Eleven shivers, considering, then reaches for the blade on his back and draws it. It's not what he wants to do, but neither is he going to make this decision only to have others carry it out for him. He breathes.

"As quick and painless as possible," he insists, voice low, then starts toward the men. He knows without thinking about it that killing defenseless women in the moment is beyond him. Not that defenseless men are much better.

Eleven brushes through their slumbering forms with a pang of regret, wondering who they had been before they'd come to this- if they'd ever been happy.

They've made their choice, he acknowledges to an absent judgement. I'm helping them in the only way I can.