In a universe very much like our own—with a few massive differences—sits a colossal world. This is Terra.
But Terra is not just a lifeless hunk of rock floating in the void. No... Terra breathes. It pulses. The planet itself is just as alive as the beings walking upon its surface.
The year is 2155. We find ourselves on a supercontinent sharing the exact same name as the planet—(Terrans aren't the most creative bunch). Specifically, we zoom into the northern region of the continent, known simply as North Terra. (Again... creativity is in short supply here.)
Of course, we can't start our story without our protagonist, who is acting very much opposite of his namesake. On a large bus filled with teenagers in the same age range as him, he sat in the front, handcuffed much like the rest. The bus had been going for two days with minor breaks in between.
As our protagonist shifted in his seat, he turned slightly and viewed a sign from the window. Considering the speed the bus was going, it was a very hard read, but our dear protagonist made the words out:
WELCOME TO NORTH VALOR CITY.
After an hour, the bus came to a screeching stop in front of a large, square building aligned with red bricks, and an entrance that simply said:
-NORTH VALOR CITY DETENTION CENTER-
The young men and women were forced into a line where they entered, being carted like animals.
The institution itself, while pristine and in shape, was definitely designed to contain rather than rehabilitate.
After a wait in line, our protagonist came to the reception desk.
A square bulletproof glass panel was stationed right in front of the line; inside that box was an empty seat. Then, a guard—an incredibly large man with a scar that ran from the bottom of his lip to his right eyebrow—appeared. He looked down at a datapad, his voice scraping against the silence like gravel.
"Inmate Two-Four-One. Herro Hilbert Touya. Front and center."
The guard lowered the pad, looking Herro over with a look that Herro would consider offensive if he weren't thinking the same thing about himself.
"Let's see here... height... 5'9... weight... 150 lbs... seems about right."
"By order of the Gear Offender Rehabilitation Mandate, you are processed for release. Serve the White Lion Empire well." The guard sighed. "...Roar with pride."
The guard had about as much hope in his words as one could imagine, but one thing was for sure: Herro Touya was a free man, though technically he wouldn't be a legal adult for another four years.
The release was a smooth process. After signing forms that had words and agreements Herro definitely didn't understand and receiving his belongings in a clear plastic bag, Herro was met with the heavy clunk of the gate unlocking.
As he made his way to the gate, he felt nothing but eyes staring at him. Other juveniles watched him leave with mixed expressions—some envious, some resentful, some indifferent.
From Herro's perspective... all scary.
He moved past the stares, making no eye contact and bringing no attention to himself.
(Come on. I don't stand out that much.)
Stepping into the bright sunlight, Herro adjusted his red-and-white cap—brim strictly forward to ward off bad luck—over his shaggy brown hair, his warm eyes scanning the horizon with a youthful expression caught between confidence and worry. His lean, athletic frame was clad in a light blue jersey stamped with the number 11, heavily distressed cargo pants, and worn sneakers with fading red and blue soles.
Herro looked around at the streets. North Terra was the most progressive and populous out of the five regions. Everywhere he looked was either a skyscraper, a commercial building, or a small but expensive-looking house. He shifted his hands through his pockets, looking for it.
The 'it' being the note with the address on it. The address, of course, to his new home... or prison, depending on how you looked at it.
A family unit.
More specifically, the Ironhide Family.
"Well, I'm glad it's walking distance."
Herro went on his way. No point trying to avoid the inevitable. It was this or prison, though Herro still didn't fully know what a family unit was even supposed to be.
(I've heard the specific rules. They're "peacekeepers," whatever that means... jeez, I don't know why Nate made me sign up for this crap. I'd rather have gotten a real job.)
Herro stepped off the curb and onto the pristine asphalt of the intersection, his worn sneakers feeling out of place against the clean, sun-bleached city streets. North Valor wasn't just big—it was overwhelming.
He grew up in a rural neighborhood in South Terra. Nothing back home was like this.
He craned his neck back, his eyes widening as he took in the sheer verticality of the district. To his left, a massive digital billboard displayed a stylized anime figure in blue, the screen so bright it competed with the midday sun. Below it, a neon-green sign for a shop read:
"NEW CLOTHES, NEW YOU"
Herro stared at the sign while looking at his own clothes.
(Feels like Terra's mocking me.)
He rolled his eyes and continued onward.
(Do people actually live in places like this? It's too clean... feels like I'm gonna break something just by walking.)
