Memories of Happier Days

"A parent's love is whole no matter how many times divided."

- Robert Brault

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In the bustling streets of Belobog's Underworld, a young woman with snow-white hair and crimson eyes weaves through the crowd. Her name is Lyra, and she moves with purpose, her gaze fixed on the towering Geomarrow transport line in the distance. As she nears the massive structure, her steps slow, uncertainty creeping into her expression.

A group of workers emerge from the transport line, their faces weary and clothes stained with the telltale shimmer of Geomarrow dust. Among them, a man with sun-bronzed skin and bright blue eyes catches Lyra's attention. He laughs at something his companion says, the sound rich and warm even from a distance.

Their eyes meet across the busy square. For a moment, the world seems to still.

The man breaks away from his group, approaching Lyra with a curious smile. "You look a bit lost. First time down here?"

Lyra nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those of us who've made the trip a thousand times," he chuckles. "I'm Nikolai. And you are...?"1

"Lyra," she replies, offering her hand. As their fingers touch, a spark of electricity seems to pass between them.

Nikolai's smile widens. "Well, Lyra, what brings an Overworlder like you down to our humble Underworld?"

"Curiosity, mostly," she admits. "I've always wondered what it was like down here."

"Allow me to be your guide, then," Nikolai says with a theatrical bow. "I promise you'll see sides of it you never imagined."

Lyra hesitates for only a moment before nodding. "Lead the way."

As they walk, Nikolai points out landmarks and shares anecdotes about life in the mines. Lyra listens, enraptured, her initial trepidation melting away. They lose track of time, wandering the winding streets of Boulder town until the overhead lights begin to dim, signaling the approach of the artificial night cycle.

"I should get back," Lyra says reluctantly. "My family will worry."

Nikolai's face falls slightly, but he nods. "Of course. But... perhaps we could meet again? Tomorrow, same time?"

Lyra beams. "I'd like that very much."

——————————————————————

Days turn to weeks, and weeks to months.

Lyra and Nikolai's rendezvous become a daily occurrence, their conversations growing deeper and more intimate. They share hopes, dreams, and fears. Lyra speaks of her stifling life in the Overworld, the expectations weighing on her. Nikolai confides his struggles as a miner, the constant danger, the meager pay.

One evening, as they sit on a secluded ledge overlooking Rivet town, Nikolai takes Lyra's hand.

"I know we come from different worlds," he says softly. "But I've never felt more at home than when I'm with you."

Lyra's heart races. She leans in, closing the distance between them. Their lips meet, and in that moment, everything else fades away.

The path of love is rarely smooth, and Lyra and Nikolai's relationship faces its share of obstacles. Lyra's family is aghast when they learn of her romance with an Underworlder. Her father, a prominent Overworld noble, threatens to cut her off entirely.

"How could you throw away everything for some... some miner?" he thunders. "Have you lost your mind?"

Lyra stands her ground, chin raised defiantly. "I love him, Father. And if you can't accept that, then perhaps it's best I leave."

Nikolai faces similar resistance from his fellow miners. Whispers follow him through the tunnels, accusations of betraying his own people for an Overworld "princess."

"You think she really loves you?" his oldest friend sneers. "She'll get bored of slumming it eventually. They always do."

But Lyra and Nikolai's bond only grows stronger in the face of adversity. They weather the storm together, finding solace in each other's arms.

——————————————————————

Months pass, and Lyra makes a decision that shocks both the Over and Underworld. She packs her belongings and moves in with Nikolai, leaving behind the comforts of her privileged life for the gritty reality of the underground.

Their tiny apartment is a far cry from the spacious home Lyra grew up in, but to her, it's perfect. They fill the space with laughter, with dreams, with love. Nikolai teaches Lyra to cook simple Underworld dishes, while she introduces him to Overworld literature. They create a world of their own, a haven against the prejudices that surround them.

One morning, Lyra wakes feeling strange. A suspicion forms in her mind, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. She makes her way to the local clinic, where a young doctor named Natasha has recently set up practice.

Natasha confirms what Lyra already knows in her heart. "Congratulations," she says with a warm smile. "You're pregnant."

Lyra rushes home, bursting through the door. Nikolai looks up from the automaton he's repairing, a wrench in one hand and oil smudged on his cheek. Alarm etches across his face at her sudden entrance.

"Lyra? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, happy tears spilling down her cheeks. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's perfect." She takes his hands, placing them on her still-flat stomach. "We're going to have a baby."

Nikolai's eyes widen. For a moment, he's frozen. Then a grin spreads across his face, and he lifts Lyra into his arms, spinning her around the tiny living room.

"A baby," he breathes. "Our baby."

——————————————————————

As the months pass, their excitement only grows. They spend hours discussing names, debating the merits of various options.

"What about Alexei for a boy?" Nikolai suggests one evening as they lie in bed, his hand resting on Lyra's swollen belly.

Lyra wrinkles her nose. "Too common. What if it's a girl?"

"Hmm." Nikolai thinks for a moment. "Valentina?"

"Pretty, but not quite right." Lyra's brow furrows in concentration. Suddenly, her face lights up. "Clara."

"Clara," Nikolai repeats, testing the name. He smiles. "It's perfect."

From that moment on, they refer to the baby as Clara, regardless of gender. Nikolai takes to speaking to Lyra's belly, sharing stories of his day in the mines or singing old Underworld lullabies.

"Hello, little Clara," he whispers one night when he thinks Lyra is asleep. "I can't wait to meet you. Your mama and I, we're going to give you the best life we can. I promise."

Lyra's heart swells with love, and she sends up a silent prayer to Qlipoth of thanks for the family she's found.

——————————————————————

As Lyra's due date approaches, an undercurrent of tension begins to ripple through the Underworld. Rumors swirl of impending changes, of tightening restrictions from the Overworld. Nikolai tries to shield Lyra from the worst of it, but she senses his growing unease.

"What's going on?" she asks one evening as Nikolai pores over a stack of official-looking documents.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing for you to worry about, love. Just some new regulations we're trying to understand."

Lyra frowns, unconvinced, but doesn't press further. She trusts Nikolai to share what's important when the time is right.

——————————————————————

The night Lyra goes into labor, chaos erupts in the streets of the Underworld. As contractions wrack her body, the sound of shouting and breaking glass filters through their apartment windows.

"What's happening?" Lyra gasps between pains.

Nikolai's face is grim as he helps her to her feet. "Cocolia's issued a decree. They're... they're sealing off the Underworld. No one in or out."

Lyra's eyes widen in horror. "But... but what about the doctor? Natasha?" Her voice catches, and for a moment, the pain of labor is overshadowed by a different kind of ache.

The realization hits her: she might never see her old family again.

"I'll find her," Nikolai promises. "We'll get through this, love. You and Clara both."

They make their way through the rioting streets, Nikolai supporting Lyra's weight as she struggles with increasingly intense contractions. The clinic, when they reach it, is overwhelmed with injured protesters and panicked citizens.

Nikolai scans the chaotic scene, his heart sinking as he realizes Natasha is nowhere to be seen. An overworked nurse notices them and hurries over.

"She's in labor," Nikolai explains, desperation in his voice. "Where's Dr. Natasha?"

The nurse shakes her head. "Dr. Natasha's been called away to help with casualties from the riots. We're stretched thin as it is." She glances at Lyra, whose face is contorted in pain. "I'll find someone to help. Just... wait here."

The next few minutes feel like an eternity. Finally, a young medic approaches, looking overwhelmed and out of his depth. "I can help," he says, though his voice lacks confidence. "Follow me."

