The Ironhide van groaned as it rolled into the parking garage behind headquarters, its suspension complaining about the weight of six exhausted teenagers and one perpetually irritated commander. The engine cut out with a wheeze that suggested it was one bad day away from giving up entirely.
Herro sat in the back, staring at his hands. They looked normal. No visible damage, no signs of the power—Gear, he corrected himself mentally—that had erupted from them hours ago. Just regular hands belonging to a regular kid who'd somehow managed to throw a car hard enough to save someone's life without turning that someone into paste.
(Was that real? Did I actually control it? Or did I just get lucky that the car was far enough from JJ that I couldn't accidentally—)
The van door slid open with a metallic screech. Lyra hopped out first, rolling her shoulders and wincing. "Alright, mission complete. Everyone did their jobs. Herro didn't kill anyone. I'd call that a win."
"You set the bar remarkably low, Ms. Lyra," Nate said, climbing out after her.
"And yet you all keep managing to limbo under it." Lyra stretched, her spine popping audibly. "Dismissed. Do whatever. Don't die. I don't want to do paperwork."
Rosa practically bounced out of the van despite the obvious exhaustion in her face. "I'm making dinner! Who wants—"
"Not octopus again," Hilda said flatly, appearing beside her sister like a particularly aggressive shadow.
"It was ONE TIME—"
"It had a face."
"All food has a face at some point!"
"Not rice."
"Well— okay, you got me there."
JJ had already vanished. Herro hadn't even seen him leave. One moment he was sitting in the front passenger seat looking vaguely uncomfortable, and the next there was just empty space and the faint suggestion that he'd never existed in the first place.
Dean stepped down carefully, offering Herro a hand up. "First mission complete. How do you feel?"
"Tired," Herro said honestly, accepting the help. His legs wobbled slightly when he stood—adrenaline crash hitting hard. "And confused. And kind of like I might throw up."
"That's normal." Dean's smile was gentle. "The throwing up part usually passes after your third or fourth mission."
"What about the confused part?"
"That's permanent, I'm afraid."
Herro stumbled slightly getting out of the van. His mind felt like it was moving through molasses, thoughts sticky and slow. He'd used his Gear. Successfully. Without hurting anyone except the people he was supposed to hurt, which was apparently the goal in this line of work. He'd saved JJ. Done his job. Been useful instead of dangerous for once in his life.
So why did he feel like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop?
(Because you got lucky. Because next time you might not. Because what if—)
Something smacked him upside the head. Not hard—more like a firm tap with a closed fist—but enough to knock him out of his spiral.
"Ow!" Herro yelped, rubbing the back of his skull. "What was that for?"
Lyra lowered her hand, expression somewhere between annoyed and concerned. "You were dissociating. Stop that."
"I wasn't—"
"Kid, I've seen that look on enough soldiers to recognize it. Your eyes go somewhere else and your brain starts eating itself." Lyra fixed him with a stare that was far too sober for someone who'd been drinking before dawn. "You did good today. JJ's alive. You controlled your Gear. Take the win and stop looking for reasons to beat yourself up."
Herro blinked. The acknowledgment hit him harder than the smack had. "I... thank you. Really. For giving me this chance. I know I'm not exactly—"
Lyra's face twisted like she'd bitten into a lemon. "Ugh. Don't."
"Don't what?"
"The earnest thing. The grateful puppy dog routine." She made a disgusted gesture. "Your earnest good-boy act makes me want to drink more."
"...You're going to drink anyway, aren't you?"
"Obviously. But now I have an excuse." Lyra was already walking toward the headquarters entrance, not looking back. "Welcome to Ironhide, Touya. You're bunking in room 304. Third floor. Dean'll show you. Don't break anything."
And just like that, she was gone.
Herro stood there, still processing. Rosa patted his shoulder sympathetically. "Don't take it personally. Ms. Lyra doesn't handle sincerity well."
"I noticed."
"She means well though! Probably. Maybe. Sometimes." Rosa's optimism was aggressively cheerful. "Anyway, I'm making dinner! It'll be ready in like an hour. Come down when you're settled!"
She bounced off toward the entrance, Hilda trailing behind her like a particularly grumpy shadow. Which left Herro standing in the garage with Dean, surrounded by the smell of motor oil and concrete.
"So," Dean said mildly. "That was your first mission with Ironhide."
"Yeah."
"Thoughts?"
