The air outside shifted back —from Hotland's unbearable heat to a more moderate temp.
Ahead, A private elevator elevator, built in with a secure passcode protection system stood. It was made for Those who worked for the king himself, were the only ones who knew the code.
Without missing a beat, he stepped inside, inputted the correct code, and clicked the top floor.
As the doors slid shut, Mecha leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. His servos hummed softly, finally given a moment to rest.
*ding*
The moment Mecha stepped out of the elevator, he was met with the soft, ambient glow of New Home, the capital of the underground ,at night.
The crystals embedded in the cavern ceiling were in full effect now, their gentle luminescence bathing the streets in pale gray and violet light. They flickered every often or so slightly, mimicking the twinkle of stars—an artificial sky for an underground city.
It was both impressive as much as it was depressing.
New Home was quiet. It always was at this hour.
Most of the shops had long since closed, their signs dimmed, their owners already behind locked doors. The only real sound came from the occasional footsteps of late-night wanderers, the distant clatter of someone locking up their business, or the ever-present hum of the Underground's infrastructure.
Mecha walked at an even pace, his metal joints producing the faintest whir with each step. Unlike Waterfall or Hotland, New Home was a place of structure. The streets were lined with well-built stone buildings, clean and well-kept. Even the streetlamps—glowing softly from the magic within them—stood tall, casting steady pools of warm light onto the stone paths.
The air here was still. Controlled. Predictable.
Mecha didn't mind it too much.
He passed by familiar landmarks—a café that was dark for the night, the tailor's shop with a half-sewn jacket still visible in the window, the flowing fountain at the plaza's center.
No distractions. No detours. Just the path home.
As he reached the outskirts of New Home, the buildings became less clustered, the space between them widening. The soft hum of the city gave way to something quieter, something more livable, to him at least.
And finally—he saw it.
His home.
A two-story building, standing alone at the edge of town.
The bottom half bore a sturdy wooden sign, hand-carved with care.
Mecha's Workshop
Right beneath the name, engraved into the wood, was his work schedule—clear and straightforward.
It let customers know when he was out doing repairs, when he was in, and most importantly—when to leave their broken devices in the drop-off safe.
A heavy-duty lockbox was built into the front of the shop, meant for customers to deposit their items. Next to it was a small bulletin board, where they could pin notes with their name, address, and a description of the problem.
Simple. Efficient.
And right now? Empty.
Good. He wasn't in the mood for late-night surprises, he was still behind on all the items that were brought to him while he was out.
Mecha stepped up to the door, the plates on his left arm retracting to show a small compartment, and pulled out his keys. With a practiced motion, he unlocked the entrance, stepping inside.
The familiar scent of oil, metal, and faint traces of soldering greeted him.
His workshop was just that—a workshop. Sturdy workbenches lined the walls, covered in half-disassembled appliances, loose wires, and spare mechanical parts. A set of well-worn tools hung neatly from a rack, each one arranged in its designated spot.
Beyond the workshop was a staircase leading to the second floor—his actual living space.
And above that?
The attic.
A decently sized space, mostly used for storage, but one he'd been meaning to clean up. Maybe turn it into something useful one day.
But that was tomorrow Mecha's problem.
For now? He just wanted to lock up, Get all the items that were given to him done, and maybe—just maybe— Be able to power down for the night and not wake up to a day that didn't involve someone's fridge catching fire.
…But knowing his luck, he was going to be too hopeful.
The workshop door clicked shut behind him as he stepped inside, sealing away the quiet hum of New Home's streets. With a tired exhale—more out of habit than necessity—he locked it up for the night.
The shop was dimly lit, but Mecha didn't need much light to navigate. His optics adjusted automatically, shifting to low-light mode, painting the room in crisp outlines and faint glows of residual heat from earlier repairs.
His workbenches were the same as always—cluttered, but organized in a way only he understood. A half-fixed radio sat next to a disassembled toaster, and a set of pliers rested right where he left them. His hands flexed instinctively, already feeling the urge to pick up a wrench and start fixing something.
He let out a tired whirr, forcing his systems to stay active. His processors ached from the day's non-stop work, but the backlog of broken devices waiting for repairs was too much to ignore.
Mecha's optics scanned the pile of requests he had received a few days ago—things he hadn't had time to work on because of all the urgent on-site repairs around the Underground. His internal clock reminded him that he hadn't rested properly in over 48 hours, but he shoved that thought aside.
"Gotta catch up."
With mechanical precision, he grabbed the half-fixed radio and set it down in front of him. The issue was obvious—the internal wiring had corroded, making the signal unstable. He detached the casing with swift, practiced movements, hands steady despite his drained energy. A few minutes later, the soldering iron was glowing as he reconnected the circuits, sealing the loose connections.
Done.
Next was the toaster—someone from Hotland had asked for this one. The heating coils inside had burned out, most likely from overuse in the extreme temperatures. Mecha pulled out some spare resistors from his storage compartment, replacing the ruined ones with more durable alternatives.
Done.
A pocket watch came next. The owner had said it was a family heirloom, refusing to throw it away despite its broken gears. Mecha's optics zoomed in as he carefully replaced the delicate mechanisms inside, working with careful precision to restore its movement.
Done.
As time stretched on, the quiet hum of Mecha's work filled the shop. Each repair was another task completed, another problem solved. His screen dimmed slightly, but he forced himself to keep going.
Gotta keep fixing.
A typewriter. A broken headlamp. A malfunctioning alarm clock.
One by one, he fixed them all.
His hands never stopped, even as his energy reserves didn't fall too low due to these repairs not taking much energy. His internal systems flashed warnings, reminding him that he needed rest, but he simply dismissed them.
His body moved on autopilot, repairing and assembling, undoing damage and restoring function. He didn't stop until the very last device in the pile was finished.
And by then, the Underground was quiet.
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