The plan in place, all she needs now is the equipment. With a slow trot home, she thinks it over. She knows exactly how she'll do it, in fact. There something she never dared to use, despite all her deepest curiosity, but she knows it's her only choice.

Using the same way she came in, she enters the house. With a silent, straining crawl, she etches over the window, and lowers herself to the floor. If someone told her that she'd be crawling out of windows to get into the sewer level this morning, she'd laugh at them, but fate has a way of guiding people out of their character, or perhaps leading them into her true self.

Clare opens the door to her room with a gentle creak. Her foot bumps into something mid way. Instantly she pulls her foot back with a peep. She clearly envisions the boot of her father, stopping her exit. He must have found out; Waine that bastard.

"D-dad?" She asks, only a centimeter around the frame to see around.

There's no response.

Steadily, her thoughts turn to darker things. It's funny, how one can be surrounded by society and comforts, and still only see what they want to see, but the mind is life's most powerful wizard, capable of turning the most unassuming places into horror scapes of wild fantasy.

Perhaps, she wonders, if it's not her dad, after all. Sure enough, it did sound more like something... artificial, she feels.

She just stands there for a moment, the door cracked open just a sliver, just enough for her to reach out, or for something else to reach in. Clare shakes her head. She's being ridiculous.

She pokes her head out into the dark hallway, and sees nothing, which confuses her until she looks down.

Far from a horror and far more unassuming, the bowl of stew left for her by her father sits cold on the floor. A faint smirk crosses her lips; if she'd opened it any faster she probably would've turned it over.

Clare takes up the bowl, eats a few bites, and takes it down with her to the first floor.

Waiting around the corner and standing at attention by the door is the house automaton. She stops in the middle of the hall and admires it a moment, the moonlight reflecting dully off its chassis in a way that's simultaneously beautiful and terrifying for her; so familiar, and yet so entirely unlike a person.

She remembers back when she was a little girl. She had nightmares about them, the automatons. Almost all of them were made and finished by the time she was born. They were always a part of her life, especially considering her mother always had them in the house.

With a sort of sacred reverence, like to a spirit, she bows her head gently before keeping on to the side room- added on after her mom got her class three job. Always a few second’s walk from anywhere in the house, she comes to the nostalgic realization that she hasn't opened this door since she was a little girl. With a deep breath, she reaches for the knob, and opens the door to her mother's workspace.

It was a sense of shared solemnity that had both her and her father leave the door shut permanently in the first few weeks after her death, and now the bond will be broken out of necessity.

She swings the well-oiled door wide, revealing her mother's work table, her enormous piles of notes at all sides and walls of the room, and in the end, sitting in its quaint wooden chair as it has been ever since her disappearance, her pet project, the custom automaton; which Clare hasn't laid eyes on since she was last in here, years and years ago.

Clare turns on the lights and closes the door behind her with the profile of a gentle breeze, taking great care not to make noise.

Safe inside, Clare puts aside her bowl of stew and approaches the automaton; unique everywhere from its resplendent alloy chassis to its internal managraphic circuitry. It reminds her so much of her mother, she almost never saw her without it nearby, considering her mother spent most of her time at home in this small, almost claustrophobic room.

Her gaze sharpens with determination, and she steps up to the auto. Like a knight in waiting, it remains bent over in its chair, Mary's chair right beside it from where she used to work on it. It's on this chair that Clare sits down to open up the auto's faceplate. She's looked through dozens of autos before for class, but never one like this. The joint system latching on the faceplate is set what seems to be an interior lock. She can't get it off.

After a couple minutes of labor, Clare draws back with a puff. She needs to find the key. The young lady takes a moment to think over likely places for the key, and then turns about to see the small picture of Mary holding her as an infant, resting up in the corner of the room.

She pauses, having completely forgotten about the picture until now, and gets up to approach the frame. Reaching behind the wooden exterior, Clare feels along the lower, inner rim of the backside, and she feels a slight, cool bump along her fingers. With a victorious coo, she retrieves the auto's interior faceplate key, the first of its kind that she's seen. She always knew her mother was considered the very best automaton engineer of her time, but had no idea her designs would be this complicated.

Clare hasn't even the slightest idea.

Plunging the little turn-key into the side of the auto's head, Clare clicks it around a few times until a permissive, satisfying *snap* rings through the room. She removes the key, stuffs it in her pocket, and with almost sacred trepidation, she lifts the faceplate.

Clare, usually cool headed, can't stifle the gasp.