Herro looked around the garage. It was cramped and poorly lit, with water stains on the concrete walls and exposed pipes running along the ceiling. A far cry from the organized, sterile military facilities he'd imagined. More like someone's personal workshop that happened to have government funding. Poorly.
"Everyone's kind of weird," Herro said finally.
Dean laughed. "You'll fit right in."
The common room was exactly what Herro expected from a perpetually broke military unit: mismatched furniture that looked like it had been rescued from various dumpsters, a TV that was definitely older than Herro himself, and the kind of worn-in comfort that came from six teenagers spending too much time in close quarters.
Lyra had claimed the best chair—a leather recliner with duct tape holding one arm together—and was already three sips into what looked like whiskey from a metal flask. Her boots were propped up on a coffee table that had definitely seen better days.
"Wait," Herro said, brain finally catching up. "I have questions about how this all works. Like, what do we do when we're not on missions? What's the schedule? Do we have training? How does—"
Lyra waved her flask dismissively. "Nate handles logistics. Dean handles emotional support. Rosa handles food. Hilda handles medical. JJ handles tech. I handle keeping us from getting disbanded." She took another drink. "Ask literally anyone else."
"But you're the commander."
"Yeah, and I delegate. It's called leadership." Another drink. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with this bottle and absolutely zero responsibilities."
Herro opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Are you... is this... normal?"
A whisper came from directly beside his ear, nearly making him jump out of his skin. Rosa had somehow materialized next to him without making a sound. "Just so you know? Ms. Lyra being sober during your arrival was basically a miracle. This is... more normal."
"She was SOBER earlier?"
"Shockingly yes. I think she wanted to make a good impression." Rosa glanced at Lyra, who was now humming tunelessly to herself. "She's usually at least three drinks deep by noon. Four on Wednesdays. Don't ask why Wednesdays specifically—we don't know."
Herro felt something cold settle in his stomach. (I'm going to die. I'm definitely going to die. My commanding officer is a functional alcoholic and I put four people in the hospital and this is how it ends—)
A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and steady. Dean's voice was quiet. "Herro. Let's go. I'll show you where you'll be staying."
"But I need to—"
"What you need," Dean said gently but firmly, "is to see your room, unpack, and take a breath. The questions can wait."
Herro glanced back at Lyra, who had pulled out her phone and was now texting someone with the intense focus of the moderately drunk. Rosa had already disappeared into the kitchen, humming loudly.
"Okay," Herro said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."
The headquarters was somehow both bigger and smaller than Herro had expected. Three floors of narrow hallways, worn carpet, and doors that all looked identical except for the room numbers. The walls were painted a bureaucratic beige that suggested someone had given up on aesthetics decades ago.
Dean led the way, pointing out locations as they walked. "First floor is common areas. Kitchen, living room, Lyra's office—don't go in there unless she invites you, which she won't. Storage closets. Bathroom. The garage entrance you came through."
They climbed the stairs. The second floor hallway was quieter, with fewer doors. "Second floor is mostly Lyra's private space. Her bedroom, her training room, the armory. She lives here because rent is cheaper than trying to afford an apartment in Central Terra on our budget."
"Which is?"
"Whatever we can scrounge from mission payments and donations. We're technically government-funded but the White Lion Empire doesn't exactly prioritize Family Units in the budget." Dean's tone was matter-of-fact, no bitterness. Just stating reality. "Most of our equipment is donated or salvaged. Rosa's really good at finding stuff people throw away."
They reached the third floor. The carpet up here was even more worn, with visible patches where it had been repaired multiple times. Six doors, three on each side of the hallway.
"This is us," Dean said. "301 is mine. 302 is JJ's. 303 is Nate's. Then across the hall—304 is yours. 305 is Rosa's. 306 is Hilda's."
Herro stared at the doors. "Wait. We don't share rooms? I thought it'd be like... military barracks? Bunk beds?"
Dean smiled. "We're poor. We're not that poor."
"But there's seven of us and—"
"Lyra sleeps on the second floor, remember? And honestly, she prefers it that way. Says we're too loud." Dean gestured down the hallway. "This whole floor is basically the teenagers' domain. Lyra only comes up here if someone's dying or we're being too rowdy past midnight."
It was such a small thing. His own room. But something in Herro's chest loosened slightly at the thought. Privacy. Space. A door he could close.
Dean's expression softened like he could read Herro's thoughts. "Are you scared of yourself?"
The question was so direct, so unexpected, that Herro's automatic deflection died in his throat. "What?"
