[ Renoir has offered them advice and experience since joining them, and much of it has been thoughtful, useful, logical. Perhaps this is, too, and yet Gustave shakes his head, drawing his legs up to rest his arms loosely on his knees. ]

Every expedition helped pave the path for those to follow. To them, we are the ones who came after— learning more about them, about what they experienced here... how could it be anything but helpful to us?

[ The truth is his focus is, for perhaps the first time in his life, split. He no longer wants to rail against duty and protocol, to yell fuck the mission and abandon every plan they've ever made, but neither can he move forward without first finding Maelle, making sure she's safe.

If she's hurt, if she's... He has to find her. He will find her. And then they can all move on together, the last ragged band of what was once Expedition 33. ]

Even the journals we've found are just fragments. There's too much we don't understand. Perhaps... perhaps one of the other expeditions managed to find the answers we need.

[ He looks back over at Renoir, the warmth of the fire bringing color and life back into his face after the bruises and weariness of the day. ]

Have you traveled with other expeditions since then?