Let the Devil Out [Part 1]

No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.1

- Carl Jung

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Content Warning: The following chapter (both parts) contains depictions of mature themes and very distressing situations. Reader discretion is advised.

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The geomarrow glows like hell's own veins, and Maria knows she's mining her own grave.

Her pickaxe strikes the glowing vein. Sparks dance through the air, momentarily illuminating the darkness of the mine. She bites back a cry as the impact reverberates up her arm, her muscles screaming in protest. Natasha's medicine dulls the edge, but the relentless strain of mining exacts its toll.

Acrid fumes rise from the freshly exposed ore. Maria tugs her threadbare scarf tighter, a futile barrier against the noxious vapors. Each breath burns, the familiar tightness creeping into her chest like a serpent coiling around her lungs.

She slumps against the rough cavern wall as a coughing fit wracks her small frame. When it subsides, she swipes at her mouth. The flecks of blood on her skin glisten in the dim light.

"Looks like I'll be seeing Natasha again sooner than I thought," she mutters. Her words are swallowed by the cacophony of pickaxes and rumbling carts that fill the air.

Maria forces herself upright, ignoring the protests of her aching body. She can't afford to slow down. Her brother needs her, needs the food these long hours will provide. With trembling hands, she hefts another chunk of geomarrow into her cart.

The cart groans under the weight as Maria pushes it towards the mine entrance. Sweat cuts trails through the grime on her skin, stinging her eyes. Each breath is a battle against the oppressive air, her chest heaving with the effort.

Other children toil alongside her, their gaunt faces and hollow eyes mirrors of her own exhaustion. Silence reigns; they learned long ago that wasted breath means wasted energy. Maria's gaze flicks between them, cataloging the signs of fatigue and illness. A question haunts her: How many of them will survive another week?

At last, the dim glow of the mine entrance pierces the gloom. Maria's shoulders sag with relief as she guides her cart into line with the others. The Vagrant overseer looms at the front, his face obscured by a respirator mask as he inspects each load.

"Line up!" he barks, gesturing with a gloved hand.

The children shuffle into place, heads bowed like penitents before an unforgiving god. Maria's heart pounds a frantic rhythm as the overseer moves down the line, his pen scratching notes on a battered tablet. He pauses at the boy next to her, and Maria sees a flash of recognition in the overseer's eyes.

"Well done, lad," the Vagrant says, his voice muffled by the mask. "Your information was most valuable. Here, take these." He presses three gleaming coupon tickets into the boy's trembling hands. "That's enough for extra rations for you and your family."

Hope flares in the boy's sunken eyes, but as he turns to leave, his gaze locks with Maria's. Guilt twists his features, and he bolts, clutching the tickets to his chest like stolen treasure.

Maria's stomach plummets as the overseer's attention falls on her. His eyes narrow behind the mask, and she feels the weight of his scrutiny like a physical blow.

"You," he growls, jabbing a finger at her chest. "You went into Wildfire territory. Visited her clinic."

Maria's breath catches in her throat. Words fail her, terror turning her tongue to lead.

The overseer's subordinate steps forward, his hand resting on the butt of a crude pistol. "Should we make an example of her, boss?"

Panic floods Maria's veins, rooting her to the spot. "No, please," she chokes out, her voice a ragged whisper. "I-I need to take care of my brother. Natasha, she... she has medicine. For my lungs. Please, I just wanted to breathe."

The overseer sighs heavily, rubbing his temples through the mask. "Why the fuck am I the one who has to deal with this shit?" he mutters. His hand shoots out, fingers digging into Maria's arm as he yanks her forward. "Come with me, girl."

Maria stumbles, struggling to keep her footing as the overseer drags her away from the mine entrance. Panic claws at her throat, and she twists in his grip, searching desperately for a friendly face among the crowd of workers. But no one meets her eyes, their gazes sliding away like water off stone.

"Please," she gasps, tears cutting tracks through the grime on her cheeks. "I don't want to die. My brother needs me."

