Subject A250: The Fallen

Thirty-Two: Bloody Hell

A/N: Hello again. Busy Emma here, busying around. I actually had a super chaotic week (and months but mostly week) but somehow that made me motivated to write as a sort of escape, so HERE I AM. HERE IS TRACE. HERE IS....

A BIT OF MEDICAL STUFF AND IT'S A BIT GROSS SO IF YOU'RE SQUEAMISH JUST BEWARE.

Gally led them all through the building and into a room upstairs. Much to Trace's surprise, the hospital was in good shape. Of course, it was a mess, with wheelchairs, stretchers, tables, chairs, and paperwork scattered carelessly throughout the hallways and rooms, but it didn't look worn. The building itself was relatively undamaged. Trace believed what Flint had said about this being one of the last cities to be overrun.

The room Gally had picked was on the second floor, right in the middle of the building. Trace didn't know what she'd been expecting -- maybe a small recovery room or the corner of a ward somewhere-- but she was surprised to find herself standing in the entrance of an operating theatre. They stood there for a minute, taking in the cold and daunting presence of the space ahead of them. Trace wondered what sort of events had taken place in that room-- what wonderful, uplifting tales of success and equally as devastating heartbreak had occurred within those four walls.

"Well, this is cheerful," Minho remarked. Sarcastic, as usual.

"Yeah, well, we're not exactly having a cheerful time in here, are we?" Gally retorted. "I picked a room appropriate for a shuck blood transfusion, not a carnival."

"It's fine," Flint interjected. "It's what we need. Let's get it ready."

Newt stood in the doorway as the others filed in. Flint began to set up some kind of pump and line. Thomas and Minho watched him closely while Brenda and Jorge swapped out the operating table for two hospital beds. Jorge even managed to find some clean sheets from somewhere in a nearby ward.

Trace heard a low, murmuring sound and looked over to see Newt muttering to himself, frowning at the room. She could tell from one look that he'd fallen deep into that place of doubt. Unsurprisingly, she didn't blame him-- the risks they were taking were entirely overwhelming and the chance of success was slim.

But they had to try. They had to do at least that. For him. He deserved more than a goodbye; he deserved a fighting chance, no matter how impossible that fight may be. He deserved life.

"Newt?" Trace found her lips moving and voice speaking of their own accord, breaking the tense silence. "Talk to me."

He turned to her, his eyes wide and tortured. His shoulders were tense and his lips pressed together in a tight frown. He gulped. "I can't do this, Trace. It isn't fair. Not on him-- not on any of you. It's so pointless."

Trace stepped towards him. "No. No, you're wrong. What would be pointless is walking off without giving you this chance. You're our friend-- no, more than that, you're our family. To back away now when we have this chance-- this option-- would be the worst betrayal. Not just for you, but for all of us."

She took another step, closer, cupped his worried face with her hands. "You deserve a chance to live, Newt. You always have. This is that chance."

"We're ready," Flint said, pulling a stand over to the closest bed. "We better get started as soon as we can."

Newt said nothing. He simply walked further into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the ground. Minho sent Trace an uneasy glance, unsure of what to make of his behaviour or how long it would last. They'd all seen how quickly Newt could go from one extreme to the other, and could only hope that he didn't change his mind entirely.