Knowing his unemployment, and that having debt would basically be a death sentence, he tightened his grip on the plastic bag containing his meager belongings and pulled the brim of his red-and-white cap lower, trying to shrink into himself. The noise was constant—cars humming by, the faint jingles from digital advertisements, and the murmur of pedestrians who looked far more important than he felt.
(I wish I could go back home already, though... I guess there's nothing left for me there, knowing what I did... I can't ever go back.)
Herro stared at his fist, a look of nothing but regret washing over his face before it washed away just as quickly. He walked faster.
Herro walked for another forty minutes.
The city changed around him in stages. First the advertisements thinned out, replaced by older billboards with peeling paint. Then the buildings got shorter, squatter, like they were hunkering down against something. The people changed too—fewer suits, more work clothes, faces that looked tired in a familiar way.
(This is more like it. Still way bigger than home, but... I can breathe here.)
He checked the address again. 2742 Industrial Row.
The GPS on his cheap phone—one of the few things returned to him in that plastic bag—insisted he was close. But "Industrial Row" turned out to be less of a row and more of a hill that seemingly doubled as a graveyard. Rusted warehouses lined both sides of a cracked street, their windows dark or broken, weeds forcing their way through every gap in the concrete.
(Nate. What the hell did you sign me up for?)
Herro stopped.
The building in front of him was... well, it wasn't that bad, actually. Much to Herro's surprise, it certainly looked used and worn out, but it had three stories to its name... so it could be worse. A multi-story structure displayed an eclectic mix of architectural styles—suggesting multiple renovations by owners with vastly different aesthetics—but maintained a consistent color scheme of faded gray-blue that made it stand out against the surrounding buildings.
"I suppose if you're helping people, you want them to find you easy... hehe."
Herro was obviously stalling as long as he possibly could.
A hand-painted sign hung over the entrance, the letters faded but legible:
IRONHIDE FAMILY
Someone had drawn a small fist next to the words. It looked like it had been added by a different person than whoever painted the sign—the style was cartoonish, almost childish.
Herro stood there for a long moment.
(This is it? This is the "prestigious rehabilitation opportunity" that officer talked about?)
He thought about turning around. Walking back to the detention center. Telling them he'd changed his mind, that he'd rather serve his sentence the normal way, that—
That what? That he'd spend the next few years in a cell, come out with nothing, go nowhere?
At least this was... something.
(I can't be scared all the time.)
He raised his hand to knock.
He tapped it twice. No answer.
So he did what he thought was best and texted Nate.
(Come on, don't be a terrible cousin... answer.)
1 notification
"Ah, finally."
He opened it.
(WHAT DO YOU MEAN JUST WALK IN?! ARE YOU CRAZY?!)
Herro stopped himself and thought things through.
"Wait a sec. There's no way their door is just open."
CREAAAAAAKKKKKKKKK.
The door swung open with a creak loud enough to wake the dead—which might soon be Herro.
He closed his eyes and simply smiled.
"I suppose this is within Terra's will, huh?"
Herro walked in with little confidence and even less hope.
(I'm making a mistake. I'm gonna die.)
The interior was... not what Herro expected.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected, actually. Something military? Institutional? Another version of the detention center with better lighting and fewer handcuffs?
Instead, he found himself standing in what looked like someone's very large, very lived-in common room.
The first thing that hit him was the smell—not bad, exactly, but layered. Old fabric, something cooking somewhere deeper in the building, the faint mustiness of a space that had seen decades of use. Under that, something sharper: metal, maybe. Machine oil.
(People live here. This is supposed to be a military unit, and people actually live here.)
The furniture was... eclectic was a kind word for it. A massive couch dominated the center of the room, sagging in the middle like it had given up on life but refused to die. It looked like it could fit five people if everyone cooperated, though something told Herro cooperation wasn't this team's strong suit. Several mismatched chairs surrounded it—a leather recliner with duct tape on one arm, a wooden chair that looked stolen from a school, something that might have once been an office chair before whatever war it had clearly survived.
A coffee table sat in front of the couch, and Herro found himself staring at it. The surface was absolutely destroyed. Scratches, burns, circular stains from cups, what looked like knife marks, and—was that a hole? There was definitely a hole, roughly the size of a fist, punched clean through the wood and poorly patched with what appeared to be duct tape and optimism.
(What happened to that table? Actually, I don't wanna know. I definitely don't wanna know.)
The walls were worse. Or better? Herro couldn't decide.
