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KSIĄŻKA ZA DARMO Veronica Roth Wierna PDF KLIKNIJ OBRAZEK ABY ROZPOCZĄĆ POBIERANIE: Książka Wierna to bez wątpienia jedna z najbardziej. Veronica Roth - #3 Allegiant - dokument [*.epub] DEDICATION To Jo, who guides and steadies me EPIGRAPH Every question that can be. Four Divergent Stories - Omnibus - Veronica Roth - dokument [*.epub] A Divergent Story Back Ad About the Author Books by Veronica Roth Credits .. Veronica Roth - Veronica Roth pdf. Wierna - Veronica Roth wyświetleń, stron.

I knew he wouldn't like it. Komentarze do: I make sure the door is closed and wedge the desk chair under the knob just in case. I shouldn't, but it's harder to suppress gestures and expressions than words, with this weight in my veins. I wheel around and see a smudged, sallow-faced man in the next room, wiping his hands on a ragged towel. I should be careful. To be kings of their tiny little world?

What took you so long? For all the horrible memories this place carries for me, it carries more for her, the walk to her execution, her brother's betrayal, the fear serum. I have to get her out. Cara looks up with interest.

I feel uncomfortable, like I have shifted in my skin and it doesn't quite fit anymore. I hate having an audience. A few days ago she gave a speech about uniting against our oppressors, the people outside. She takes a vial from her pocket and dumps the contents into her mouth-painkillers for the bullet wound in her leg, I assume.

I slide my hands into my pockets. They want to try to heal the city and solve our own problems instead of leaving to solve other people's. I'm paraphrasing, of course," I say. The second we leave, she loses her hold. How are we supposed to help a bunch of people we've never met? My watch reads three o'clock. I've been here too long-long enough to make Evelyn suspicious. I told her I came to break things off with Tris, that it wouldn't take much time.

I'm not sure she believed me. I say, "Listen, I mostly came to warn you-they're starting the trials for all the prisoners. They're going to put you all under truth serum, and if it works, you'll be convicted as traitors. I think we would all like to avoid that. They won't thank you for showing that video. To be kings of their tiny little world? It's ridiculous. I don't owe the people outside this city anything, whether I am Divergent or not. I'm not sure I want to offer myself to them to solve humanity's problems, whatever that means.

But I do want to leave, in the desperate way that an animal wants to escape a trap. Wild and rabid. Ready to gnaw through bone. In my experience, most Divergent can't resist the truth serum. I wonder why you can. I would like to avoid having to break you out of prison," I say. Suddenly desperate for comfort, I reach for Tris's hand, and she brings her fingers up to meet mine. We are not people who touch each other carelessly; every point of contact between us feels important, a rush of energy and relief.

She lied to me so many times. She promised me she wouldn't go to her death in the Erudite compound when Jeanine demanded the sacrifice of a Divergent, and then she did it anyway. She told me she would stay home during the Erudite attack, and then I found her in Erudite headquarters, working with my father. I understand why she did all those things, but that doesn't mean we aren't still broken.

I'll try to make it soon. It is the same urge, I realize, that makes me want to kiss her every time I see her, because even a sliver of distance between us is infuriating. Our fingers, loosely woven a moment ago, now clutch together, her palm tacky with moisture, mine rough in places where I have grabbed too many handles on too many moving trains.

Now she looks pale and small, but her eyes make me think of wide-open skies that I have never actually seen, only dreamed of. And we do. I touch her cheek to slow the kiss down, holding her mouth on mine so I can feel every place where our lips touch and every place where they pull away.

I savor the air we share in the second afterward and the slip of her nose across mine. I think of something to say, but it is too intimate, so I swallow it. A moment later I decide I don't care. She smiles. My body is heavy with truth serum. Sweat collects on my eyelids.

Thank you for trying to prevent one of your faction leaders from killing Jeanine Matthews? You behaved like a traitor. We are in the conference room in Erudite headquarters, where the trials have been taking place.

I have now been a prisoner for at least a week. I see Tobias, half-hidden in the shadows behind his mother. He has kept his eyes averted since I sat in the chair and they cut the strip of plastic binding my wrists together. For just for a moment, his eyes touch mine, and I know it's time to start lying. It's easier now that I know I can do it.

As easy as pushing the weight of the truth serum aside in my mind. Since I couldn't join the fight as a soldier, I was happy to help with something else. I can't see her face, and I can't focus on anything for more than a second before the truth serum threatens to pull me down again. I don't know when I became so good at acting, but I guess it's not that different from lying, which I have always had a talent for. Not after shooting.

My friend Will. I couldn't hold a gun without panicking. I suspect that even in the softest parts of her, there is no sympathy for me. My cheeks tingle. I would like to slap her, as I'm sure many of the people in this room would, though they wouldn't dare to admit it. Evelyn has us all trapped in the city, controlled by armed factionless patrolling the streets.

She knows that whoever holds the guns holds the power. And with Jeanine Matthews dead, there is no one left to challenge her for it.

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From one tyrant to another. That is the world we know, now. I knew he wouldn't like it. If you aren't thanking me for it, you should at least do something about it instead of sitting here on this mess you made, pretending it's a throne! She leans in close to my face, and I see for the first time how old she is; I see the lines that frame her eyes and mouth, and the unhealthy pallor she wears from years of eating far too little.

Still, she is handsome like her son. Near-starvation could not take that. I am making a new world," she says, and her voice gets even quieter, so that I can barely hear her. I have known the truth far longer than you have, Beatrice Prior. I don't know how you're getting away with this, but I promise you, you will not have a place in my new world, especially not with my son.

I shouldn't, but it's harder to suppress gestures and expressions than words, with this weight in my veins. Finally I have to stop, my muscles burning. I'm in the factionless wasteland that lies between the Abnegation sector and Erudite headquarters, Candor headquarters, and our common places.

At every faction meeting, our leaders, usually speaking through my father, urge us not to be afraid of the factionless, to treat them like human beings instead of broken, lost creatures. But it never occurred to me to be afraid of them.

I move to the sidewalk so I can look through the windows of the buildings. Most of the time all I see is old furniture, every room bare, bits of trash on the floor.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 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.