They settle Lyra into a makeshift delivery room. The medic does his best, but it's clear he lacks the experience and resources needed for a complicated birth. Nikolai never leaves Lyra's side, whispering words of encouragement even as worry etches lines on his face.

Finally, with one last push, Clara enters the world. Her cry pierces the air, strong and defiant. Lyra collapses back against the bed, utterly spent.

"She's beautiful," Nikolai breathes, cradling their daughter close. "Lyra, look at her. She has your eyes."

But Lyra doesn't respond. Her face is deathly pale, her breathing shallow and labored.

"Lyra?" Nikolai's voice rises in panic. "Something's wrong!"

The medic rushes to Lyra's side, his movements frantic but uncertain as he checks her vital signs. "She's hemorrhaging. I need... I need equipment we don't have. Supplies..."

Nikolai watches in helpless horror as Lyra slips away, her hand growing cold in his. With her last breath, she smiles at him, then at the bundle in his arms.

"Clara," she whispers. "My sunshine."

And then she's gone.

Nikolai's anguished cry echoes through the clinic, mingling with the sounds of unrest outside. He clutches Clara to his chest, tears streaming down his face.

"I'll protect her," he vows, voice breaking. "Our sunshine. I promise, Lyra. I'll keep her safe."

——————————————————————

The days that follow are a haze of grief and uncertainty. The Underworld, cut off from its lifeline to the surface, descends into chaos. A new group calling themselves the Vagrants begins to assert control, exploiting the fear and desperation that permeates the air.

Nikolai does his best to shield Clara from the worst of it. He sings to her, the lullabies Lyra loved, and tells her stories of her mother's bravery and kindness. But as resources grow scarce and tensions rise, he finds himself facing impossible choices.

When Clara is three months old, their food stores run dangerously low. Nikolai, gaunt from skipping meals to ensure Clara has enough, makes a decision he knows he'll regret.

He approaches a known Vagrant loan shark, swallowing his pride and his fear.

"I need money," he says, voice rough. "Whatever you can spare. I'll pay it back, I swear."

The Vagrant's smile is predatory. "Of course, of course. We're all family down here, aren't we? But you understand, there will be... interest."

Nikolai nods, resigned. "I understand."

He takes the Shields, using them to buy formula and supplies for Clara. Each night, he holds her close, whispering apologies for the debt he's taken on in her name.

——————————————————————

Time passes, and Clara grows into a precious child with Lyra's striking eyes and Nikolai's curious nature. For five long years, Nikolai pours every ounce of his being into providing for his daughter. He works himself to the bone in the increasingly dangerous mines, taking on extra shifts whenever possible. When work is scarce, he resorts to odd jobs, some legal, some... less so.

There are times when he's forced to turn to the Vagrants for loans, but through sheer determination and countless sleepless nights, he always manages to pay them back on time. It's a precarious balance, one that leaves Nikolai hollow-eyed and exhausted, but seeing Clara's smile makes it all worthwhile.

He does things he's not proud of—scavenging in restricted areas, running "errands" for unsavory characters—but Nikolai justifies each compromise and risk with the knowledge that his child will have food in her belly and clothes on her back.

But the Underworld is an unforgiving place, and even the strongest can falter. A cave-in at the mines leaves Nikolai injured, unable to work for weeks. Bills pile up, and for the first time, he misses a payment to the Vagrants. One bad day turns into two, then into a week, then into a few months. Money grows scarcer, and even as Nikolai pushes himself harder than ever before, he finds himself falling further behind.

On the eve of Clara's fifth birthday, as she plays with a makeshift doll fashioned from scraps, a heavy knock sounds at the door. Nikolai's blood runs cold. He knows who it is before he even opens it.

The Vagrant enforcers loom in the doorway, faces impassive. "Time's up," one growls. "Where's our money?"

Nikolai squares his shoulders, trying to block their view of Clara. "Please," he says, voice low and desperate. "I just need a little more time. I've always paid before, you know I'm good for it—"

A meaty fist connects with his jaw, sending him stumbling back. Clara screams, scrambling to her feet.

"Daddy!"

The lead enforcer's gaze locks onto Clara, and a cruel smile twists his lips. "Well, well. What have we here? You know the rules, friend. Can't pay with Shields, you pay with what's precious."

Terror unlike anything Nikolai has ever known floods his veins. In one fluid motion, he scoops Clara into his arms and bolts for the back door.

They run through winding alleys and crumbling streets, Nikolai's heart pounding in his ears. Clara clings to him, face buried in his neck. Behind them, he can hear the shouts of their pursuers growing closer.

"It's okay," he pants. "We're going to be okay."

But he knows it's a lie. They're running out of options and places to hide. In desperation, Nikolai veers toward the outskirts of the settlement, where piles of discarded machinery and refuse form a treacherous maze.

As they near the landfill, Nikolai spots a patrol of local security forces in the distance. For a moment, hope flares in his chest. Then reality crashes back. The Vagrants have infiltrated every level of what passes for authority down here. There's no guarantee those guards would help rather than hinder.

With a heavy heart, Nikolai makes an impossible choice.

He sets Clara down behind a mound of scrap, cupping her face in his hands. "Listen to me, sunshine. You need to stay here, very quiet, like we're playing hide and seek. Can you do that for Daddy?"

Clara nods, lower lip trembling. "Are you hiding too?"

Nikolai forces a smile, even as tears threaten to spill. "That's right. I'm going to lead the bad men away, then I'll come find you. You just stay here and be very, very quiet. Okay?"

"Okay."

He pulls her close, inhaling the scent of her hair, committing every detail to memory. "I love you, Clara. More than anything in this world or any other."

Then, before he can change his mind, he turns and runs, making as much noise as possible to draw attention away from Clara's hiding spot.

The plan works. The Vagrants spot him, giving chase with renewed vigor. Nikolai leads them on a twisting path through the landfill, away from Clara, away from everything that matters.

In the end, they corner him against a sheer wall of compacted refuse. Nikolai fights like a cornered animal, desperation lending him strength he didn't know he possessed. He manages to wrestle a weapon from one of his attackers, taking the man down with a savage blow.

But it's not enough.

They overwhelm him with sheer numbers, beating him until he can barely stand. As his vision blurs and darkness creeps in at the edges, Nikolai's last thoughts are of Clara. Of Lyra. Of the family he fought so hard to protect.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. And then he knows no more.

——————————————————————

Back in the landfill, Clara waits.

Minutes stretch into hours, day fading into night. She stays quiet, just like her father said. But as time passes and hunger gnaws at her belly, fear begins to set in.

"Daddy?" she calls softly. Then louder, "Daddy!"

But there's no answer. Only the creaking of metal and the distant sounds of the settlement.

——————————————————————

As a second day dawns, Clara's tiny body can no longer produce tears.

Hunger and thirst drive her from her hiding place, sending her stumbling through the piles of discarded tech and machinery.

She searches for food, for water, for any sign of her father. But the landfill seems endless, a maze of sharp edges and unstable footing.

Clara's movements grow sluggish, her once-bright eyes dulled with exhaustion and despair.

——————————————————————

On the third day, something shifts in Clara. The gnawing emptiness in her stomach drowns out even the ache in her heart. With a deep breath, she makes a decision.

Drawing on the lessons that man had taught her, Clara begins to scavenge. Her small hands sift through piles of debris, searching for anything useful. In the outskirts of the landfill, where the refuse gives way to patches of stubborn earth, she spots a cluster of pale, ghostly mushrooms.

Clara hesitates, familiar warnings about poisonous plants echoing in her mind. But hunger wins out. She plucks the fungi carefully, examining them just as that man had shown her. To her relief, they match the description of the edible varieties he'd pointed out on their rare excursions outside.