Photos covered nearly every surface—team photos, candid shots, what looked like mission commemorations with dates scrawled in marker on the frames. He recognized no one, obviously, but the faces staring back at him seemed... happy? Normal? Not at all like the terrifying warriors he'd imagined when Nate said "family unit."
Between the photos, someone had attempted decoration. Emphasis on attempted. A few pieces looked genuinely nice—a painting of a sunset, some pressed flowers in a frame—but others were questionable at best. A poster of a cartoon cat that said "HANG IN THERE" was taped next to what appeared to be a hand-drawn portrait of a muscular figure punching the sun.
(Who drew that? Why did they draw that? Why is it framed?)
One wall, however, looked to be very... important.
A massive map of North Valor City dominated the space, easily two meters wide. It was covered—absolutely covered—in pins, notes, strings connecting locations, and tactical markings in at least four different handwriting styles. Red pins clustered in certain districts. Blue pins marked other locations. Yellow sticky notes with cryptic messages like "CONFIRMED - 3RD TUES" and "DO NOT ENGAGE ALONE" and "Rosa owes me lunch" dotted the surface.
Herro stepped closer, squinting at the map. The level of detail was impressive. Threat assessments, civilian contact points, patrol routes, known criminal territories—
(Wait. They actually do real work here. This isn't just... I don't know what I thought this was, but they actually do things.)
"Of course, I have no idea what these things are, but looks like I got signed up for something... serious."
A sound from his left made him turn.
Through an open doorway, he could see what was clearly a kitchen—and clearly a kitchen that someone cared about deeply. The equipment looked commercial-grade, way too professional for a building like this. Pots hung from a ceiling rack in perfect order. A knife block sat on the counter with an actual padlock on it, which raised questions Herro wasn't sure he wanted answered.
The smell of cooking was stronger here. Something with garlic. Something good.
(Okay. Kitchen. Someone here can cook. That's... that's a good sign, right?)
He turned the other direction and noticed a smaller room off to the side, door slightly ajar. Curiosity overrode caution—a mistake he'd probably regret—and he peered inside.
A planning room. A large table covered in maps, mission reports, and stacks of notebooks that threatened to achieve sentience through sheer volume. The walls were lined with whiteboards, every inch covered in tactical planning, schedules, and notes.
Herro's eyes caught some of the messages scrawled in aggressive red marker:
"STOP SKIPPING TRAINING"
"PLEASE CLEAN YOUR GEAR"
"IF YOU USE THE LAST OF THE COFFEE, REPLACE IT (THIS MEANS YOU, LYRA)"
"MISSION DEBRIEF IS NOT OPTIONAL"
And in smaller, more desperate handwriting at the bottom of one board:
"I am begging you. Please. Just once. Follow the schedule."
(Someone here is suffering. Someone here is suffering deeply, and I already feel bad for them.)
Herro backed out of the room slowly, not wanting to disturb whatever organizational system held this chaos together.
He returned to the common area, standing awkwardly in the center of the space, plastic bag of belongings still clutched in his hands. The building creaked around him. Footsteps thumped somewhere above—second floor, maybe third. Music played faintly from a distant room, something with a heavy beat.
This was it. This was the Ironhide Family headquarters.
It looked like a college dorm had a baby with a military outpost, and neither parent was paying child support.
(This is where I'm gonna live. This is my new home. This is—)
A door to his left burst open.
Not literally—though Herro didn't realize that until his brain processed that the door had simply been opened with enough force that it slammed against the wall, bounced back, and was caught by the person coming inside.
This person was a girl.
She looked to be his age—maybe seventeen—with a mean-looking face that made Herro's stomach drop.
This girl stood at about 5'5", her long, voluminous dark brown hair tied up in a ridiculously long and high ponytail. Large, bright blue eyes locked onto Herro immediately. In only a few seconds, Herro took in her entire outfit: a white and pink cap, a fitted black crop-top with long sleeves and open shoulder sections, loose low-rise cargo jeans that sat wide through the legs and extended over the tops of her white sneakers, with a fishnet layer visible at her waistline.
"—SWEAR TO TERRA, IF MORIMOTO SENT ANOTHER ONE OF HIS LITTLE ERRAND BOYS, I'M GONNA—"
She stopped.
Stared at Herro.
Herro stared back.
The silence lasted approximately two seconds. It felt like two hours.
(Oh no.)
"...Who the hell are you?"
Her voice had dropped from shouting to something worse—quiet, controlled, assessing. Like she was calculating exactly how much force it would take to throw him through the window.
