Edgar watched with an amalgamation of wonderment and patience as before him Keepa quite visibly struggled with herself internally, trying to choose between what was right, and what was practical, the two seemingly tearing apart her resolve, but she finally concluded upon a course of action. He had to fight the underlying urge to quiz Keepa, and kept his face sternly serious, though he was smiling inside, impressed with the Elvira; it was rare to see a selfless person in the tunnels, much less the Elvira, as all those he had seen before had been filthy and duplicitous. 

To try to help whom they could seemed a noble cause, and yet Edgar found himself questioning whether it was the right thing to do. He was by no means a noble man, but he thought he was a good man, relatively speaking, and he found himself wanting to abandon those he had come to now. He wondered, then, why it was he found his feet following the Elvira as they stalked off with clear purpose towards the sound of gunfire and death. It was not as though he could offer much; he had but a knife, which he was not that apt with, to do combat, and would most ultimately meet his demise if he tried to assist them in their venture. After his father died, Edgar spoke rarely to those in his community, for that is what they were, and felt no guilt for it; their lives were simpler without another name to put to a face. Despite this, he viewed them as a family, the guards and long-stayers were always there for each other, even Edgar to an extent with the maintenance he performed. But when they were in grave peril, and Edgar found himself caring more for his own life than those he may yet save, he felt deeply ashamed; the Elvira were ready to risk their lives, and they knew nothing of his homesteaders. He supposed this inspired him to a degree, but also shamed him into moving; he was clearly not as good of a man as he liked to think. 

The Elvira conversed in their most alien tongue, and they came to a halt near to where the pandemonium was transpiring. He saw guards, with names he knew, faces he knew, laying, contorted in pain, yet utterly tranquil in death, and hollow in the eyes when their soul had long since left them. A cold shiver ran down Edgar’s spine, and his heart raced against a heavy, constricting weight around his chest. Death scared him, there was no denying it, but seeing those he knew dispatched with such onanistic brutality filled him with a leaden dread. So much he had taken for granted, his safety, his life, and it was frightfully apparent that his mortal coil could so easily be sprung when faced with the lifeless façade of people who were once known. He wondered how long it would be before their deeds, and indeed their names, faded from the memories of those they died trying to protect. Not long, he wagered.

From the appearance of their situation, this was direr than the normal skirmishes, the death toll could testify to that. The dank smell of dirt and people was now permeated with the putrescence of blood and gore. Edgar fought the urge to gag, holding his knife in shaky hands, his face visibly pale. Perhaps if he held one of his contraptions he would feel a greater confidence, but for now, the only thing keeping him from fleeing was adrenaline and an indescribable sense of duty.

He stood as ready as he would ever be.