"Your Gear. Your power. Are you scared of what you can do?" Dean's grey eyes were patient, waiting.
Herro's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The hallway suddenly felt too small, the walls too close. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I am."
"Why?"
"Because—" The words stuck. Herro forced them out. "Because four people ended up in the hospital because I lost control. Because I couldn't handle some stupid bullies and I snapped and I hurt people who probably didn't deserve it and—" His breath hitched. "What if it happens again? What if next time it's someone I care about? What if I can't control it and I—"
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
Dean's smile was sad and knowing and somehow reassuring all at once. "No. But I know you're already thinking about it. You're already scared. And that's more than most people do."
Herro wanted to argue, to point out all the ways that fear wasn't enough, but Dean continued before he could.
"My Gear is called Gear-Nullify Touch," Dean said conversationally, like he was discussing the weather. "Want to know what it does?"
Herro nodded mutely.
"Exactly what it sounds like. If I touch someone's bare skin—hand, arm, face, whatever—their Gear turns off. Completely. For as long as I'm touching them, plus about thirty seconds after." Dean held up his hand, studying it. "Sounds useful, right? Perfect support Gear for a combat unit. I can neutralize enemy Gears, shut down berserkers, stop people from hurting themselves."
"That does sound useful."
"It is." Dean's voice went quiet. "It also means I'm constantly aware that I could take away the one thing that makes someone special. The thing they rely on. Their connection to Terra herself." He lowered his hand. "Every time I touch someone, there's this tiny voice in the back of my head saying 'you could take it away. You could make them normal. Powerless. Would they even be the same person without it?'"
Herro stared. He'd never thought about it that way—that someone else might carry the same weight of fear, just pointing in a different direction.
"So when you ask if you're scared of yourself?" Dean met his eyes. "I get it. I really do. And if you ever get scared of who you are... you can always count on me, I suppose." A slight smile. "I literally can't judge you for being dangerous. That would be pretty hypocritical."
Something in Herro's chest unclenched. Not entirely—the fear was still there, coiled tight around his heart—but it felt less suffocating. Less lonely.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't mention it." Dean started walking again, gesturing for Herro to follow. "Now, you said you had questions about how this all works?"
"Yeah. I don't even really know what a Family Unit is. Like... actually is." Herro fell into step beside him. "Everyone keeps saying I'm part of Ironhide now but I don't know what that means beyond 'you live here and do missions.'"
Dean was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Okay. Simplified version: Family Units are the White Lion Empire's solution to the 'problem' of Gear-bearers who don't fit the standard military mold."
"Problem?"
"Their word, not mine." Dean's tone was dry. "See, the Empire loves Gear-bearers. Terra-blessed warriors, heroes of the realm, all that propaganda. But only the right kind of Gear-bearers. Ones who follow orders. Fit into neat categories. Don't cause trouble."
"And the ones who do cause trouble?"
"Normally? Jail. Prison. Re-education camps if you're unlucky." Dean turned a corner, heading toward a narrow staircase. "But the Empire figured out something: why waste powerful Gears on rotting in a cell when you could use them? So they created Family Units. Officially called 'Rehabilitation and Reintegration Programs for At-Risk Gear-Bearers.'"
Herro's stomach twisted. "That sounds..."
"Like indentured servitude for problematic Gear-bearers who don't fit the Empire's idea of 'proper' soldiers?" Dean's voice was carefully neutral. "Because that's what it is. You mess up—commit a crime, lose control of your Gear, cause too much property damage, whatever—and you get a choice: jail time or join a Family Unit. Most people pick the Family."
"Because it's better than prison."
"Because it's marketed as better than prison. And in some ways it is—you get your own room, you're not locked up, you can theoretically leave when your sentence is complete." Dean's expression darkened slightly. "But you're still bound. Still forced to fight. Still putting your life on the line for a government that sees you as a useful problem rather than a Terran being."
The words hit Herro like a physical blow. The White Lion Empire. The same government his parents had served loyally. The same system they'd wanted him to be part of, to excel in, to bring honor to their family through.
(They made this. They made a system where people like me have to fight or rot in a cell. And I'm supposed to be grateful?)
"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.
"Yeah. Just... processing." Herro swallowed hard. "My parents were big believers in the Empire. Dad was a civil servant. Mom taught at a public school. They thought the system worked."
"Maybe it does. For some people." Dean's voice was gentle. "Just not for us."
