“You can’t die, you can’t!” I said. “Please.” It was no use. Bastille was dead. Really dead. Deader than a battery left all night with the high beams on. So dead, she was twice as dead as anyone I’d ever seen dead. She was that dead. “This is all my fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have brought you in to fight Kiliman!” I felt at her pulse, just in case. There was nothing. Because, you know, she was dead. “Oh, cruel world,” I said, sobbing. I put a mirror up to her face to see if she was breathing. Of course, there was no mist on the mirror. Seeing as how Bastille was totally and completely dead.
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