As she eats, Clara makes a promise to herself. She won't think about that man anymore. It hurts too much, leaves her feeling hollow and lost. Instead, she'll focus on what he taught her—how to survive, how to find the things she needs in this harsh place.

It hurts a little less that way.

Night falls, and Clara curls up in a makeshift shelter of scrap metal and discarded fabric. She dreams of gentle hands and a warm voice, but when she wakes, she pushes the memories away.

There's a heaviness in her chest she can't explain. The morning air feels thick, making it hard to breathe, and her eyes sting from more than just the landfill's acrid atmosphere.

——————————————————————

On the fourth day, as Clara picks her way across a field of broken circuit boards, a glint of metal catches her eye. She turns, curious despite her fatigue, and sees an Automaton Beetle limping toward her on damaged legs.

For a moment, girl and machine regard each other in silent assessment. Then, surprising herself, Clara speaks.

"You're hurt," she says, voice scratchy from disuse. "I can help."

The Beetle tilts its head, optical sensors whirring as it processes her words. Clara approaches slowly, hands outstretched to show she means no harm. With careful movements, she examines the Beetle's damaged limbs.

Drawing on hazy memories of watching that man tinker with broken appliances, Clara begins to gather scraps from the surrounding debris. She works with a focus beyond her years, tiny hands manipulating wires and gears until, miraculously, the Beetle's legs begin to function again.

"There," Clara says, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "All better."

The Beetle chirps, a sound almost like gratitude, and scuttles away. Clara watches it go, a pang of loneliness piercing her heart. But the small act of kindness has awakened something in her, a spark of resilience.

She pushes herself to her feet, determined to keep moving, to keep searching. As she takes her first steps away from the spot where she fixed the Beetle, a shadow falls across her path.

Clara looks up, squinting against the harsh overhead lights. A towering figure looms over her, metal gleaming dully in the artificial glow. For a moment, terror grips her. Then she sees the gentle red glow of a singular eye, so different from the harsh red of the Vagrant enforcers' visors.

The robot—for that's what it must be—kneels before her, its movements surprisingly graceful for such a large form. It extends a hand, palm up, in a gesture that seems almost... kind.

Clara hesitates, years of warnings about stranger danger warring with her desperate need for help and connection. But there's something in the robot's posture, in the soft whir of its internal mechanisms, that puts her at ease.

Slowly, she places her tiny hand in its massive metal palm.

"Hello," she says softly. "I'm Clara."

——————————————————————

"— Log ██/██/████ AF.

A female child discovered in a landfill to the southeast of Boulder Town.

Scans show the child has no structural damage or functional issues, but her mental state was relatively unstable. She is resistant to questions about her condition and clearly wanted to avoid the subject.

I have continued attempting to communicate with her, and successfully obtained some information.

The child begins to cry, lasting three hours and seven minutes.

The child's name is Clara. Her background is unknown.

Conclusion: Take her back to base for observations, and collect further information to generate a follow-up plan to take care of her."

——————————————————————

Clara's small fingers deftly manipulate the wrench, tightening a bolt on the mechanical contraption before her. The seven-year-old's white hair falls in her face as she leans in, tongue poking out in concentration. Svarog looms nearby, his massive frame dwarfing the workbench.

"Excellent work, Clara," the robot intones, his red cyclopean eye scanning her progress. "Your understanding of hydraulic systems has improved significantly."

Clara beams up at him, her reddish-pink eyes shining with pride. "Thank you, Mr. Svarog! I think I've finally got the pressure regulator working properly."

The girl's gaze darts to the workshop door, her smile faltering. Outside, the sounds of Belobog's Underworld filter in – distant machinery, the chatter of passing workers. Clara's shoulders tense, and she hunches back over her project.

Svarog's sensors detect the subtle shift in her body language. He makes a note in his internal log, updating Clara's socialization parameters.

"Perhaps we should take a break," he suggests. "It would be beneficial for you to interact with your peers."

Clara's grip on the wrench tightens. "I... I don't need to. I'm fine here with you."

The robot's processors whir, calculating the best approach. "Clara, while your mechanical aptitude is impressive, human interaction is crucial for your development. There are aspects of communication and emotional intelligence that I cannot adequately provide."

Clara fidgets with a loose screw, avoiding Svarog's gaze. "But the other kids... they don't understand. They think I'm weird because I live with robots."

Svarog kneels, bringing his imposing frame closer to Clara's eye level. "Your circumstances are indeed unique, but that does not diminish your worth. Diversity of experience enriches a community."

Clara sighs, finally meeting Svarog's glowing eye. "I know you're right. It's just... hard."

"Difficult tasks often yield the greatest rewards," Svarog replies. "Would you like to try an experiment?"

Clara perks up, curiosity piqued. "What kind of experiment?"

Svarog gestures towards the door. "I propose we visit the market district. You can practice your social skills in a structured environment, with clearly defined objectives."

Clara hesitates, but nods slowly. "Okay... what are the objectives?"

"First, locate a vendor selling spare parts for your project. Engage in a conversation about their inventory and negotiate a fair price."

Clara's eyes widen. "Negotiate? I don't know how to do that!"

"It is a valuable skill," Svarog assures her. "I will provide guidance, but the interaction must be yours. Think of it as a mission, like the simulations we run."

Clara takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Alright. I'll try."

They make their way through Belobog's winding underground passages. Clara stays close to Svarog, her small hand occasionally brushing against his metal frame for reassurance. As they near the market, the cacophony of voices grows louder.

Clara freezes at the entrance, overwhelmed by the sea of people. Svarog gently nudges her forward.

"Remember your objective," he reminds her. "Locate a parts vendor."

Clara nods, scanning the crowded stalls. She spots a promising booth and hesitantly approaches. The vendor, a grizzled man with oil-stained hands, eyes her warily.

"Um, excuse me," Clara begins, her voice barely audible above the market's din. "Do you have any hydraulic pressure regulators?"

The vendor leans in. "Speak up, girl. Can't hear ya over this racket."

Clara clears her throat, forcing herself to project. "Hydraulic pressure regulators. Do you have any?"

Recognition flashes in the vendor's eyes. "Ah, now that's an odd request for a little one. What're you building, eh?"

Clara's posture straightens, her passion for mechanics overriding her social anxiety. "I'm working on a miniature excavator. The regulator I have isn't maintaining consistent pressure under load."

The vendor's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, I'll be. You know your stuff, don't you?" He rummages through a box, producing a small component. "This might do the trick. Top-quality, mind you. It'll cost ya."

Clara glances at Svarog, who gives an almost imperceptible nod. She turns back to the vendor, steeling herself.

"How much?"

"Hundred shields," the vendor declares.

Clara's eyes narrow. "That's... a lot. I've seen similar parts for sixty."

The vendor chuckles. "Oh ho, a little haggler, are we? Tell you what, I'll knock it down to ninety. Can't go lower, what with supply chain issues and all."

Clara bites her lip, considering. "Eighty-five," she counters. "And... and I'll tell my friends about your shop."

She avoids mentioning she doesn't have any friends.

The vendor strokes his beard, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Friends, eh? Alright, missy. You drive a hard bargain. Eighty-five it is."

As Clara completes the transaction, a genuine smile spreads across her face. She turns to Svarog, holding up the part triumphantly.

"I did it!" she exclaims, her earlier reticence forgotten.

Svarog's eye flashes approvingly. "Excellent work, Clara. You demonstrated both technical knowledge and social acumen."

The vendor leans over his counter. "Say, you've got quite the knack for engineering. My grandson's about your age, always tinkering with gadgets. He and his friends meet up at the community center on Thursdays. Might be worth checking out, if you're interested."