They walked in silence for a moment, footsteps muffled by worn carpet. Herro's mind churned with the revelation, recontextualizing everything he'd experienced over the past few months. The trial. The sentence. The careful wording of "rehabilitation opportunity."
He'd been so focused on his own guilt, his own fear, that he hadn't stopped to think about the system that had pushed him into this corner. Jail or join Ironhide. Prison or fight. As if those were the only options for someone who'd made one mistake.
(One very bad mistake that put four people in the hospital, he reminded himself. Let's not pretend you're innocent here.)
But still. The bitterness was there now, a small seed of resentment taking root.
"For what it's worth," Dean said, "Ironhide isn't like other Family Units. Lyra doesn't treat us like criminals. She treats us like..." He paused, searching for the word. "Like people who screwed up and deserve a second chance. There's a difference."
"Does she though?" Herro gestured vaguely back toward where they'd left Lyra drinking. "Because she seems kind of..."
"Dysfunctional?"
"I was going to say 'actively avoiding responsibility.'"
Dean laughed. "Fair. But Lyra being a disaster doesn't mean she doesn't care. She just shows it in weird ways. Like making sure you had a successful first mission. Like not immediately kicking you out when you accidentally hospitalized half the enemy team."
"That was an accident!"
"I know. But some commanders wouldn't see it that way." Dean stopped in front of a door marked 304. "This is you."
Herro stared at the door. His door. His room. For the next however many years it took to complete his sentence.
(Home. This is home now.)
The thought was equal parts comforting and terrifying.
The door opened silently—too silently, like someone had oiled the hinges recently. Hilda, probably. She seemed like the type to notice squeaky doors and fix them without telling anyone.
Room 304 was small. Maybe ten feet by twelve, with a single window overlooking the industrial district of Central Terra. A bed frame with a thin mattress sat against one wall. A small desk with a rickety chair occupied the corner. A narrow closet with a door that didn't quite close all the way. That was it.
"Welcome home, Herro," Dean said softly.
The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. But Herro felt his throat tighten anyway.
"I'll let you settle in," Dean continued. "Dinner's probably in an hour or so, whenever Rosa finishes. Just come downstairs when you're ready." He paused in the doorway. "And Herro? You did good today. Really."
Then he was gone, door clicking shut behind him.
Herro stood in the center of his new room, taking it in. The afternoon light slanted through the window, catching dust motes in the air. The walls were the same bureaucratic beige as the rest of the building. The floor was old hardwood, scratched and worn but clean.
It was nothing like his childhood bedroom in South Terra—the posters, the trophies, the organized shelves. Nothing like the sterile holding cell he'd spent three days in after his arrest. Nothing like anywhere he'd ever lived.
It was empty. Bare. Waiting to be filled.
(This is home now. An empty room in a broken-down building with a team of traumatized teenagers and a drunk commander. This is my life.)
Herro set down his plastic bag—literally everything he owned in the world—on the bed. The bag crinkled loudly in the quiet room. Inside: two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a photograph of his parents he couldn't bring himself to look at, and the knife Nate had given him that morning.
(This morning. Was that really just this morning? It feels like years ago.)
He unpacked slowly, methodically. Clothes in the closet. Toothbrush on the desk. Knife... he wasn't sure where to put the knife. Eventually he tucked it in the desk drawer, out of sight.
The photograph stayed in the bag. He'd deal with that later. Or never. Never seemed good.
When everything was put away—a process that took maybe three minutes—Herro sat on the bed. The mattress was thin but not uncomfortable. The room was quiet except for the distant sounds of Central Terra outside: traffic, construction, the general hum of urban life.
He'd done it. Survived his first mission. Saved someone. Used his Gear without killing anyone. Been accepted—sort of—by his new team.
So why did he still feel like he was waiting for everything to fall apart?
(Because you got lucky. Because next time you might not be fast enough, controlled enough, strong enough. Because what if—)
A knock on the door interrupted his spiral. "Come in," Herro called, expecting Dean.
Instead, Nate pushed the door open, grinning. "So. What do you think?"
Relief flooded through Herro at the sight of his cousin. Someone familiar. Someone who knew him before all of this. "It's... not what I expected."
"Nothing about Ironhide is what anyone expects." Nate leaned against the doorframe, completely at ease. "But you get used to it. Eventually. Kind of."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't meant to be." Nate's grin softened into something more genuine. "Seriously though. How are you doing? First mission is always rough."