The overseer's grip tightens, and he pulls her close. The acrid smell of sweat and chemicals assaults her nostrils as he leans down, his mask inches from her face.

"Listen here, girl," he growls. "You've put me in a real tight spot. By rights, we should be butchering you for this little stunt."

Maria's breath hitches, terror turning her blood to ice.

The overseer's fingers dig deeper into her arm. "But I'm feeling generous today. So here's what's going to happen. We're going to give you a chance – a small one – to keep breathing."

He jerks his head towards a nearby cart, where another man stands waiting. "Pray to Qlipoth they don't find you too pretty."

Before Maria can process his words, the overseer shoves her roughly towards the cart. She stumbles, nearly falling, but the other man catches her. His hands are rough as he binds her wrists and ankles with coarse rope.

"No!" Maria cries, thrashing against her bonds. "Please, my brother—"

The man ignores her pleas, lifting her easily and tossing her into the cart. She lands hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. Through tear-blurred eyes, she watches as the overseer and the cart driver exchange words.

The driver reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handful of gleaming shield coins. They catch the dim light as he passes them to the overseer, who quickly pockets them.

"Take her to the temple down in Rivet Town," the overseer orders, his voice gruff. "I'm washing my hands of this shit. I don't want nothing to do with her."

The driver nods, moving to the front of the cart. He pauses, glancing back at the overseer.

"And make sure to say she's from another person's group," the overseer adds hastily. "Under somebody else's responsibility. If they find out she was mine..." He draws a finger across his throat in a sharp gesture.

Maria's mind reels as she tries to make sense of what's happening. The temple? Rivet Town? She'd heard whispers of both, but never imagined she'd see either. Fear gnaws at her insides as the cart begins to move, jolting over the uneven ground.

She twists in her bonds, trying to see where they're going, but her view is blocked by crates and supplies. The acrid smell of geomarrow fills her nostrils, triggering another coughing fit. Each rattling breath sends pain lancing through her chest.

Time loses all meaning as they travel. Maria drifts in and out of consciousness, the constant motion of the cart and the throbbing pain in her lungs making it hard to focus. She thinks of her brother, alone and waiting for her return. Tears sting her eyes, and she bites her lip to keep from sobbing aloud.

Eventually, the cart slows to a stop. Maria hears voices, muffled and indistinct. The driver's boots crunch on gravel as he moves around the cart.

Rough hands grab her, hauling her upright. Maria blinks in the sudden light, her eyes struggling to adjust after so long in the dim cart. As her vision clears, she finds herself face-to-face with a dilapidated temple.

A temple of Preservation. Qlipoth's domain.

Maria's heart hammers against her ribs as she watches the driver exchange words with a woman who looks like she's been carved from the same harsh world as the rest of them. The woman's face is a landscape of scars and hard lines, her eyes cold and assessing. She passes a handful of shield coins to the driver, her grip lingering on his arm for a moment too long.

"Take her upstairs," she orders, her voice a raspy whisper that sends a shiver down Maria's spine. "And be gentle with her. Igor doesn't like spoiled meat."

The driver nods, his lips curling into a leering grin as he reaches for Maria. She recoils, her body trembling with fear and disgust. But there's no escape. The man's hands close around her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto his shoulder.

Maria's vision swims as she's carried through the temple's entrance, the world tilting and spinning around her. She catches glimpses of the once-sacred space, now defiled by its new inhabitants. Statues of the ancient deity lie broken and forgotten, their faces marred by time and neglect. Dust and debris coat the floor, and the air is thick with the stench of sweat and decay.

The man carrying her climbs a rickety staircase, his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. Maria's stomach churns with every jolt and sway, her head spinning with dizziness and fear. She squeezes her eyes shut, praying for a miracle.

As they reach the top of the stairs, the man sets her down roughly on a narrow cot. Maria's eyes fly open, taking in the small, dingy room. Grime stains the walls, and the air is stale and suffocating. A single candle flickers on a nearby table, casting eerie shadows across the room.