Waiting within the head are the automaton's managraphic logic plates: the brain of the machine not unlike a circuit board, but they're so much thinner than the others, in every way. The plates are a fourth of the width of a usual, and don't have the clunky weight of them, either. The managraphics are so thin, so unbelievably fine, it looks like it was written by a pen, rather than the industrial paste tubes used in the academy workshop. What she has the most trouble believing, however, is that the single plate she pulled is double sided, providing double the bang for a single circuit. Whatever this logic command is, she wonders, it must be unbelievably sophisticated. Considering this single plate contains more managraphics than even a highly-social four-plater automaton, it probably won't have more than the first plate the next one contained in its head— but she's wrong.

She puts aside the first plate, and removes the second plate, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth. In all, she removes twelve plates of double-sided managraphics before reaching the end, proving to her that her mother had to make the plates so thin for the sake of simply putting it all inside without having to extend the actual chassis of the auto. She nods with a slow, impressed tilt of the head, simultaneously inspired and intimidated by how wonderfully complex and elegant her mother's managraphics are; it's like looking at little paintings, rather than an unsightly industrial necessity.

Her awe takes a steady turn to fear when she realizes that which every engineer has been taught to be not just a standard, but a requirement.

"Wait," she mutters. "Then where's your core plate?" Clare asks, partially to herself, and partially to the auto as if it could respond.

She flips through both sides of the twelve logic plates, but sure enough, not one of them has the small black speck upon a core plate, and none of the plates have the clear directive for activation; the very first plate students are taught to design.

Clare sits in reverence of the auto for a near minute, pondering just how in the world this is all possible. She was planning on adding or changing one of the plates to include a material deconstruction protocol which she would use to protect her against the non-socials at the substation system, but this is so unheard of it completely defies recognition.

It's the first time she gets the feeling, and what a horrible, rotten thought it is: an overwhelming unease of paranoia. For the very first time, Clare ponders if just maybe, possibly, something she was taught is wrong, or in fact is a complete lie in the first place. It's the sort of feeling one gets when all of society doesn't feel quite as much like a safe community of like minds, and more of a pen, for animals and other things that need to be contained for their own good.

The engineering student shakes her head. She can't get distracted.

With a fascinated, if nervous, anticipation she replaces the logic plates in their proper order and closes the faceplate, concealing the soulless machine within and restoring its appealing, almost elegant visage.

She waits a moment, and suddenly realizes how stupid she's being. This auto won't start by itself as the others do, because then it would have been active for the entire time. She wonders if perhaps it's not finished, but just as the thought crosses her mind, she hears a voice.

"...Good evening," it says; a distorted, breathy, eerily-faint voice says, as if its voice is just barely reaching past its mask.

Clare jolts back, flipping back from her chair and catching herself just in time before the backside slaps into the ground. She looks around briefly to see if she's being watched, but focuses right back on the automaton. She's sure of it; it just spoke to her.

"H-...hello?"

"...Hello," it says flatly, its voice like a cross between a bellows and a flute valve. Clare's never heard anything quite as unnerving in all her life; similar to industrial noises forming words in a bare mockery of human language.

"You... talk," a wide-eyed Clare sputters, slowly straightening her chair so as to not make noise.

The sounds of an internal logic register work through its head with gentle, nigh-silent clicks; like the footsteps of a spider. "...Yes. I can talk," it says, putting some extra inflection on what it believes is the most important word in the sentence.

Clare cannot believe her ears at both the short clicking in its head, nor the voice.

"In your head... is that a register?" she asks with an awe-struck tone.

"...Define term: 'register'."

"Like, huge logic circuits. The agricultural machines have them, but they're much, like, way bigger; the size of buildings."

"...I do not understand your terminology. Please rephrase inquiry."

Clare looks at it with a slow, stupid glare. "Uh, nevermind. I need your help."

"...I do not understand your terminology. Please rephrase inquiry."

She bites the side of her lip in thought. Of course social automatons have pre-set phrases they can receive that translates to interior commands, which is why most non-industrial autos will indeed stop if someone speaks the word "stop". It's apparent that this one is a little more complex, but simply not. She considers her next words more carefully.

"State directive," she says, and at once she can hear the interior register clicking away in communication with its logic-plates.

"Directive: Protect Clare."

She gets another chill down her spine.

"How did you know my name?"

"...I do not understand your terminol-"

"Who is Clare?"

"...Clare Airineth, daughter of designer, Mary Airineth."

"W-why do you need to protect her?"

"...Due to directive."

Clare sighs. "Uh... What do you need to protect Clare from?"

"Danger."

"Yes, but what is it? Did your designer think I would be in trouble?"

"...Input user undefined."

Clare raises a brow. She's confused only for a second, though.

"Define user: Clare."

"Definition input."

"Current user is Clare."

The automaton clicks in thought. "...Doing so will overwrite current user profile for 'Clare'. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes."

"...Present user key," it says, reaching out its hand as if to accept something.

She smirks awkwardly; she hasn't the slightest clue. A few seconds of silence passes, and the automaton continues.