Herro thought about lying. About saying he was fine, everything was great, no problems here. But this was Nate. His cousin. One of maybe three people in the world who actually knew him.
"I'm scared," he admitted quietly. "I'm scared I'm going to mess up again. Hurt someone. Lose control."
Nate crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside him. For a moment, they just sat there in silence—two kids from South Terra who'd ended up in Central Terra through very different paths.
"Remember when we used to race to the convenience store?" Nate said suddenly. "You always said you'd win but I always got there first."
Despite everything, Herro felt a smile tug at his lips. "You cheated. You knew the shortcuts."
"That's called strategy. Not my fault you insisted on taking the main road every time." Nate's expression turned more serious. "Point is, you were always the rule-follower. The good kid. The one who did everything right. And I was the screwup who barely graduated and ended up in a Family Unit at sixteen."
"You're not a screwup—"
"Not anymore, maybe. But I was. I am. We all are, in here." Nate gestured vaguely at the room, the building, Ironhide as a concept. "That's kind of the point. We're the Gear-bearers who didn't fit the mold. Who messed up. Who needed a second chance."
"Nate—"
"Let me finish." Nate's voice was gentle but firm. "Don't think too much about your parents. Or what happened in South Terra. Or what you 'should' have been. It's in the past. You're here now. And you know what?"
"What?"
"You're alive. That's what matters." Nate suddenly grabbed Herro in a headlock, knuckling his hair roughly. "And you're stuck with me now, so deal with it, cousin."
"Get off—!" Herro yelped, squirming and failing to escape. "Nate!"
"Say you'll stop moping!"
"I'm not moping!"
"You're absolutely moping. Say it!"
"Fine! Fine! I'll stop moping!"
Nate released him, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Herro tried to glare but couldn't quite manage it, a reluctant laugh escaping instead.
The door suddenly burst open with enough force to rattle the frame. Rosa stood in the doorway, eyes wild. "Are we fighting?! I heard yelling!"
"Rosa," Nate said patiently. "Personal space."
"What's that?" Rosa bounced into the room, completely ignoring the concept of invitation. "Oh, this is nice! Small, but nice. I can help you decorate if you want! I have posters. So many posters. Hilda says I have too many posters but there's no such thing as too many posters—"
"Rosa," Herro interrupted gently. "Thank you. Maybe later?"
"Oh! Right! Yeah!" Rosa's energy was almost overwhelming in the small space. "I just wanted to say I'm super happy to have a new guy! Though I would've preferred a girl. Don't get me wrong, you seem nice, but Hilda's been with me my whole life and Lyra is... well, Lyra. It'd be nice to have another girl around who might actually want to do fun things."
"What kind of fun things?"
"I don't know! Girl things! Shopping! Makeup! Talking about boys!" Rosa paused. "Actually, I don't really care about any of those things. But it's the principle, you know?"
Nate was trying very hard not to laugh. "Rosa. Was there a point to this visit?"
"Oh! Yes!" Rosa pointed at Herro with alarming intensity. "I wanted to say: I'm glad you're here. I know you're probably feeling weird and scared and like you don't belong, but—" She hesitated, seeming to search for words. "At this point it's either be in a Family Unit or jail, right? Might as well like each other. Family is in the name."
The words hit Herro like a truck. Family is in the name. Family. When was the last time he'd had a family? Before his parents died? Before the incident? Before he'd become something dangerous and unwanted?
(Family is in the name. Family is in the name.)
"Besides," Rosa continued, oblivious to Herro's internal crisis, "we're all disasters anyway. You'll fit right in. We've got Lyra the functional alcoholic, Dean the anxiety support, Nate the overworked organizer, me the chaos gremlin, Hilda the grumpy medic, and JJ the ghost who maybe lives in the walls. You being the guilt-ridden powerhouse with control issues just completes the set!"
"That's... weirdly reassuring?"
"Right?!" Rosa beamed. "Anyway, dinner in like forty-five minutes. I'm making pasta. Hilda says I can't make octopus again so—"
"You made octopus?" Herro asked, morbidly curious.
"It had a face," Nate said flatly. "Never again."
"It was ONE TIME—"
A knock on the doorframe made everyone turn. Hilda stood there, expression unreadable as always. "Are you three done being loud?"
"We're bonding!" Rosa protested.
"You're bonding. They're being held hostage." Hilda's dark eyes fixed on Herro. "You. New kid."
"Herro," he corrected automatically, then immediately regretted speaking.
Hilda's expression didn't change. "Herro. Fine. Are you injured from the mission?"