Clara hesitates, her old anxieties creeping back. But she looks up at Svarog, then back to the vendor.

"Maybe... maybe I will. Thank you."

As they make their way back through the market, Clara's step is lighter. She chatters excitedly about potential modifications to her project, her earlier reservations about venturing out seemingly forgotten.

Svarog's processors hum, updating his internal log. While Clara's progress is encouraging, he notes the need for continued socialization efforts. The community center could provide a structured environment for peer interaction, crucial for her long-term development in Belobog.

As they re-enter the workshop, Svarog's systems begin composing a new log entry:

"— Log ██/██/████ AF.

Clara has grown proficient in the Belobog common tongue, and displays great talent in the field of mechanical engineering — but she still resists communication with other humans. Assessment: this tendency is detrimental to Clara's long-term development in Belobog.

There is currently an urgent need to develop a suitable socialization and communication program for Clara. Priority: High."

——————————————————————

Clara's small feet patter against the cold metal floor of Boulder Town's underground corridors. Her white hair bounces with each step, the red overcoat fluttering behind her like a cape. She clutches a worn teddy bear to her chest, its button eyes staring blankly ahead.

The young girl pauses at an intersection, her reddish-pink eyes darting nervously between the branching paths. A metallic whirr sounds behind her, and she turns to face her constant companion.

Svarog looms over Clara, his single glowing eye fixed on her. "The optimal route to the market district is to the left, Clara."

Clara nods, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Mr. Svarog." She hesitates, fidgeting with the bear's worn fur. "Do you... do you think there will be other children there?"

The robot's eye flickers, processing. "Previous data suggests a 73% probability of encountering individuals within your age range at this time."

Clara's face brightens, hope shining in her eyes. She takes a deep breath and steps forward, Svarog's heavy footfalls echoing behind her.

The corridor opens into a vast cavern, the market district of Boulder Town sprawling before them. Geomarrow crystals cast an eerie blue glow over the bustling crowd. Vendors hawk their wares from makeshift stalls, their voices competing with the general din of the underground metropolis.

Clara shrinks back, overwhelmed by the noise and activity. She presses closer to Svarog, seeking comfort in his familiar presence. The robot's massive frame parts the crowd effortlessly, creating a path for the timid girl.

As they navigate the market, Clara's gaze darts from face to face, searching for someone her own age. Most of the townspeople give Svarog a wide berth, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Clara notices their reactions, her shoulders hunching further.

Suddenly, a commotion erupts near one of the stalls. A group of children dash past, laughing and shouting. Clara's eyes widen, following their movements with longing.

"Wait!" A high-pitched voice rings out above the crowd. "You can't just run off without your fearless leader!"

A small blonde girl in a large ushanka hat bursts through the throng, wielding what appears to be a modified mining claw. Her yellow eyes spark with determination as she chases after her companions.

Clara watches, transfixed. Before she can stop herself, she calls out, "H-hello!"

The blonde girl skids to a halt, her head whipping around to locate the source of the greeting. Her gaze lands on Clara, and a wide grin spreads across her face.

"Well, hello there!" She bounds over, seemingly unperturbed by Svarog's imposing presence. "I don't think I've seen you around before. I'm Hook, the great leader of The Moles!"

Clara shrinks back, suddenly regretting her impulsive greeting. She clutches her teddy bear tighter, using it as a shield between herself and this exuberant stranger.

Hook's smile falters slightly at Clara's reaction, but she presses on. "Hey, no need to be scared! The Moles are the best adventure squad in all of Boulder Town. We're always looking for new recruits!"

Clara peeks out from behind her bear. "A-adventure squad?"

"That's right!" Hook puffs out her chest proudly. "We explore every nook and cranny of this place. No secret is safe from The Moles!"

Svarog's eye narrows, his processors whirring as he analyzes this new information. "I have no data on an organization called 'The Moles' in my records."

Hook turns to the robot, unfazed by his intimidating stature. "That's because we're super secret, Mr. Robot! Only the coolest kids know about us."

She leans in closer to Clara, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "But I can tell you're cool. Want to join?"

Clara blinks, surprised by the offer. She glances up at Svarog, seeking reassurance. The robot's eye flickers, processing the situation.

"Clara," Svarog intones, "social interaction with peers is beneficial for your development. However, caution is advised when joining unknown groups."

Hook rolls her eyes. "Aw, come on! We're not unknown. We're the best-known secret in Boulder Town!" She turns back to Clara, her enthusiasm infectious. "What do you say? Want to be an honorary Mole?"

Clara hesitates, her natural shyness warring with the desire for friendship. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "I... I'd like that."

Hook's face lights up. "Fantastic! Welcome aboard, new recruit!" She holds out her hand. "What's your name?"

"C-Clara," she replies, tentatively shaking Hook's hand.

"Well, Clara, you're officially the newest member of The Moles!" Hook declares. She glances at the teddy bear. "And I guess your hairy friend can join too. We always need good lookouts."

Clara giggles softly, the sound surprising even herself. "Thank you, Hook."

Hook beams, clearly pleased with herself. "No problem! That's what leaders do – we look out for our team." She glances over her shoulder. "Uh oh, looks like the others got away. I better catch up before they have all the fun without me!"

She turns back to Clara, grinning. "Don't worry, I'll find you later and fill you in on all our secret missions. See you around, Clara!"

With that, Hook dashes off, her mining claw swinging wildly as she weaves through the crowd. Clara watches her go, a mix of excitement and nervousness swirling in her chest.

She looks up at Svarog, a small smile playing on her lips. "I... I think I made a friend."

The robot's eye flickers, processing this new development. "Acknowledged, Clara. This interaction will be logged for future reference."

As they continue through the market, Clara's steps seem lighter, her eyes brighter. She clutches her teddy bear, but now it's more of a comforting presence than a shield.

She finds herself thinking less and less of that man these days.

——————————————————————

Svarog's systems begin composing a new log entry:

"— Log ████/██/██ AF.

Clara has successfully made contact with an individual of similar age in Boulder Town. The individual is named Hook, and claims to be the head manager of the local security organization The Moles. No information about this organization has been found in my database.

Clara's contact with Hook didn't go well at first. She displayed considerable shyness. However, Hook managed to keep the conversation going with extreme enthusiasm and empathy, calling Clara an 'honorary member of The Moles.' After contact, Clara described Hook as 'her first friend.'

This matter is of tremendous significance to Clara, and this log has been tagged Important."

——————————————————————

Clara's small hand trembles as she clutches the tattered teddy bear to her chest. The dim glow of geomarrow crystals casts long shadows across the cavernous expanse of the Underworld. A gaggle of ragged children huddles around her, their eyes wide with a mixture of hope and fear.

"It's okay," Clara whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of machinery. "Mr. Svarog will help us. He always does."

The ancient combat mech looms behind her, its cyclopean eye scanning the crowd. Svarog's voice, when it comes, is a metallic rasp that echoes off the stone walls.

"Affirmative. Rations will be distributed at 0600 hours. Remain calm and orderly."

A collective sigh of relief ripples through the assembled vagrants. Clara beams up at Svarog, her reddish-pink eyes shining with admiration.

"See? I told you!" She turns to address the crowd, her voice growing stronger. "We'll all get through this together. Just like a big family!"

An older boy, no more than twelve, steps forward. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharp beneath sallow skin.

"But what about the Overworld? My cousin says there's plenty of food up there. Why can't we just—"

"Negative." Svarog's interruption is sharp, brooking no argument. "Access to the Overworld remains restricted. It is not safe."

Clara's smile falters for a moment, but she quickly rallies.

"Mr. Svarog's right. We have to trust him. He knows what's best for us."