The man looms over her, his eyes glinting with hunger and cruelty. Maria's breath comes in short, panicked gasps as she scrambles backward, pressing herself against the cold, unyielding wall.

"Please," she whispers, her voice trembling. "Please, don't hurt me."

The man's grin widens, before he moves back a few paces, exiting the room and closing it behind a lock. Maria's heart threatens to burst from her chest as she searches the room for an escape, for any sign of hope.

But there's none to be found.

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Bronya perches on a bench in a desolate park overlooking Boulder Town, her eyes drinking in the stark contrast between the crumbling structures below and the imposing edifices of the Overworld above. The ethereal glow of geomarrow veins casts an otherworldly light across the landscape, illuminating the taut faces of Wildfire personnel patrolling the area.

Oleg eases himself beside her, his mechanical arm emitting a soft whir. Bronya turns to him, her voice steady despite the maelstrom in her mind. "Give it to me straight, Oleg. What's the true state of the Underworld?"

A grim smile etches itself across his weathered face. "It's as your eyes reveal, Commander Rand. Boulder Town's clinging to life by its fingernails, and that's with Wildfire's relentless efforts."

Bronya's gaze sweeps across the ramshackle buildings, noting the hollow-eyed children darting between them. Her chest constricts at the sight of their emaciated frames, skin ghostly pale from sunlight deprivation.

"The children," she murmurs, her voice barely audible, "they look... wrong."

"Malnourished," Oleg confirms, his tone matter-of-fact yet tinged with sorrow. "Sunlight starvation, poor nutrition. We do what we can, but..." His voice trails off, eyes losing focus as if peering into a bleak future.

Bronya leans forward, her expression tightening with concern. "How dire is the situation, truly?"

Oleg exhales heavily, his mechanical hand clenching with an audible grind. "It's beyond your worst nightmares, Commander. The absence of sunlight alone is catastrophic. We're witnessing rampant vitamin D deficiency, leading to rickets in children – fragile bones, arrested growth. Their immune systems are in tatters, leaving them defenseless against every passing illness."

He pauses, his gaze distant. "And it's not limited to the young. The elderly, those who've managed to cling to life this long, are plagued by severe osteoporosis and muscle atrophy. We're seeing an alarming surge in cognitive decline and depression."

Bronya's eyes widen, shock etched across her features. "What of life expectancy?"

Oleg's laugh is a harsh, brittle sound. "Less than 45 now. And that's an optimistic estimate."

Bronya's attention is drawn to a nearby structure, its walls pockmarked and crumbling with age. A tattered curtain flutters in a shattered window, a futile attempt at privacy in this world of perpetual struggle. "The infrastructure..."

"Gets shoved to the bottom of the priority list," Oleg finishes, his voice heavy with resignation. "When you're choosing between food and mending a roof, well..." He gestures vaguely at the decaying structures surrounding them, the unspoken truth hanging in the air like a noxious fog.

"If you find this appalling," Oleg continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "you'd be horrified to learn of the conditions in Vagrant territory. Or in the other towns and community enclaves where our presence is scarce."

A shiver courses down Bronya's spine as she recalls her encounter with the Vagrants in the Great Mine. "I've witnessed their brutality firsthand," she murmurs.

Oleg nods grimly. "They're our primary concern, true. But don't dismiss Svarog and his robotic army. That one's impervious to reason, no matter how many times we've attempted dialogue."

Bronya's mind flashes to the terrifying display of mechanized force she'd witnessed. She swallows hard, pushing the memory aside. "Tell me more about the Vagrants," she says, her voice taut with tension.

Oleg's expression darkens, shadows deepening the lines etched into his face. "It's... a complex situation. Most Vagrants are just ordinary folks struggling to survive. But the core members, the true puppet masters of the faction? They're a different breed entirely. This chaos, this lawlessness – it's their element."

