefully brush it away. She is so, so cold. I feel it in my fingers and in my chest.
I don't know the first thing about reviving a body. Would it be better for Tris if I tried to start CPR and get her heart beating again? Or should I leave her body chilled to prevent any decomposition that might begin if my breath warmed her? I settle for holding her hand, carefully arranging my fingers so that I'm not confronted with her disturbing lack of pulse.
Even when the doctors pile in in their sterilized clothing, wearing face masks and brandishing all sorts of tools and supplies, I refuse to let go. All through the emergency procedures and the surgery I'm there, and when the first bit of blood starts pulsing through her again and her skin begins to warm, I'm the first to know.
Well, I don't know if that's completely unreasonable science, but I really don't care. Because she's not dead!
Remember, reviews are confidence-boosters. I could use some right now . . .
Much love,
KnightNight7203