The boy scowls, kicking at a loose pebble. "How can you be so sure? You're just a kid like us!"

Clara's grip on her teddy bear tightens. She takes a deep breath, squaring her small shoulders.

"Because Mr. Svarog raised me. He's... he's my family. And now you're all my family too. We have to stick together down here. It's the only way."

A murmur runs through the crowd. Some nod in agreement, while others look skeptical. Clara continues, her voice growing more impassioned.

"I know it's hard. I know some of you remember the Overworld, and the older kids talk about how different it is up there. But we can make a home here. We can be strong together."

As she speaks, Svarog's massive hand comes to rest gently on her shoulder. The gesture seems to lend her strength, and her voice grows more confident.

"Svarog has calculations. He knows things we don't. If he says it's safer down here, then we have to believe him. The Fragmentum... it's dangerous. We have to be patient."

The crowd begins to disperse, some muttering among themselves, others nodding with newfound resolve. Clara watches them go, her small face etched with a maturity beyond her years.

Once they're alone, she turns to Svarog, her lower lip trembling slightly.

"Did I do okay? I hate seeing them so sad."

Svarog's eye flickers, processing. When he speaks, his tone is softer than before.

"Affirmative, Clara. Your words were... effective. You have a unique ability to connect with the other humans."

Clara beams, hugging her teddy bear tighter.

"I just want everyone to be safe and happy. Like you've made me."

Svarog's massive form seems to hesitate for a moment. Then, with surprising gentleness, he scoops Clara up and sets her on his broad shoulder.

"It is time for your rest cycle. We will continue observations tomorrow."

As they move through the winding tunnels of the Underworld, Clara's eyelids grow heavy. She leans against Svarog's cool metal, feeling safe and protected.

"Mr. Svarog?" she murmurs sleepily.

"Yes, Clara?"

"Do you think... do you think we'll ever see the Overworld? The older kids talk about it sometimes. They say there's so much space up there, and strange lights in the sky."

There's a long pause before Svarog responds.

"Unknown. Rest now, Clara. Tomorrow brings new challenges."

As Clara drifts off to sleep, Svarog's processors whir, analyzing the day's events. Once he's certain the child is asleep, he begins to dictate his log entry:

"— Log ██/██/████ AF.

Under Clara's guidance, many vagrants have established settlements around the periphery of the base, and rely on Clara to survive. This behavior does not contravene the orders of Preservation. However, many of them are trying to enter the Overworld via this base's transport passage. The gates of the base must be sealed tightly to avoid accelerating the demise of Belobog.

Clara has discussed this with me before. She believes locking the gates is an 'incomprehensible' act. I responded with my predicted calculations: By over-committing her resources to the war against the Fragmentum , [sic] the Supreme Guardian is accelerating the destruction of the Overworld. Isolation would be the best option for the people of the Underworld — this would buy them more time to try and survive. In the end, Clara finally agreed.

Most humans behave illogically, but Clara doesn't — she is raised by me and grew up among automatons, and her behavior is more based on pure rationality. Her presence may impact predicted calculations of Belobog's demise, but more observations are required."

——————————————————————

Clara sits atop a rusted metal beam, her legs dangling over the edge of the cavernous space that serves as the Underworld's central hub. The dim glow of bioluminescent fungi casts an eerie light across her pale face, highlighting the wistful expression in her reddish-pink eyes. She rarely allows herself to dwell on thoughts of that man these days, but in moments of quiet like this, memories creep in unbidden.

Mr. Svarog's heavy footsteps echo through the cavern as he approaches. Clara doesn't turn, but a small smile tugs at her lips. Her family is here now - Mr. Svarog, the automatons, and the other Underworlders who've welcomed her into their makeshift community.

"Clara," Mr. Svarog's deep, synthetic voice rumbles. "It is time for your daily systems check."

She nods, swinging her legs back onto solid ground. As she follows the towering mech, a fragment of memory flashes through her mind - a man with sun-bronzed skin and startlingly blue eyes, his laughter warm as he calls her his "sunshine."

Clara stumbles, caught off-guard by the intensity of the recollection. Mr. Svarog's massive hand steadies her, his single glowing eye fixed on her face.

"Are you functioning properly?" he inquires, concern evident in his modulated tones.

"I'm okay, Mr. Svarog," Clara assures him, shaking off the lingering wisps of memory. "Just... thinking."

They continue walking, passing by groups of Underworlders going about their daily routines. Some wave to Clara, their faces brightening at the sight of the girl who's become a symbol of hope in this dark world.

"What occupies your thoughts?" Mr. Svarog probes gently as they enter his workshop.

Clara hesitates, perching on a workbench while Mr. Svarog begins his examination. "I was wondering... about the sun," she admits finally.2

The mech's eye flickers, processing this unexpected query. "The sun is a G-type main-sequence star approximately 1.989 × 10^30 kilograms in mass and 1.39 million kilometers in diameter," he recites. "It emits electromagnetic radiation across the spectrum, providing heat and light essential for life on the planet's surface."

Clara listens, fascinated despite herself. She's heard descriptions before, from the older kids and adults who remember life on the surface. But Mr. Svarog's clinical explanation feels safer, somehow.

"Why do you inquire about the sun?" Mr. Svarog asks, his sensors scanning Clara's vital signs.

She shrugs, avoiding his gaze. "Just curious, I guess. Some of the others talk about missing it."

Mr. Svarog is silent for a moment, his processors whirring as he considers her words. "The sun holds great significance in human culture and biology," he observes. "Its absence here in the Underworld is a source of distress for many."

Clara nods, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on the workbench. "I've never seen it," she murmurs. "But sometimes... I dream about it."

The words slip out before she can stop them, and she tenses, waiting for Mr. Svarog's response. But the mech simply continues his examination, his movements as precise and gentle as always.

"Dreams are a natural function of the human mind," he states matter-of-factly. "They often incorporate elements from both memory and imagination."

Clara relaxes slightly, grateful for his pragmatic approach. She doesn't want to delve deeper into those dreams - doesn't want to examine why the word "sunshine" tugs at something deep inside her, like an old, half-forgotten melody.

As Mr. Svarog concludes his check-up, Clara hops down from the workbench. She stretches, working out the kinks from sitting still for so long.

"All systems are functioning within normal parameters," Mr. Svarog announces.

Clara smiles up at him, genuine affection warming her voice. "Thanks, Mr. Svarog. You always take such good care of me."

The mech inclines his head, his eye glowing a slightly warmer shade of red. "It is one of my primary functions to ensure your well-being, Clara."

As they exit the workshop, Clara's gaze is drawn to a faded mural on the cavern wall. It depicts a stylized sun, its rays spreading out across the underground landscape.

For a moment, she imagines she can feel its warmth on her skin, can see its light reflected in a pair of bright blue eyes.

She turns away abruptly, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides. If seeing the sun means being reminded of that man - of the family she lost and the life she can barely remember - then maybe it's better to stay in the shadows of the Underworld.

Here, at least, she knows who she is and where she belongs.

Clara quickens her pace, falling into step beside Mr. Svarog as they move deeper into the heart of their subterranean home.

——————————————————————

The cold metal floor bites into Clara's small feet as she pads through the winding corridors of the robot settlement. Her oversized red coat swishes around her ankles, the only splash of color in this monochrome world. She clutches a scavenged circuit board to her chest, her prize from today's expedition to the scrapyard.

"Mr. Svarog!" she calls out, her voice echoing off the steel walls. "Look what I found!"

The hulking form of Svarog emerges from a nearby alcove, his single glowing eye fixed on Clara. She beams up at him, holding out her treasure.

"It's for you," she says, her eyes shining with pride. "I thought maybe you could use it for something important."

