He looks at the monitors, the readouts. A heartbeat. Brainwaves. Absolutely meaningless. He knows better than most, that beeps and jagged lines on a monitor don't equal life.

He wants to save her. Wants so desperately to save her, but that body won't survive outside the tank, and whatever's left of her mind probably won't survive outside of whatever nightmare she's having.

He has less than a minute to make his decision before reinforcements come. Hypatia will have heard him. He claws his fingers against the glass of the tank.

Then he steps away and goes to the wall, where the tubes and wires and cables connect to the machines, the generators. He gathers as many cables as he can in both hands.

He loves life. He always romanticized life. But when it came down to the wire, he became a realist. Life was beautiful, life was optimism and opportunity and hope, but when those things faded...death was a release. A kindness.

"Goodnight, Alex," he says, because some part of him knows that she can hear him still. "I hope you have a good dream."

Then he tightens his grip on the cables and wires and pulls, until they're pulled out of sockets, until connections are severed, until alarms start to sound and bubbles rise in the tank as if the liquid in there is boiling. He severs them all, red light flooding the room, the monitors screaming the changes in vitals, mechanical voices issuing warnings. Tears are streaming down his face when he pulls the last plug, cutting all power to the tank.

Maybe she'll find her desert again.