"How so?" Bronya presses, leaning in.

"They thirst for power, for dominance," Oleg explains. "And they're unhinged enough to venture into Fragmentum portals, scavenging for resources unavailable elsewhere. Items that do ease life down here. They garner respect and deference in return, but make no mistake – they're devoid of genuine concern for the people."

Bronya nods slowly, processing this information. "The situation is dire, that much is evident," she says, her voice strained with suppressed emotion. "But what of Wildfire? What of your efforts to maintain some semblance of control?"

Oleg sighs, his mechanical fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his knee. "Wildfire... we're not the formidable force you might imagine, Commander. We maintain some order in Boulder Town, but our influence beyond that? It's limited. Painfully so."

He pauses, his eyes scanning the desolate horizon. "The Fragmentum's relentless expansion has exacted a heavy toll. We've lost countless small towns and enclaves to its corruption. People flock to Boulder Town, seeking safety in numbers, but..."

"But more people means more mouths to feed," Bronya realizes, the implications hitting her like a physical blow.

Oleg nods, his expression grim. "Precisely. Our resources are already stretched to breaking point. With each passing day, more refugees arrive, and our ability to sustain ourselves diminishes. We're in a race against time, Commander, and the odds are stacked against us."

Bronya's brow creases, her mind grappling with the implications of Oleg's words. "How did it come to this?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oleg's eyes darken, shadows of memory flickering across his weathered face. "It began when your mother, Supreme Guardian Cocolia Rand, withdrew the Silvermane Guard troops from the Underworld."

Bronya stiffens at the mention of her mother, her posture straightening as if bracing for a physical blow. Oleg continues.

"Initially, it was unusual but not alarming. If there's an imminent Fragmentum threat on the surface, it's logical to temporarily recall all available troops to defend Belobog's heart."

He pauses, his voice dropping further, compelling Bronya to lean in to catch his words. "But was there ever a genuine threat that warranted such drastic action? Even in worst-case scenarios, the Architects have contingencies. We have units capable of handling severe attacks. And in the direst circumstances, the Supreme Guardian could always activate the Engine of Creation."

Bronya's mind reels, struggling to process this information. The implications are staggering, threatening to upend everything she's ever believed about her mother, her duty, and the very foundations of Belobog itself. "Surely my mother had a reason—" she begins, her voice faltering.

Oleg raises his hand, the gesture gentle but firm. "I don't presume to know the Supreme Guardian's mind, Commander. I'm merely relating how it appeared from our vantage point. One day we had protection, the next... nothing."

Bronya's eyes narrow as she studies Oleg, her mind racing with questions. The puzzle pieces before her refuse to fit, each new revelation only adding to her confusion and growing unease. How could this man possess such intimate knowledge of the Silvermane Guards? And if the troop withdrawal wasn't justified, what possible motive could her mother have had for such a drastic decision?

"Your knowledge of the Silvermane Guards is... extensive," Bronya says, her voice carefully neutral, masking the turmoil within. "How did you acquire such information?"

Oleg's weathered face creases into a wry smile, a glimmer of his former self shining through the hardened exterior. "I should know, Commander Rand. I served as a Major of the 14th Company for over 15 years."

Bronya's eyebrows arch in surprise, her carefully maintained composure cracking. "You were a Silvermane Guard?" The question emerges more accusatory than intended, but the revelation has caught her off guard.

"Aye," Oleg nods, his mechanical arm whirring softly as he shifts. A shadow passes over his face, memories of long-past battles flickering behind his eyes. "Fought tooth and nail against the encroaching Fragmentum forces. But I always harbored a soft spot for the Underworld. My old man was a miner down here, you see. I knew the harsh realities these folks faced."

Bronya leans forward, barely contained emotion simmering beneath the surface. "Then why leave? Why abandon your post?"

