Nickolas
Down the stairwell of 1-C, Tom and Roberta's brief journey forward was not unsimilar to what the three in the other accessible doorway went through. It was dark, the steps came to an eventual stop and the hallway narrowed, leading to an entryway elsewhere. The main difference was that unlike Shiro's group, their passage was a normal door excluding that blue light, akin to the ones in the main lobby excluding the whole evil deathtrap claw aspect that was circumnavigated curtsey of the Mancini Daughter and her defectiveness. That said, it wasn't to say that Tom got to said door without being extremely annoyed by his tragic partner, not at all. 

*"Was it true what he said about your family?"* ``"Sounds like them. Don't really care if it was."``
*"Is he really from the 1800s, that time?"* ``"Y'know, I really wish we could go back to that time so I could hit you without getting in trouble. I don't know yet, and again, I don't care. If it was relevant, I would."``
*"Is your family why your doing this job? To help other families"* ``No. I do my job because I get paid. With money. As people with jobs do in most developed countries."``
*"But what he said seemed to bother you. . ."* ``"I specifically told you the place is messing with my head. I'd say it's messing with yours as well, but that's a pretty good excuse for being a moron, right? Lucky you!"``
*"How does your eye glow like that?"* ``"Double-A batteries up my ass, feels great. Is that the answer you wanted? How crude do I get before you shut up?"``

_ _
Just a few examples of her *Nagging* Questions, each more irritating and useless then the last. Why do idiots like her insist on satiating their curiosity by implementing elementary questionnaires? At least when *He* Was interested in something, he used experiments, proposed theories, lead to outcomes that would reveal what he wanted to know— and she just asks him, straight up, expecting anything revealing from it, not to mention the topics were incredibly uninteresting. Who cares about his life? Was this really the time to make 'conversation', or whatever? The worst part is when he rebuttaled with one of his own that was actually worth asking, her answer dwindled it down to as equally boring. 

``". . .You didn't really seem upset that I stabbed you without permission. That's lawsuit worthy. You're definitely broke."`` *". . .Well, it was for a cause that was good. It's okay."*

Yeuughh. The most boring person in the history of persons. Should he even help her save mommy? He'd be leaving Mother Mancini with a daughter that has the personality of a cardboard box. Seriously, who asks these questions while on a hunt to save someone who supposedly means everything to them? To kill time? To be fair, he'd probably do something like this given the incentive, but at least his reasoning is mostly practical— as in he doesn't care about anyone— or at the very least executed better. She was bored, and her solution to that was to make things *More* Boring. Loser. He was really starting to regret indebting himself to her safety, even if it was his duty.

_ _
. . .Nonetheless, Tom came to a stop once his ``Eyes Of Providence`` illuminated the basic wooden door from his serpent-eye, emanating a yellow glow so as to light up their pathway so far. The moment he got into the stairwell, he had both hands on his .1911 placed in front of him, ready to fire on any sudden attacks as with the nature of the Inn thus far. His Batman-esque utility belt could also come in handy with all his AIC gadgets and doo-hickeys. Berta hunched over right behind him effectively following instruction, and once they reached the door, her questions ended. Freedom! Rejoice! The urge to shoot her in the head had left him alas. It would've been so easy, too.

``"Okay, I'm gonna breach. That means I break the door down. Stay behind me. Don't do something stupid. Actually, just do nothing."`` Tom would place his shoulder against the measly door, planting his body against the wall. Whatever was behind this door could realistically just grab him out of thin air like it was nothing, but at least he was expecting that now, and Berta wouldn't be subject to it so long as he was here to take the fall provided she in fact did not do anything stupid. If not, case moves on. 

``"On go. Not 3. Go."``
John
The Mancini Daughter nodded, continuing to stay behind him as he prepared to breach. His words were harsh, but. . . Well, that was that, really. He was right about numerous things, to be fair; her questions were unfounded and not helpful right now, and she was only asking them because she was a little. . . Nervous. She also felt it polite to inquire about the man who is dedicating himself to protecting her, but clearly he wasn't into that sort of thing. Perhaps this was a, 'read the room' moment, as they say? She wasn't too good at that, admittedly.

As said earlier, Roberta did have thoughts about everything. Were his motivations stemming from something personal, like hers were? He seems strictly professional, but does one die for professional means for another? That was hard to believe, though maybe she hadn't seen enough of the world and it's people to really understand something like that. The stock, blood sweat and tears, grinding effort that people put into their work can often be remarkable, outright unbelievable. It meant everything to them. It was kind of like her father, before he died.

*"Wait! I have something. . ."* Before Thomas could enter his countdown, she remembered what she had done while downstairs before things got heated. She shoveled through her pockets and pulled out what was undoubtedly his *Flask*. . . But it was not empty, indicated by her shaking it. It was almost completely full, because she had somehow found the time to do exactly that just before they left, and also telling him only now. She. . . Forgot. Maybe he was right about that, too.

*". . .Outside. . . One of my friends, he drinks. I was holding it for him, but got stuck inside. So. . . Here, I filled yours with his for you. He won't be out when I get back. It does not help him like you."*
Nickolas
``"What now?—"`` 

Oh. It's his flask. His beautiful, gorgeous silver flask. Tom sort of blankly stared, and then at the drinking container. She did realize she was giving alcohol to a gunmen? Way too much trust to put in a stranger. In most cases, this would truly be an utterly moronic, insane idea. Again, she was *Lucky* That he is one of the few people in this world that such logic simply does not apply. If anything, it was helpful, and ironically, it would illogical to not take what she was offering as far as satisfying the needs of an alcoholic having not taken a sip in some time. Another good deed from a person with a 'kind' heart. Just awful stuff. There was something else, though.

``". . . That's convenient."`` Tom commented, as he took the flask from her hands. He squinted at her in brief thought, before continuing. She was lying. This was hers for sure. Didn't pin her as a drinker, but. . . ``"We'll share. I might have to give you my gun at some point, so don't overdo it."`` That was oddly nice of him, wasn't it? What better to bridge the gap of a compassionless man then booze? In any case, he nodded and took a small sip. *Bourbon?* She's drinking *This?* Man, she must really like her parents, or hate them. This wasn't just some shoehorn beer— this was *Hard* Liquor, and frankly he was shocked they even had this in Caeli Noctis. 

Tom slipped the flask into his dress shirt pocket, and reacclimated himself to the wall in order to prepare for breaching. What he said wasn't a joke; there was a likely probability that he'd need to exchange his weapon with her, to which it would be prefered if she did not accidentally shoot his eye out. He had a personal backup, of course, and as implied, alcohol does not affect him in the same way it does most normal or even abnormal humans.