"...Error, user key not presented. Action terminated," it says, putting a damning emphasis on the word ‘terminated’.

Clare crosses her arms and turns away for a moment. She doesn't have access to change anything through voice, and she has no clue what she'd be dealing with in the logic plates, but if her mother expected this to happen one day, then she must have left something behind.

She thinks hard, all the way back to her childhood. What was the one thing that the two of them would share? What is something that the machine would recognize?

Slowly, Clare draws back with an impressed realization. She raises a solemn hand to her ear and removes her green earring. After all, automatons can recognize mineral structures quite easily. She clears her throat to try again:

"Define user: Clare," she says.

"Definition input."

"Current user is Clare."

The automaton clicks in thought. "...Doing so will overwrite current user profile for 'Clare'. Do you wish to proceed?"

"Yes."

"...Present user key."

She pops the earring, her mother's only memento to her, into the palm of its hand.

In an instant, the clicking noise inside its head increases violently in decibel and speed.

"User key accepted. Key designation: Clare Airineth. Privilege: administrator. You have two messages. Do you wish to proceed?" It says this, reaching its hand out further to return the earring. It dumps it onto Clare's lap.

Her gaze is wide, like a herd animal spotting a wolf in the tree line. "...Yes," she affirms, barely catching the earring from slipping from her lap.

The auto leans its head down, as if in remembrance. "Playing message:" At once, there's another clicking sound, and from the automaton is a voice, Mary's voice.

"Clare, this is your mother. Do not repeat anything I am about to tell you to anyone. If there is anyone listening to this with you, you need to stop this recording. I gave you the earring to remember me by, just in case my suspicions are correct and something should happen; whatever that may be. You have this machine to take care of you. I don't know all of the details, because to clarify I would have to risk my life, but when you come of age, you need to get out of the city. Don't listen to your father, or your friends, or anyone else. I know there's a way out somewhere, and I'm looking for it. I've gone down section by section, blueprints and work orders, for months, and I think I've finally found it."

Clare takes a deep breath in sync with her mother in the recording.

"Something's horribly wrong, Clare. Everhold was never meant to maintain human life this long. It seems hopeful now because we are inventing things to solve our problems, especially with agriculture. I expect by the time you become a young lady that's what most engineering students will be majoring in, as the problem is only going to get worse. Clare, our ancestors, whether they knew it or not, have placed us in a terrarium where, eventually, the balance will be offset permanently against us. If we were all machines, it could work, but we aren’t. We’re people; people that make mistakes. We only have so much soil, so much nutrition, so much rainfall every year. The fact of the matter is that we are approaching an increasingly delicate logistic problem, and I see absolutely no way to solve it.

I've written the chosen of King Victor about it. They’re good people, I think I believe them when they say Victor is a god, but I don't think he's a wise god. The Chosen claim they can speak to him through telekinesis, you know, but what they told me strikes me as something only a fool would claim. Again, don't repeat what I'm saying to anyone; the culture that has developed has pointed more and more to the inside of itself, not sparing even a thought as to the outside world. Don’t believe those lies about the wall guard. There’s something wrong with them, I know it. There’s more to this than we’re told.

People don't even wonder what's out there anymore; we just say 'it's the ocean' and leave it at that, as if that little port hole was enough for us to look out and sate our curiosity. To even question otherwise is considered the ravings of a lunatic. I just... it doesn't make sense. How could they have made this entire city in time for the waves? Who would have told them ahead of time? Victor? Maybe, but I doubt it. I'm not firmly under the suspicion that Victor has been lying to keep us here; I’m not a terrorist. I don't doubt that he's well-intentioned, he has to keep the peace, but it's going to get us all killed.

Clare, the world hasn't flooded. We are only fooling ourselves. I am sure of it. There is no ocean out around our walls. If anything I'm sure of that. We have been fed a convenient diet of lies our entire life, so have my parents, and their parents, and so on.

I'll give you another recording if I can, but for now you just need to know you have to take Carrie with you; she should be at least close to done by the time you get this. I left a bag for you under the floorboards at the right side of the door. I love you so much, sweetie. You're going to start at the academy next week, and I know you'll do great, even if I won't get to see you graduate."

There's a click, and the automaton raises its head back to address her.

"You have one message. Do you wish to proceed?"

Clare, gripping her knees and at the verge of tears, pauses a moment before speaking. "Yes."

"Playing Message:" Another soulless click, and her mother's voice is audible again. It sounds like she's crying.

"Sweetie. I've got to go. That arrogant fuck Petrassus finally put me up for board interview. They... please, sweetie, never forget that I love you. I love you so much, Clare."

There's a few intermittent sobs over the recording before Mary continues.