Svarog's massive hand gently takes the circuit board, his sensors scanning it methodically. "Thank you, Clara," he intones, his voice a low rumble. "This component will be useful in maintaining our defenses."

Clara bounces on her toes, delighted by his approval. "Can I help you install it? Please?"

"Negative," Svarog responds. "The installation process is too dangerous for a human child."

Clara's face falls, but only for a moment. She's used to Svarog's protectiveness by now. "Okay, Mr. Svarog. Can I watch, then?"

Svarog pauses, his processors whirring as he calculates the risks. "Affirmative. You may observe from a safe distance."

Clara claps her hands in excitement and follows Svarog to his workshop. The room is a maze of blinking consoles and half-finished projects. Svarog settles into work, his movements precise and efficient.

As Clara watches, perched on a makeshift seat of scrap metal, she can't help but think about how lucky she is. She has a home, a purpose, and most importantly, a family. Even if that family consists of one giant robot.

"Mr. Svarog?" she pipes up after a while. "Do you think we'll ever find more people to join our family?"

Svarog's eye swivels to regard her. "Clarify your query, Clara."

She fidgets with the hem of her coat. "I mean, I love our family. But sometimes I wonder if there are other kids out there who need a home like I did."

"Expanding our community would increase the strain on our resources," Svarog states. "However, I will continue to monitor for any humans in need of assistance."

Clara nods, satisfied with his answer. She knows that in Svarog's own way, he cares deeply for her and for the safety of all Underworlders.

As the hours pass, Clara's eyelids grow heavy. She yawns, trying to stifle it behind her hand, but Svarog notices.

"It is past your optimal sleep cycle, Clara. You should rest now."

Clara wants to protest, but another yawn escapes her. "Okay, Mr. Svarog. Goodnight."

She hops down from her perch and shuffles towards the door. Just before she exits, she turns back.

"Mr. Svarog? I'm really glad you found me. You're the best family anyone could ask for."

With that, she disappears down the corridor towards her sleeping quarters. Svarog watches her go, his processors humming as he analyzes her words.

Once Clara is out of sight, Svarog begins a new log entry:

"— Log ██/██/████ AF.

Ever since I was created, I've been given the command to preserve the Underworld — Even if I can only preserve it for a millisecond longer than the Overworld, I will still carry out these orders. To borrow a phrase from traditional Belobog culture, perhaps it could be put like this: 'I am faithful without hesitation to the mission I've been given.' Therefore, I see my calculations as immutable laws — nobody and nothing can ever shake me, including any Outsiders.

Today, the probability of survival in the Underworld has not seen a significant upward trend over the last five cycles. This means that implementation of this may be suspended, but I will still monitor all relevant risk factors.

During this cycle, I will focus on finding Clara's family. Despite Clara insisting that she has already found her real family, I will keep collecting any and all information to track down Clara's real family as soon as I can."

——————————————————————

Clara's small hand clasps Mr. Svarog's as they patrol the Underworld's winding tunnels. The robot's imposing metal frame dwarfs her, but she feels safe by his side. They've done this countless times before, checking on the inhabitants, ensuring order.

But today feels different. Tension hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

"Mr. Svarog, why are people fighting more lately?" Clara's voice echoes softly in the dim corridor.

The robot's red eye pulses. "A significant geomarrow deposit has been discovered. Humans often resort to conflict over resources."

Clara's brow furrows. "But can't they share?"

"Probability of equitable distribution without intervention: 3.7%."

She sighs, used to his clinical responses. As they round a corner, raised voices reach her ears. Clara tugs on Svarog's hand, quickening her pace.

They emerge into a vast cavern, and Clara's eyes widen. A towering pillar of geomarrow dominates the center, bathing everything in a warm, pulsing glow. It's the largest deposit she's ever seen.

But the beauty is marred by the scene below. Miners and Vagrants clash, fists flying and tools brandished as weapons. Svarog's Automaton forces move to subdue them.

"Mr. Svarog, please don't hurt them too much," Clara pleads, her voice small against the cacophony.

The robot's monotone reply comes swiftly. "Calculating probability of further conflict... eighty-two percent. Force has been enacted to prevent escalation."

Clara's shoulders slump. "But..."

"Clara." Svarog's tone softens fractionally.

"I know, Mr. Svarog... I just don't like seeing people fight and get hurt."

She turns her gaze to the massive geomarrow vein, marveling. "This is what everyone's been fighting over? I've never seen so much before."

Svarog's voice echoes through the cavern. "Calculating… Based on average excavation rates, this vein could supply Belobog with 231 days of energy, margin of error 7 days. But your summoning me isn't about this ore. State your true intention, Clara."

Clara's eyes drift to the subdued captives. "I wanted you to see how many are hurt over this... can't you help them somehow?"

"I have pacified the conflict and taken control of this zone," Svarog replies. "No further large-scale violence is probable in the next 15 days under my administration."

Clara's voice wavers. "But... I don't think that's enough. The miners, the Vagrants, Wildfire—they don't understand your actions. If only we could do more..."

Svarog's response remains cold. "My prime directive is Underworld preservation. The comprehension of minority subgroups is irrelevant to my calculations. Human behavior will inevitably deviate from rational decision-making..."

Suddenly, Svarog's gaze snaps upward. Clara follows his line of sight, spotting a group of people on a ledge above. Her heart races as she recognizes some of them—including Seele from Wildfire.

"Case in point—their presence represents an unaccounted variable," Svarog intones ominously.

Clara shrinks back as Seele stands, arms raised. "Svarog!" Seele's voice rings out. "Let them go! If you want to fight someone, fight me instead!"

Clara's eyes widen as she watches the confrontation unfold. Svarog's words about human irrationality echo in her mind as Seele argues, her frustration evident.

"But Mr. Svarog..." Clara starts to object, her voice small and pleading.

She flinches as Svarog declares his intent to suppress Wildfire. Seele summons her scythe, and Clara's heart pounds as she sees Svarog's energy cannon emerge.

"Mr. Svarog, don't—!" Clara cries out desperately.

A blur of motion catches her eye. In a heartbeat, chaos erupts. Robot parts fly through the air, and Clara can barely follow the devastating slashes of energy tearing through Svarog's forces.

When it ends, Clara stares in shock at the man kneeling amidst the destruction, coughing up blood. She's never seen anything like it before.

As Svarog's remaining forces emerge from the shadows, Clara trembles. She wants to speak, to stop this, but fear paralyzes her.

She watches, wide-eyed, as the man's companions defend him fiercely. To her surprise, Svarog stands down.

"Emotional output sincere. Subject harbors no malicious intent toward the child. Termination protocol aborted."

Svarog glances down at Clara. "We are leaving. External variables have forced a predictive recalculation—the Furnace Core hub requires enhanced security."

Clara can only nod, shaken. As Svarog lifts her, she whispers, "I'm sorry."

As they depart, Clara peers back over Svarog's shoulder. Her eyes meet those of the strange man who caused such destruction. She's struck by them - a brilliant molten gold, shining with an intensity that reminds her of how the older kids describe the sun.

She leaves hoping he recovers from his injuries.

——————————————————————

Over a day after the events back at the mine, Clara watches in surprise as the same tall man with eyes of gold crouches down to her level. His sun-kissed skin and dark hair remind her of someone she can't quite place, stirring a mixture of curiosity and wariness in her chest.

"Perkins, don't!" she calls out, her small hand reaching towards the agitated automaton that had been activated in response to a potential threat. "I've seen this person before. H-He's not bad, right?"

The man's eyes soften as he meets her gaze. "I'd never be a danger to you, that I swear."