Oleg's eyes harden, the weariness in them replaced by steely resolve. "Because I witnessed what was unfolding. Gradually, the Supreme Guardian's actions were leaving these people in even greater peril. I couldn't stand idly by and watch. So I made a choice - to stay and do what I could to help."

Bronya's mind whirls, trying to process this information. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for her next question. "And what of my second query? If the troop withdrawal wasn't warranted, what possible reason could the Supreme Guardian have had for such a decision? It defies logic."

Oleg's expression grows grim, the lines on his face deepening as if carved by the weight of his words. "I've grappled with that question for years, Commander. And I've reached only one conclusion." He pauses, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, compelling Bronya to lean closer. "Cocolia viewed the Underworld citizens as expendable resources in the war against the Fragmentum. Never as people. She's indifferent to the lives down here, concerned only with maintaining the status quo in the Overworld."

Fury blazes through Bronya, her fists clenching at her sides. The bench creaks as she rises to her feet, her voice a snarl of disbelief and anger. "How dare you!" she growls, towering over the seated Oleg. "How could you entertain such a notion?"

Oleg remains seated, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Bronya's rage. His mechanical hand rests lightly on his knee, the soft whirring a counterpoint to Bronya's ragged breathing. "It's a simple process of elimination, Commander. If there was never any need to withdraw all troops from the Underworld, based on the facts I presented earlier, then why would Cocolia do so? The only logical conclusion is that she's indifferent to the lives here."

Bronya's mind reels, struggling to reconcile Oleg's words with her image of her mother. The loving, if stern, figure who raised her, who instilled in her the importance of duty and sacrifice. "That's... that's inconceivable," she stammers, her earlier composure crumbling. "She wouldn't... she couldn't..."

"I understand it's difficult to accept," Oleg says softly, his voice tinged with sympathy. He gestures at the desolate landscape around them, the crumbling buildings and hollow-eyed inhabitants. "But look around you, Commander. Witness the suffering, the desperation. Ask yourself - would a leader who truly cared allow this to happen?"

Bronya's gaze sweeps across the desolate landscape of Boulder Town, taking in the crumbling buildings, the hollow-eyed children. The stark reality before her clashes violently with the sanitized reports she'd received in the Overworld. Doubt begins to creep into her heart, a cold, insidious thing that threatens to shatter everything she's ever believed.

"No," she whispers, more to herself than to Oleg. Her voice is barely audible, lost in the wind that whistles through the broken buildings. "There must be another explanation. There has to be."

Oleg's mechanical fingers tap a restless rhythm on his knee, the soft whirring a counterpoint to the eerie silence that has fallen between them. "I wish there was, Commander. But the facts speak for themselves."

Bronya's fists clench at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She welcomes the pain, using it to anchor herself against the tide of doubt threatening to overwhelm her. "The complete withdrawal of Silvermane Guard troops... it must have been to protect the Overworld from a greater threat. Perhaps Belobog would have been overrun otherwise."

Oleg's eyebrows rise, a flicker of something – pity, perhaps – crossing his weathered face. "A threat so great it warranted abandoning an entire population? With all due respect, Commander, I was there. There was no such threat."

Bronya's expression tightens, her mind racing. She racks her memory, searching for any recollection of a crisis that could justify such drastic measures. She comes up empty, the absence of information a damning piece of evidence in itself.

"Even if there wasn't an immediate threat," Bronya argues, her voice taut with desperation, "sealing off the entrance to the Overworld could have been a precautionary measure. To prevent the spread of Fragmentum."

Oleg shakes his head, his expression grim. "And leave us to fend for ourselves against that very threat? Look around you, Commander. See what that decision has wrought."

Bronya's gaze sweeps across Boulder Town once more, this time truly seeing the devastation that surrounds them. Wildfire personnel patrol the streets, their faces tense and alert.

"Wildfire formed to maintain some semblance of peace and order. We're small in number, but we do what we can."

As if to underscore his words, a group of children scurry past, their clothes hanging loose on malnourished frames. Bronya's heart constricts at the sight, her earlier anger giving way to a deep, aching sorrow.

