The second he does, there's a tense little sigh of relief from her.

She thought for a minute it might not work.

His mass is significant: there's no guarantee that without bracing contact that the translocator will teleport them both out — so she's quick to grab hold of him before he has a chance to slip or fall in the chaos. Braced against his weight with her own and it's mostly her fingers curled in the contoured edges of his armor like if he were to go, she could somehow stop it.

"Lo siento por las náuseas."

And it's just a tired murmur before they're snapped through time and space in a sickening flash, broken down at point a and dragged to the clearer passageway at point b where the translocator rests, so low on energy it hardly managed the jump at all. Unlike the main (now-collapsing core), other Legionnaires are passing through here quickly enough to take notice. Someone else can take it from here, if he can't.

There's a wall at his back, it's easy to let him slump against it, patting the dead center of his chest plate with a bloodied hand.

She has to go back.

And without anything more than a single glance, drawing away from that point of contact— she does.