Clara feels her shoulders relax slightly, though she can't shake the lingering caution. "This place is dangerous. You should leave."

A gentle smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "So you say, and yet, I could also say the same thing to you."

Heat rises to Clara's cheeks as she scuffs her bare foot against the cold metal floor. "I have Perkins with me. I can take care of myself."

The man's expression grows serious. "I don't doubt you can do that, but it's the principle of it. No child your age should be walking through an abandoned town with Fragmentum monsters crawling through every alley..."

He pauses, his eyes distant for a moment. "But that's life, isn't it? We deal with the cards we're dealt with."

Clara nods, her gaze still fixed on the floor. His words stir something deep within her, a faint echo of metal scraping against metal, of hunger pangs and loneliness in a vast sea of discarded machinery.

She understands all too well what it means to deal with the hand life deals.

Something about this stranger intrigues her, despite the warnings she's always heard about talking to unfamiliar adults. Perhaps it's the shared understanding that lingers unspoken between them.

"I'm actually looking for some medicine to help the injured," he continues. "Would you know something about that?"

Clara's face brightens. "Oh? I came here for these painkillers, too. There are a lot of people hurt at the vagrant camp, I guess the miners are no different?" A weary sigh escapes her. "If everyone could just get along, things would be easier..."

She reaches into her pouch, retrieving a bottle of pills. Her tiny hand looks even smaller as she holds out the container. "Mm... Here you are. I hope the medicine is of help to you..."

The man's eyes widen in surprise. "That's very kind of you. Clara, right? We didn't meet under the best of circumstances before. I'm sorry about what happened, truly. I hope I didn't scare you...?"

Clara shakes her head, her white hair swaying gently. "No, I... I understand... why you did as you did... Mr. Svarog, I feel, didn't see any options beyond conflict given the circumstances, and it then all escalated from there... You... are you feeling better now? You were..."

"Bleeding?" he finishes for her. "Yes... My body felt the strain after that attack I pulled. I know you care for these robots, so I must apologize for having to go as far as I did, but, as you just put it, things just escalated..."

A wave of sadness washes over Clara. "Why do people need to fight every time...? Why can't we live in peace?"

The man remains silent, his eyes clouded with an emotion Clara can't quite name. After a moment, he changes the subject. "Your friend, Svarog... Is he okay?"

Clara nods, a small smile returning to her face.

"What's your relationship with him?"

Clara wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. "Mr. Svarog, he's... he's my family. I met him when I was real little. He took me in and took care of me."

As she explains Svarog's distrust of humans and his calculations, Clara can't help but study the man's face. There's a kindness in his eyes that puts her at ease, despite the circumstances of their first meeting.

Their conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Miss Seele and Miss Bronya. Clara shrinks back slightly, overwhelmed by the sudden increase in people.

As the adults discuss the situation, Clara finds her gaze drawn back to him – Alexander, she learns. When he activates his power, Clara's eyes widen in awe. The air around him seems to shimmer, and his eyes glow with an otherworldly light. For a moment, she's reminded of Mr. Svarog, but there's a warmth to Alexander's presence that sets him apart.

As he urges her to leave with Perkins, Clara feels a pang of disappointment. She wants to stay, to learn more about this intriguing stranger. But the urgency in his voice compels her to obey.

Clara follows Perkins, casting one last glance over her shoulder. Alexander's sun-kissed skin and dark hair catch the light, and for a fleeting moment, she's reminded of that man.

She shakes her head, pushing the thought away. The memory brings a familiar ache to her chest, and Clara seals it away once more. She hurts every time she thinks of him, and now is not the time for such painful recollections.

——————————————————————

Clara's brow furrows as she tinkers with Pascal's circuitry, her small fingers deftly maneuvering tools too large for her hands. The robot's core lies exposed, a tangle of wires and blinking lights. She bites her lip, concentration etched on her young face.

Days earlier, a group of vagrants had approached her near the Furnace Core, their voices hushed and worried. They spoke of mysterious thefts plaguing their camp - valuable parts vanishing without a trace. Despite their best efforts, the culprit remained elusive.

"It's like a ghost," one vagrant had said, his weathered face creased with concern. "Only interested in parts, nothing else."

The mystery had piqued Clara's interest, offering a welcome distraction from the rising tensions in the Underworld. And if she's honest with herself, it's also a respite from the memories of Alexander - the man whose presence had stirred something deep within her, reminding her of someone she'd rather forget.

Clara shakes her head, refocusing on the task at hand. After days of careful investigation, following clues and questioning the camp's residents, she'd finally uncovered the unexpected thief: an automaton cobbled together from scrap metal, sporting a small mechanical arm.

The robot's first words had caught her off guard.

"███Please███ no hurt███ Need parts███"

Its broken speech patterns tugged at Clara's heart. She'd brought it back to her dwelling, hoping Mr. Svarog could offer guidance. But upon arrival, she'd found only a message - the ancient automaton had been called away to deal with an uprising that threatened the camp's citizens.

Left alone with the malfunctioning robot, Clara had made a decision. She couldn't abandon it, not when it seemed to be in pain. And so, she'd set to work, determined to help.

Now, as she examines Pascal's newly transferred core inside the Automaton Beetle chassis, Clara frowns. The internals are a mess, incompatible with the new hardware. Warning signals flash across her diagnostic tools.

"Oh no," she murmurs, her heart sinking. "This isn't good at all."

She runs another scan, hoping for better results, but the outcome remains the same. The core module's networks are defective, struggling to interface with the Beetle's systems. Proper protocol would demand a full format, wiping Pascal's memory clean.

Clara's hand hovers over the reset switch, trembling slightly. She thinks of Mr. Svarog, of the depth of emotion he's capable of expressing despite his mechanical nature. Could Pascal be the same?

"No," she says firmly, pulling her hand back. "I won't do it. There has to be another way."

Her eyes land on the hulking form of an Automaton Grizzly, its deactivated frame looming in the corner of her workshop. An idea begins to form.

Hours pass in a blur of sparks and binary code. Clara works tirelessly, transferring Pascal's core once more, this time into the Grizzly's massive frame. As the final connections snap into place, she holds her breath, praying for success.

Pascal's eyes flicker to life, a warm glow spreading across its newly acquired face. Clara leans in, hope blossoming in her chest.

"Pascal? Can you hear me?"

The robot's head swivels, focusing on her. Its voice, when it comes, is deeper now, but clearer.

"Clara███ I hear you███ Thank you for███ helping me."

A smile breaks across Clara's face, relief washing over her. "You're welcome, Pascal! How do you feel?"

Pascal seems to consider the question, its massive frame shifting slightly. "I feel███ different. Stronger. But also███"

The robot trails off, its eyes flickering erratically. Before Clara can react, Pascal lurches to its feet, nearly toppling a workbench.

"Must go███ Fix███ Make right███"

"Pascal, wait!" Clara calls out, but it's too late. The Grizzly-bodied automaton charges through the workshop's door, leaving a Pascal-shaped hole in its wake.

Clara stares at the destruction for a moment, her mind racing. She can't let Pascal roam free, not in its current state. The Underworld is already on edge, and an unpredictable robot could cause untold damage.

"I have to find him," she mutters, grabbing her toolkit. "This is my responsibility."

She dashes out into the dimly lit streets of the Underworld, her eyes scanning for any sign of the rogue automaton. The air is thick with tension, evidence of the recent vagrant uprising visible in the scorch marks on walls and overturned carts.

A high-pitched whine catches her attention. She turns to see a group of Automaton Beetles scuttling towards her, their singular eyes blinking in what she recognizes as a distress signal.

"Please," she calls out to them, "I need your help. Have you seen a large Grizzly automaton pass by?"