"The food shortages," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "How do you manage?"

Oleg's face darkens, the lines etched deep by years of hardship becoming more pronounced. "We scrape by. Limited agriculture, mostly vegetarian diets. Some animal husbandry when we can manage it. But it's never enough."

"But the exchange system," Bronya interjects, grasping at straws. "The Underworld still sends geomarrow to the surface. You receive food and supplies in return, don't you?"

Oleg nods grimly. "Aye, the supply lines. They're lifelines that, fortunately, haven't been completely severed. Geomarrow mined here travels up to the surface. In return, we receive a constant stream of resources – food, mainly – from the Overworld."

"That sounds... functional," Bronya says hesitantly.

Oleg's laugh is bitter, a harsh sound that echoes in the stillness of the park. "It might have been, once. But it's becoming insufficient. And there's another problem – since there's no real law and order down here, some supply lines have been completely captured by the Vagrants. They monopolize them for their own ends."

Bronya's eyes narrow. "What does that mean for the people?"

"It means that if you live in Vagrant territory, you play by their rules," Oleg says grimly. "You follow their orders, comply with their way of living. Because if you don't..." He trails off, letting the implication hang in the air.

"They don't eat," Bronya finishes, her voice barely above a whisper.

Oleg nods solemnly. "Exactly, Commander. And with each passing day, their control grows stronger, while our ability to resist weakens. The Underworld is a powder keg, and the fuse is burning short."

Bronya's mind races, desperately seeking a justification, anything to cling to in the face of this overwhelming evidence. "Perhaps... perhaps the initial decision was made in haste. An underestimation of the danger the Fragmentum posed to the Underworld."

Oleg's eyes narrow, his gaze piercing. "A convenient explanation, Commander. But let me ask you this: wouldn't sending more troops to the Underworld have been a better strategy for Belobog's survival?"

Bronya opens her mouth to argue, but Oleg presses on.

"Belobog's Overworld has better infrastructure to withstand attacks. The city is built on foundations laid by the old Architects. In centuries of history, the walls have only been at risk a handful of times, and that was back in Alisa Rand's day."

Bronya's certainty wavers, her earlier defiance crumbling in the face of Oleg's logic. His words carry the weight of experience, of firsthand knowledge she can't refute.

"Maintaining a protected Underworld," Oleg continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "would have guaranteed a steady supply of geomarrow to the surface. Time for research, for innovation. Instead..."

He gestures at the desolation around them, the sweep of his mechanical arm encompassing the entirety of Boulder Town's suffering. Bronya's gaze follows, taking in the full scope of the devastation her mother's decisions have caused.

Oleg's weathered face hardens as he continues, his mechanical arm whirring softly with each emphatic gesture. "There is something critical that you need to understand, Commander Rand. When Cocolia withdrew the Silvermane Guard, she didn't just abandon us to the Fragmentum. She left us to face the darkest parts of ourselves."

Bronya's expression tightens, her mind struggling to grasp the implications of Oleg's words. The weight of revelation settles on her shoulders, each new piece of information a burden she can't shake off.

"Humans, when pushed to the brink of survival, can become monsters far worse than any Fragmentum creature." Oleg's eyes bore into Bronya's, the intensity of his gaze making her want to look away. But she forces herself to meet it, to face the harsh truths he's laying bare. "Wildfire wasn't created to fight corruption. That was secondary. We're a peacekeeping organization first. We formed to keep humanity's evil in check."

A chill runs down Bronya's spine as Oleg's words sink in. The implications are staggering, threatening to upend everything she's ever believed about the nature of their struggle.

"You think you know evil because you've fought Fragmentum hordes in the Overworld?" Oleg's laugh is harsh, bitter, echoing in the stillness of the park. "You don't. You haven't walked through Vagrant territory, seen a beaten child standing next to her abuser, his smile taunting you. You haven't felt the helplessness of knowing that if you intervene, the Vagrants will unleash chaos and death across the Underworld."