"I—"
Before Herro could get a word out, she moved. One second she was in the doorway. The next she was airborne, fist cocked back so far it nearly touched her spine.
Herro didn't think. He didn't decide to dodge. His body simply rejected the idea of being concussed—which, for the record, saved his life.
WHAM.
Herro threw himself backward. His shoulders hit the far wall hard enough to rattle the photo frames.
After taking a moment to process what was happening, the girl dashed again, a kick aimed squarely at his neck.
Herro ducked under it, the wind pressure enough to send his hat flying off his head.
The girl didn't hesitate.
She pivoted on her left heel, driving her right leg up and around in a vicious roundhouse kick aimed squarely at Herro's temple.
"Chill!" Herro yelped, throwing his upper body backward.
The toe of her sneaker whistled past his chin, missing by less than an inch.
In the same motion, she leaned forward and threw a straight right.
(She's so fast. WHY IS SHE SO FAST?!)
The punch connected.
WHAM.
Except—no. It hadn't. Herro looked down at his own hand. Her fist was in his palm. He'd caught it. He didn't remember deciding to catch it. His body had just... done it.
The girl raised a single eyebrow. For a moment, neither of them moved. Her fist. His hand. The silence between them suddenly weighted with something neither had expected.
Then Herro's brain caught up to his reflexes.
(Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no—)
He released her hand like it was on fire and scrambled backward.
"Listen. JUST listen to me, please!"
"Wait." She held up a hand. Her eyes narrowed, scanning him up and down with obvious contempt. The plastic bag. The worn sneakers. The cheap jersey. The cap lying on the floor. "Let me guess. Morimoto finally decided threatening letters weren't working, so he sent some kid to collect in person?"
"I don't know who that is."
"Sure you don't."
"I really don't."
"That's exactly what someone who knows who that is would say."
(Her logic is insane. This is insane. She's gonna kill me, and no one will ever find the body.)
"I'm not—I don't—" Herro took a step back, hands raised instinctively. "I'm not here to collect anything! I don't even know what you're talking about!"
"Uh-huh." She crossed her arms. "So you just randomly walked into a Family Unit headquarters in the industrial district. For fun. On a Wednesday."
"I mean... yeah, it's Wednesday."
The moment the words left his mouth, Herro knew he'd made a mistake.
The girl's eye twitched.
"Did you just—"
"I didn't mean—"
"You break into my home and you're gonna be a smartass?"
"I didn't break in! The door was open! Nate told me to just walk in!"
The name landed like a splash of cold water.
The girl froze. Her aggressive stance didn't change, but something in her expression shifted—confusion breaking through the hostility.
"...Nate?"
"Nate Touya." Herro's words came out in a rush, desperate to explain before she decided to punch first and ask questions never. "He's my cousin. He told me to come to this address. He said I was supposed to join the unit? The Ironhide Family? He texted me like twenty minutes ago and said to just walk in and—"
"Hold on." She held up a hand again, and this time Herro actually stopped talking. "You're the new kid?"
"...Yes?"
"The one from South Terra?"
"Yes."
"The one from juvie?"
Herro's stomach clenched. "...Yes."
"The one who put four boys in the hospital?"
He couldn't look at her. His eyes dropped to the floor, to his worn sneakers, to anything that wasn't her face.
"...Yeah."
Herro looked down, bracing himself. The disgust. The fear. The judgment. This is where it always happens.
"Huh."
He looked up.
The girl was studying him with an expression he couldn't read. Not fear. Not disgust. Something else. Something almost like... confusion?
"You don't look that tough."
(I... what?)
"Listen, I'm not one to judge a book by its cover, but..." She tilted her head, assessing him like he was a piece of equipment that wasn't meeting specifications. "Four guys? With that build? Either they were complete pushovers, or there's more to you than..." She gestured vaguely at all of him. "...this."
Herro had no idea how to respond to that.
"I—"
"Whatever." She uncrossed her arms and pushed past him toward the front door, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. She smelled like sweat and something metallic—had she been training? "Rosa's somewhere in the back. Probably the kitchen. She'll talk your ear off if you let her, so don't."
She grabbed the door handle, then paused. Looked back at him.
"And hey. New kid."
"...Yeah?"
"My name's Hilda. Hilda Tanya." A smirk crossed her face—not friendly, exactly, but not entirely hostile either. Maybe a mix of something between amusement and challenge. "Don't bother me unless you want me to actually kick your ass."
The door slammed behind her.
Welcome to your new family unit, Herro.
You're gonna love it here.
END OF CHAPTER 1