Little's features tighten at the reaction, finding himself disturbed by the simple display of insubordination, even after all this time of so many other, considerably more, disturbing things. But it represents something at the root of it all — the horror of them, changed. The horror of men who no longer have respect for one another. (When did it begin to happen? They changed, all of them. They became like animals.)

But then, did Hickey ever have respect for any of them? Has he only been pretending?

In any case, Edward knows Hickey doesn't fear or respect him, see him as anything other than yet another obstacle to be removed in his journey towards... what? What is it? What is he after, exactly?

Now they stand face to face, and Little eyes the knife again, squares his jaw and prepares to have to knock the other man over the head if he lunges for him with that knife. (He will not shoot him.)

But the words do catch him off-guard. Edward stares, voice low and hoarse.

"Do not play games with me! Of course you must know, you had him last. Your prize, finally won."

Shame and guilt and horror press him to take the slightest step forward, jabbing his gun at the other man for emphasis.

"Where is he? And the other men? Hodgson?"