The beetles' antennae twitch in unison, and they begin to move. Clara follows, her heart pounding as they lead her through winding alleys and across rickety bridges. The deeper they go, the more familiar the surroundings become.

Finally, they emerge into a wide-open space, and Clara's breath catches in her throat. The central market of Rivet Town stretches before her, its abandoned stalls and crumbling architecture a testament to better days long past.

And there, in the center of it all, stands Pascal.

The massive automaton moves with surprising gentleness, its mechanical arms carefully straightening toppled shelves and sweeping debris. As Clara watches, Pascal picks up a tattered book, its metallic fingers delicately smoothing the pages before placing it back on a partially reconstructed shelf.

"Pascal?" Clara calls out softly, approaching with caution. "What are you doing?"

The robot turns, its glowing eyes focusing on her. "Clara███ I am fixing███ Market must be ready███ People will come back███"

Clara's heart aches at the determination in Pascal's broken speech. She takes another step closer, her voice gentle but firm. "Pascal, I understand you want to help, but we need to go back. It's not safe here, and there's so much chaos in the Underworld right now."

Pascal's shoulders slump, an oddly human gesture in such a large mechanical frame. "But███ Market important███ People need place to███ be together."

"I know," Clara says, reaching out to pat Pascal's arm. "And we'll work on it together, I promise. But not now. We need to wait for things to calm down."

Pascal seems to consider this, its head tilting to one side. "Wait███ Come back later?"

Clara nods, relief flooding through her. "That's right. We'll come back when it's safer, okay?"

Before Pascal can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the empty market. Clara tenses, her hand instinctively tightening on Pascal's arm. A group of men rounds the corner, their clothes tattered and bodies covered in bruises.

Clara's first instinct is to hide, but something stops her. These men look hurt, in need of help. Despite the potential danger, she steps forward, her voice steady.

"Are you alright? I have some painkillers if you need them."

The vagrants startle, clearly not expecting to find a child in this desolate place. They exchange wary glances before one of them, sporting a particularly nasty gash across his forehead, steps forward.

"What's a kid like you doing out here?" he asks, his tone gruff but not unkind.

Clara holds out a small bottle of pills. "I'm Clara. And I want to help. You look like you're in pain."

The man hesitates for a moment before accepting the offered medicine with a nod of thanks. As he swallows the pills, Pascal's voice rings out again.

"Must fix market███ People will come███"

One of the other vagrants, his face twisted in a scowl, glares at the robot. "Can someone shut that damn thing up? We're not in the mood for this nonsense."

Clara flinches at the harsh words, but the man she'd helped holds up a hand. "Cool it," he growls to his companion. "The kid's trying to help. No need to scare her."

As the tension eases, Clara's curiosity gets the better of her. "What happened to you? Why are you all so hurt?"

The vagrant she'd helped sighs, running a hand through his matted hair. "Suppose there's no harm in telling you, since you've been kind to us." He settles onto a nearby crate, wincing slightly. "We were sent on a mission to support another group. There's a man we're hunting - got golden eyes, been causing all sorts of trouble for our people across the Underworld."

Clara listens intently, her young mind piecing together the implications of his words.

The man continues, his voice lowering. "But that's not what did this to us. We had a run-in with a group of robots. Barely made it out alive. They follow this ancient automaton, a real nasty piece of work called Svarog. Ever heard of him?"

The name hits Clara like a physical blow. She freezes, her eyes widening in fear. The vagrants notice her reaction, exchanging glances.

One of them, the same who had complained about Pascal, narrows his eyes. "Wait a minute," he says slowly. "White hair, red eyes... I've heard about you. You're always with that Svarog, aren't you?"

Clara's body betrays her, trembling as memories flood back - memories of that man, of that night, of fear and loss.3 The air seems to thicken around her, making it hard to breathe.

Another vagrant pipes up, his voice excited. "Yeah, I remember now! Saw her at the mine when we found that big geomarrow deposit. Svarog carried her away."

The tension in the air ratchets up a notch. Clara's heart pounds in her chest, her instincts screaming at her to run. But her feet remain rooted to the spot, paralyzed by fear.

The vagrant who recognized her reaches for his weapon, his face twisting with anger. "Well, ain't this a stroke of luck," he snarls. "Time for some payback."

"Are you out of your mind?" the man Clara had helped shouts, stepping between her and his comrade. "She's just a child!"

"To hell with that!" another vagrant yells, his voice raw with emotion. "That robot of hers killed Jace and Mira! An eye for an eye - we take out Svarog's precious kid!"

Clara's world narrows to a pinpoint, her vision blurring at the edges. She can hear her own ragged breathing, feel the trembling of her limbs. In that moment, she's no longer in the abandoned market, but back in that terrible place, watching as another man she trusted turned against her.

The Automaton Beetles spring into action, their small forms darting between Clara and the advancing vagrants. Pascal, too, moves to protect her, its massive frame creating a barrier.

"Protect Clara███ Protect human███" Pascal's broken speech rings out as chaos erupts.

The market becomes a battlefield. Beetles fire precise shots, their lasers cutting through the air. Two vagrants fall, their bodies hitting the ground with sickening thuds. But the others press on, driven by a thirst for vengeance.

A deafening boom shakes the area as one vagrant unleashes a cannon blast. Another pulls out a grenade launcher, the projectile arcing through the air.

"No!" Clara screams, but her voice is lost in the explosion.

Debris rains down, dust and smoke filling the air. Clara's ears ring, the world around her muffled and distorted. As the dust begins to settle, she sees the broken forms of the Automaton Beetles scattered across the ground.

Pascal stands before her, its frame crackling with electricity, voice glitching worse than ever. "Pro-pro-protect Cla-Cla-Clara███"

The vagrant with the cannon takes aim, his face a mask of cold determination. With a thunderous report, Pascal's words cut off abruptly, the massive automaton collapsing in a shower of sparks.

Tears stream down Clara's face as she watches her friend fall. She turns to run, but there's nowhere to go. The vagrant levels his weapon at her, his eyes devoid of mercy.

"Mr. Svarog!" Clara screams, her voice raw with terror. "Please, help me!"

But no help comes. The vagrant's finger tightens on the trigger. Clara squeezes her eyes shut, bracing for the impact.

The sound of the cannon firing rings out, but the pain Clara expects doesn't come. Instead, she hears the projectile impact something solid, followed by a grunt of exertion.

Slowly, Clara opens her eyes. A tall figure stands before her, one arm wrapped protectively around her small frame, the other holding aloft a strange black and white shield. The cannon's blast dissipates harmlessly against its surface.

"Thank God in heaven," the man murmurs, his voice rough with relief. "I made it in time."

Clara looks up, her eyes widening in recognition. The man's hair is streaked with far more gray than she remembers, as if years have passed in mere moments, but those golden eyes are unmistakable.

"Mr. Alexander?" she whispers, hardly daring to believe it.

He glances down at her, a gentle smile softening his features.

"Hey there, little sunshine. Don't you worry. I've got you."

The term of endearment strikes Clara like a physical blow. Memories of that man flood her mind. Something inside her, an emotion she'd long kept tightly sealed away, begins to crack open.

Despite her best efforts to maintain control, Clara finds herself clinging to Alexander, her small arms wrapping around him as if afraid he might disappear.

Her voice choked with emotion, she whispers, "Is it really you?"4

"That's right, Clara. I'm here now." He sighs, attempting to comfort the trembling child with one arm...

...his golden eyes, now blazing with an infernal light, bearing into the vagrants with a gaze of pure, molten fury.

"Now, I'll take care of everything."

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Countdown to Belobog's Long Night of Solace: Less than 10 hours remaining.