Whatever bravado she had regained from her anger quickly drained from her, along with the color in her face. It left when she saw the defeated expressions on the group of lab-coats gathered around the good doctor. She had seen that look before. She knew it all too well.

---
[I]It was another moon-lit night, the lights in the house were all out as per usual. A younger Esther silently watched from the shadows, her eyes peering around the doorway into the kitchen. Her father sat at the table, not having noticed her. One of her father's handguns sat on the kitchen table in front of him, a loaded magazine next to it. From where he sat, she couldn't quite see his entire face. But, she could see enough to see the pained look in his eyes. A mixture of desperation, of loss and defeat. A man who had lost too much and couldn't handle it. A man who barely clung to life. A man backed into a corner. She could tell he was hurting. She could tell he was cold and alone.

Slowly, his bionic arm lifted and reached for the magazine to grab it. He looked it over, turning it in his artificial hands and felt its weight. The servos in his hand whirring quietly as he moved. His other hand grabbed the handgun and brought it into the light. Esther nearly gasped when she saw it. She recognized it as his favorite handgun out of all the ones they owned. It was an ancient model, back when guns relied on expanding gases from powder filled ammunition to operate. Something called a Colt Model 1911. It was a .45 caliber, if she remembered correctly. It was his favorite because it was presented to him for his valiant service in the military as a gift. More for show than anything, but still a functioning weapon. He never fired it and always kept it in its display case. It was a beautiful work of art, too. With engravings covering it and a latin phrase on its slide.

He loaded the magazine and grabbed the slide, racking it back to chamber a round. For a moment, he stared at it. He had sat there for quite some time in complete silence. Esther stood watching, curiously wondering what he was doing. With a click, he swept the manual safety off. Gently placing his finger on the trigger he then brought it up to his head. He then pressed the cold, metal end of its barrel against his temple and shutting his eyes. Eyes widening, Esther absently reached out toward him, taking a step into the kitchen. Into the moonlight through the windows.

[B]"D-...!"[/B] was all she could squeak out.
Gasping in shock, she brought her hand back in to clasp over her mouth.
Her father opened his eyes and turned in his chair to see her standing in the doorway in her pajamas.
Tears welling in her eyes, she couldn't understand what her father was doing. 
She just wanted to help him. 
To understand his pain. 
To maybe alleviate some of the unseen burden that he carried with him each and every day.
Her father lowered the gun and stood.
Fear gripping her from having been discovered in her spying, she spun and broke off into a sprint back to her room.

Leaping into bed, she pulled the covers over her head and curled into a ball. Her hands still glued over her mouth to prevent her from making any noise. Fat tears freely streaming from her eyes as she trembled underneath the sheets. Who was she kidding? Her father definitely saw her. She could hear his heavy footsteps and the noise of his artificial limbs moving as he stood in the doorway of her bedroom. As she shook in terror and confusion her father slowly pulled the door shut, closing it. Saying nothing to her. 

Walking back to his room, he remembered he still held his gun loosely in hand. Bringing it back up to look at it, he ejected the magazine and placed it back in its display case after sweeping the manual thumb safety back on. Though, he left the single round he chambered. As Esther heard him climb into his bed, she couldn't help but ask herself, how close was she to losing her father this night? [/I]
---

But, this was different. The lab-coats squeezed the triggers to their weapons and took their own lives, one after another. Had she not intervened the many times she did with her father, would he have been able to do what these strangers did so easily? Or, so it seemed easy to her. Would she even still have a father to this day? She felt herself growing sick again. Startled from her thoughts as Avacramdt leapt over them, she watched as the Framework fended off the Cruxi that had broken through the forcefield. Whoever the pilot was, he/she fought the Cruxi well, she thought. But, with their protection crumbling around them, now wasn't the time to admire a fellow pilot's combat skills. When the soldiers came to usher them to safety, she quietly obeyed. Looking back at the forlorn Dr. Lorenzo and the dead lab-coats around him, she couldn't help but wonder if she contributed to their deaths as she did to the Spartan named Felix. She would never forget them. Any of them.

[i]"How did they die?"
"...From my mistakes."[/i]

Just what sick Hell had she gotten herself into?