Bronya's fists clench, her nails digging into her palms. The urge to deny, to argue, rises in her throat, but Oleg presses on, his words relentless.

"Whatever challenges you've faced as the Supreme Guardian's daughter pale in comparison to the suffering down here." His voice drops to a whisper, forcing Bronya to lean in to catch his words. "People would gladly trade this hell for the chance to die fighting Fragmentum above. At least then they'd have purpose."

Bronya's gaze sweeps across Boulder Town once more, taking in the hollow-eyed residents, the crumbling buildings. The weight of their despair settles on her shoulders like a physical burden, threatening to crush her under its immensity.

"Despair and nihilism run rampant," Oleg continues, his voice heavy with the weight of countless tragedies. "The temples of The Preservation stand empty, abandoned. Or worse, they've become dens of depravity. Drug trade, exploitation, acts that would make even the most hardened soldier recoil – they mock the very sanctity these places once held. People believe they've been forgotten, left to rot in the dark."

He pauses, his expression haunted. "We've managed to keep the worst elements at bay in Boulder Town, but in Vagrant territory? There are rumors... whispers of unspeakable crimes against the most vulnerable. Children, women – no one is safe. The darkest parts of human nature flourish unchecked. And we're powerless to stop it all."

Oleg's mechanical hand clenches, the gears grinding audibly. "This place... it's become a festering wound, Commander. The kind of hellhole where the worst of humanity thrives. And every day, it spreads a little further."

Bronya's breath catches in her throat as Oleg's words paint a vivid picture of the Underworld's suffering. Each detail is a knife twisting in her gut, shattering her preconceptions and leaving her adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Oleg's eyes bore into Bronya's. "Do you have the guts, Commander, to look at the children of this place in the face and tell them that your mother had to do what she did because it was justified? Your mother, who sits in the comforts of Qlipoth Fort, ignorant to the plight of her people? Unwilling to even face them and admit they've been sacrificed for the 'greater good', if that is what we are to believe she did it for?"

His mechanical fingers tap a restless rhythm on his knee, the sound a counterpoint to the heavy silence that has fallen between them. "I'd respect Cocolia more if she'd had the courage to tell us to our faces that we'd been left to die. But she didn't even grant us that dignity."

Bronya's mind reels, struggling to reconcile this harsh reality with her image of her mother. The loving, if stern, figure who raised her clashes violently with the cold, calculating leader Oleg describes. "But surely—" she begins, her voice faltering.

Oleg cuts her off, his voice sharp. "Cocolia's decisions have led to thousands, if not tens of thousands of deaths. The suffering of the Underworld rests squarely on her shoulders."

The accusation hangs in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Bronya's chest tightens, a mix of guilt, depression, and conflict swirling within her. She stares out at Boulder Town, seeing it with new eyes – not just as a struggling community, but as a testament to her mother's apparent callousness.

The image of Cocolia she's held dear all these years begins to crack, replaced by something colder, more ruthless. Bronya's breath comes in short gasps as she grapples with this new, potentially true vision of the woman who raised her.

"I... I need time to process this," Bronya says, her voice barely above a whisper. The enormity of what she's learned threatens to overwhelm her, each revelation a weight pressing down on her shoulders. "To reconcile what I've been told with what I'm seeing."

Oleg nods, his expression softening slightly. A flicker of sympathy passes across his weathered face.

"Take all the time you need, Commander. But reality won't change no matter how long you decide to wait to see it for what it is."

As the geomarrow's eerie glow bathes the Underworld in its unforgiving light, Bronya stands there, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The stark truths Oleg has laid bare refuse to be ignored, demanding acknowledgment and action. She finds herself at a crossroads, caught between her duty to the Overworld and the undeniable suffering of the Underworld.

The path forward is unclear, shrouded in the same shadows that cloak Boulder Town's crumbling streets.