The oppressive, wide-open expanse of the Archive's core pathways gave way to something cramped, heavy, and low-tech.
Tansy stepped through the narrow, rusted frame of what had once been an Archive maintenance shelter, tucked into a dead structural pocket where architecture hadn't fully resolved. Unlike the terrifying perfection of the grand halls outside-- where pristine white stone and amber containment fields made everything feel like an operating room built for gods-- this place felt lived in.
Not comfortable. Survived.
Galathea Brooks halted inside the threshold, her boots grinding against grit and dried mineral dust. Her eyes cataloged every detail with pragmatic precision.
It was the first place Galathea had set foot in since arriving inside the Doom that felt remotely, stubbornly human.
Tansy tossed her brass-sheathed tool onto the steel table with a metallic clatter. The sound cut through the hum of the surrounding structure.
