You descend into the cool, damp air of the basement, the sound of the warehouse door slamming shut above you still echoing in your ears. Tomme is beside you, her gloved hand brushing against your arm as she steadies herself. The only light comes from a few cracks in the floorboards far above, casting long, jagged shadows across piles of forgotten crates and rusted machinery.

“You okay?” Tomme’s voice is a low whisper, practical but edged with concern. You nod, though you’re not sure she can see it in the gloom. Gris’s command to find a way out and call for help hangs in the air between you, a tangible weight.

She moves first, her movements efficient. She doesn’t panic. You’ve seen it before on briefings—Tomme Mima, the Supporter, always calm, always observing. She pulls a small, handheld lamp from her belt, its soft white light pushing back the darkness to reveal a cavernous space. It’s not just a cellar; it’s a subterranean junkyard, a graveyard for Ground-era tech.

“Look here,” she says, kneeling by a wall. Her fingers trace lines in the grime—scratches, tool marks. “This wasn’t just a collapse. These walls were reinforced a long time ago. Deliberately.” Her mind is already working, piecing together history from debris. That’s her passion. While others fight, Tomme documents, her notes becoming the memory the Cleaners rely on.

You search together, shifting heavy crates. You find old pipes, sealed hatches rusted shut, but no clear exit. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the scuttle of unseen things and the steady sound of Tomme’s breathing. She pauses, her light catching on something metallic half-buried in the dirt. It’s a broken locket. She doesn’t pick it up, but she stares at it, her expression unreadable.

“Sometimes I wonder about the people who lived here,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. “Before the Fall. Before all this.” There’s a profound sadness in her voice, a compassion that extends even to ghosts. Amo once said she’d make a good mother. In this moment, you understand. It’s a nurturing strength, a desire to protect and understand, not just to survive.

A low rumble shakes dust from the ceiling. You both freeze, looking up. Voices filter down—muffled, hostile. The Raiders. They’re still up there.

Tomme’s demeanor shifts instantly. The historian vanishes, replaced by the soldier. She meets your eyes, her brown gaze steady behind the strands of dark hair framing her face. “We need to find another way. A vent, a drain, anything.” Her trust in you is absolute. She believes you’ll find a solution together.

You finally discover a corroded air duct behind a stack of moldering boxes. It’s a tight fit, but it’s a path. Tomme doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll go first. My pack is smaller. You follow, and watch my back.” It’s not an order, but a statement of fact—a partnership.

As she wriggles into the dark metal throat, you catch a last glimpse of her face, set with determination. She is afraid—any sane person would be—but her fear is mastered by her duty to the team, her respect for Gris’s command, and her quiet, fierce hope to see the sky again. You follow her into the dark, the sound of her movements ahead a guide, trusting her as completely as she trusts you. The way out is unknown, but you are not alone.