"Take the bag, put on the mask, go to Substation Seven and continue through the wall. I know it's there. Make sure you take Carrie with you. She… eh, it will get you there, where ever it is. Don't tell anyone. Don't tell your father, or anyone, again; if anyone finds out they'll try to stop you. They just don't understand, they'll never fucking understand! Please, Clare, take it and get out of here, but before you do, take the bag, like I said, under the floorboards on the right side of the door, and put on the mask- don't take it off until you get out of the city; honestly you should just sleep with that on I don’t know what’s down there, not yet. Get food for the trip, anything else you need, and go. I can't explain because I don't have much time. They're going to come today to take me away, I just know it. I love you, Clare. I love your father, but he wouldn't understand. You have to leave him. I love you. Goodbye, Clare. I'm going to find out for myself if I'm right... this is it. I love you, never forget it. I love you."

There's another click, and that's that.

"That's all messages," Carrie says. Clare doesn’t think Carrie sounds like a “she” at all; the voice is too deep.

Clare is left with a silent room, and a realization waiting for her ever since she was a little girl. With this, comes a decision. The thesis couldn't be further from her mind at this time.

With a slow, bated breath, Clare draws in the courage to speak, but instead gets up, turns for the door, and kneels down to its right. The automaton, apparently named Carrie, gets up with her, taking to its feet a speed that would, if she didn't know better, would fool her into thinking it were a human. She lifts up rug's corner to reveal some unset boards; an unnailed patch board square, and a secret underneath.

Clare lifts that as well to find a medium-sized gray rucksack, untouched as it has been for years. She pulls it up and, under Carrie's watchful gaze, she opens it.

Hooks... roping... gloves... a pre-charged clip-light... a knife... a parchment containing a blueprint of the substation circle, with a simple line map leading to number seven, and a weird mask. It's rubber, with two glass lenses and a pair of steel attachments to the lower face, seeming to feed into the breather in the center. She's pretty sure this is a gas mask, but she's only gotten to see her father's up close before, for those rare moments when he hits a gas pocket below. Rubber is ridiculously expensive, after all, and is only used for the most pressing industrial applications.

She sighs, flips it around to see the straps, and dawns the mask. It doesn't feel good, like some little monstrosity squeezing her skull, and it's more than a little difficult to breathe with it. She'll do it to humor her mother though; it's not so unbearable so long as she forgets she's wearing it. She wonders briefly if her mother took one along with her as well, and she takes a long, calming breath, the mask's filters producing a slight hissing sound from the pressure.

"Okay, let's go." She says, with a solemn tone, repacking the sack and swinging it around her shoulder before reaching for the knob.

Carrie doesn't say anything, but steps up behind her shoulder at the ready. It's eerie to have an auto follow her so closely, let alone follow her at all. Made by her mother or not, she can already imagine its cold hands grasping at her like a mindless non-social.

Doing her best to cast the thought from her mind, she turns out the light and goes to the kitchen. Mary said she'd need food for the trip, after all.

She leans around the corner and spots her father, slumped over the table, his almost finished beer lazy in his hand while he releases steady, gentle snores. This is, unfortunately, where she finds him asleep the most. She never really got to know him; Mary's loss changed him forever.

Clare sneaks into the kitchen, grabs some of the hard tack on the counter, and about faces the other way back to the hallway. She returns to see Carrie watching the house automaton, which is staring back at it. What makes Clare particularly concerned about this is that the house auto isn't supposed to act on anything inside; it's only supposed to open the door.

Despite her previous misgivings, she gets beside Carrie, using it as a divider between her and the house automaton, which immediately looks to her when she enters its sight range. With a strictured breath, Clare moves in sync with Carrie, the both of them passing through the thin entry way and heading for the door.

The second she touches the doorknob, the house auto flinches, as if it were about to lunch to the door, but Carrie stands firm between the auto and Clare. She opens the door quietly, though at an increased speed seeing the house auto's movement, and slips through the door.

She's outside in the misty night of the Everhold streets, with Carrie emerging right behind her, exiting backwards to keep a close eye on the house auto.

"...We must hurry to the way point," it says.

Clare doesn't want to ask, but she knows she has to. "What?"

"...There was an observer posted. We have been spotted far too early for safe travel."

"Who is-" Clare stops herself, she doesn't even need to clarify. Clare immediately comes to terms with the disheartening realization that at all hours of the day, no matter what, the home automaton would always be in sight of the workshop door.

A sickening chill runs down her spine. "Let's just go."

"...I do not understand your te-"

"Follow me," she says shortly, taking a quick glance at the parchment map before moving towards the nearest sewer entry in her memory.

"...I will follow you," it says.

Though the mask may conceal her vision, her ears are as sharp as ever. Not even a block away, she very clearly hears the sound of her house door opening. Clare picks up her pace, and Carrie in step with her.