Character: Al (Albert)
Canon: Divergent series by Veronica Roth, book canon version of events
Age: 16

Note: Al's mental state as the book progresses will only be addressed if it's relevant, and if it comes up, I'll do my best to deal with it tactfully. Due to the subject matter, if you would prefer to avoid it altogether, please let me know.

Chelsea Cloisters #35
City of Darrow

The door falls shut after Tris leaves, and then it's quiet in the dorm. I'm alone. It's just me and the board with all our names on it, with my name right at the bottom of the list. It's burned into my mind; my eyelids and my hands can't keep it out, my palms can't scrub it away. Dead last. Factionless. Sure, they're not going to kick me out today, but everyone knows it's coming. I'd need some kind of miracle to help me improve my rank and make it through the final stage. I wouldn't even have made it to stage two, if it hadn't been for Edward and Myra, and it's not like that was fair.

Maybe I should just quit, like they did. There's no point in trying anymore.

The thoughts running through my head aren't making it any easier to stop crying so I can get up from my bed and go before Tris maybe decides to come back after all, or someone else comes in. I keep wiping the back of my hand across my eyes, then I use my sleeve. It's hard to see and breathe. Stumbling to the bathroom, I wash my face and stay by the basin, watching the stream of water rush down the drain.

To be honest, I don't want to be alone, not really. For a moment, I thought that Tris was going to tell me her secret, how she's been getting through the simulations like they're a piece of cake. But why would she? Sometimes I think she only puts up with me because she doesn't want to hurt my feelings, but when I'm gone, she won't miss me at all.

Slowly, I stretch my hand out to turn off the faucet. It's over. I've made up my mind.

Kavinsky's warehouse looks as much like someplace the factionless have to make do with as ever -- or like the abandoned buildings in the other Darrow. The graveyard takes the spooky atmosphere up another notch, and I don't know if I want Kavinsky to be here or if I want him to have a place to stay that isn't on the verge of crumbling to pieces. He knows people who aren't Newt or me, so why would he be stuck without options?

It wasn't that long ago that we came by to get his things. And now, after one night, there's more crumbling to pieces than just the warehouse.

I can't get Newt out of my head. Can Kavinsky?

Standing outside his pile of bricks and rust and broken glass, I send him a message that I'm hoping he'll answer. We need to talk.

'Tomorrow' turned into the next day and the day after. I haven't come back different at all; I'm still a coward and a liar. Tonight, it's keeping me awake, staring up at the ceiling as I try to pretend that I'm asleep, listening to Newt's quiet, even breaths. He has trouble sleeping himself, and the last thing I want to do is rob him of some hours of peace when he's getting them.

In the morning, I tell myself. I can't keep doing this.

Turning my head, I study the back of Newt's and wrestle with the emotions gripping me. I could lean in and put my arm around him, and he'd let me. I could run my fingers through his hair, kiss him. He wouldn't have a problem with any of it. He'd smile and call me a greenie, and we'd keep this up until the truth comes out.

I can't keep doing this to Newt, to Noah and Beca and everyone.

I have to stop looking at him, rolling over onto my side and edging out from underneath the blanket, trying my hardest not to wake him when I sit up and put my feet on the floor. The bed has other plans. The springs squeal, and I freeze, holding my breath.

After days of ash raining from a gloomy sky and nights in a decaying version of the city, I still expect to choke on the air and hear sirens at dusk. Darrow seems crowded and noisy now, people on every street. Everything looks so clean and well-kept -- maybe it always did, and I'm only noticing it because the buildings aren't crumbling, in need of a paint job and more. Even the air is cleaner, fresher, and the sunlight is brighter.

The first thing I did as soon as the city went back to normal around me was to try what didn't work while Darrow was a nightmare world. This time, my phone let me send my messages to my friends, but I'm making my rounds in person anyway. For one, I don't have everyone's numbers, and I need to know that Beca and Noah, Thomas and the others are all okay. I need to find out if I'm going to have any more luck tracking down Newt.

Standing outside the door to his apartment, willing him to be in there, I pass the time catching my breath and picking at scabs on my hands, although I leave those alone when I notice that I'm doing it. I don't know why we couldn't find him anywhere. I don't know if today will be any different.

I--

Didn't hit 'send' to let him know that I was coming.

They finally let Newt out of hospital a short while ago, and he's free to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants -- within Darrow's boundaries. I'm sure he's already well on his way to seeing everything worth seeing, doing everything that's fun to do; he's got other friends to show him around. He doesn't need me to take him anywhere, but since he didn't turn me away, here I am now, standing in front of the door to his apartment, my hand raised to knock.

The weather these days isn't great for the seaside, where the crisp breeze can get too cold to be pleasant. I wonder if Newt's gone to see the ocean anyway. I'm probably too late, which means a change of plans.

As soon as I knock and he answers the door, I'll ask. I just have to go through with knocking, instead of making a list of back-up ideas right now. There'll be something he hasn't seen yet.

Taking a deep breath, I toss my list into a corner of my mind, bring my hand in, and rap my knuckles against the door.