Edward kept one cheek to the floor, protective of what he had left. His knees were floods, the green slacks torn at whatever angle Eridan had purged his wooden sledgehammer. The sound that rasped out between broken, split lips was more a relief than a whimper; his formal reply took a rain check.

Perhaps Eridan had a point. It was dangerous to work under such plasma-slick construction, and the Alternian's wrecking ball hands were far from sheathed. Edward closed his good eye, the one still capable of working through the swell.

"Enough?"

The fact that he was beaten and bloody was testament to Eridan's appetite. The fact he was still breathing -- monument to Eridan's restraint.