The commotion was enough that they got in, and down the steps, without anyone noticing them. 

Zveran looked back to check on Masque, while also pushing blood-matted hair out of his eyes. 

Masque is perfectly fine. "We should sort your head."

“We’ll get to Cloister first. Then we should probably take a breather anyway.”

He heads further down the steps. 

Masque is mildly discontent about that, but doesn't argue.

The door to the Cloister is at the very bottom, and is made of pure light. A machina sits next to it, writing scrolling down a flat surface. 

Zevran snarls at it. “I agree, Masque. Hypocrites.”

"I think burning Yevon to the ground seems like it might be an all around good idea."

“Please do. In fact, dedicate the burning remains of Yevon to my honour, and I will applaud you from the Farplane.”

Zveran pokes at the machina, trying to figure out what will trigger the door. 

"Have we considers: kicking it, punching it, stabbing it, setting it on fire?"

Zveran pulls out a knife, spins it easily between his fingers, then slices at something in the machina. 

It sparks, whirs sadly, and then the light-door blinks away. “Truly, you have an eye for machina, Masque. We will make a blasphemer of you yet.”

"You say that like I wasn't one already."

He turns around to smile at them, impossibly fond. "True." 

The smile drops as they step into the lift. "Aten, remember how I said you're not supposed to interfere?"

Aten bobs up and down in a nod.

"Ignore it. If they're not following rules, then either am I."

Masque laughs, even as Aten bobs again.

He smiles. 

The lift shudders to a halt, and he exits, scoffing incredulously. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Seems to be an infinite-looking room of light-platforms. 

"Oh joy. Even more perplexing than the last."

"I vote we just sit here for a minute, and maybe we'll discover this whole thing is a nightmare." Zveran swings his pack off, and slumps against the nearest wall, holding a hand to his head.

Masque drops their own pack, rummages through it to find medical supplies, and then pushes Zveran's hand out of the way to look at his head.

Zveran drops his hand, and gives them a lazy smile. "Worse than it feels? Better than it looks?"

"It's a head wound. They bleed a lot regardless of how bad they are." They poke at it for a bit. "It doesn't actually look too bad."

"They should've realised how hard my head is."

"Not hard enough," Masque states as they finish clearing the blood away, and fixing a dressing to the wound.

"Am I going to live, White Mage Masque?"

"If you don't it'll because one of us gets tired of your constant quips and decides to finish the job." (Their tone is more teasing than anything else.)