"I—what?"
"Injured. Hurt. Bleeding. Broken bones. Concussion. Yes or no." Hilda spoke like she was reading from a checklist, which she probably was internally.
"No? I'm fine."
"Good." Hilda stared at him for one more long, uncomfortable moment. Then she turned and walked away without another word.
Herro sat very still, trying to process what had just happened. "Did I... did I do something wrong?"
Rosa giggled. "Nope! That's Hilda being nice."
"That was nice?"
"She checked if you were hurt. That means she cares." Rosa said it like it was obvious. "Hilda doesn't waste words on people she doesn't give a shit about. If she hated you, she would've just ignored you completely."
"That's a weird way to show affection."
"We're all weird here. You'll learn." Rosa glanced at Nate. "Oh! Right! We should probably mention—"
Both Rosa and Nate's expressions suddenly shifted into something resembling genuine fear. They looked at each other, having one of those silent conversations that people who've known each other too long can have.
"Herro," Nate said carefully. "Be ready for tomorrow."
"Very ready," Rosa added, equally serious.
"Why? What's tomorrow?"
They spoke in unison: "LYRA'S TRAINING."
And then they both fled. Just straight up turned and ran out of the room like their lives depended on it.
Herro sat on his bed, alone again, staring at the empty doorway.
(They're all so weird. Every single one of them. What did I sign up for?)
But despite the weirdness, despite the chaos, despite the terror of what tomorrow might bring... something warm had settled in his chest. Family is in the name. Maybe that applied to him too, eventually.
Night fell over Central Terra gradually, the industrial district's lights flickering on one by one. Herro had gone down for dinner—Rosa's pasta was surprisingly good, though the table conversation had devolved into an argument about whether dolphins or sharks would win in a street fight—and then retreated back to his room.
Now he lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to organize his thoughts. The day felt impossibly long. This morning he'd been terrified, certain he'd mess everything up. And he kind of had? But also hadn't? He'd saved JJ. Completed the mission. Been accepted by the team, in their own strange ways.
His mind drifted to the moment in the van. The feel of his Gear activating, energy flooding through his arms. The car lifting, spinning, flying. The impact against the wall. And then, a second later, the second impact—delayed, amplified, devastating.
(Two impacts. One from my hands. One from... something else. Like the force diverged. Split. Became two separate things.)
The words floated through his head, disconnected puzzle pieces looking for a pattern. Diverging. Paths. Hit. Impact. Two strikes from one source. One immediate, one delayed. One direct, one diverging from the original trajectory.
(Diverging... Impact.)
The realization crystallized like ice forming on glass. Sudden. Complete. Undeniable.
That was his Gear's name. Not something he chose. Not something he made up. It was just... there. Waiting for him to recognize it. Terra herself telling him what he already somehow knew.
Divergent Impact.
Herro sat up slowly, staring at his hands in the dim light from the window. His Gear. His power. His connection to Terra. It had a name now. A proper name. Not "that thing I do" or "my ability" but a real, official designation that meant something.
"Divergent Impact," he whispered to the empty room.
The words felt right. Like they'd always been true, and he'd just now figured it out. Dean had said Terra tells you your Gear's name. Not in words, exactly. You just... know. Feel it. Understand it on a level deeper than language.
(Divergent Impact. Two forces from one source. Immediate and delayed. Direct and divergent. That's what I am. That's what I can do.)
He said it again, louder. "Divergent Impact."
Fear and acceptance warred in his chest. This was real now. Official. He wasn't just "the kid who threw things too hard." He was Herro Touya, bearer of Divergent Impact. A proper Gear-bearer. Part of Ironhide Family Unit.
Part of a family.
The thought made something in his chest tighten. Family is in the name. Rosa's words echoed. When was the last time he'd had a family that wanted him? That didn't see him as a disappointment or a danger? His parents had loved him, but they'd also had expectations he could never meet. Dreams for him that died the day he lost control.
But Ironhide? They knew exactly what he was. They'd seen him at his worst—panicking, doubting, barely controlled. And they'd looked at him and said "Yeah, you'll do."
(Maybe that's what family really is. Not the people who want you to be perfect. The people who see you at your worst and stick around anyway.)
Herro lay back down, still thinking about his Gear's name. Divergent Impact. It fit. Split force. Delayed explosion. Two strikes where most people expected one.
Tomorrow was training. Lyra's training, specifically, which apparently was terrifying enough to make Nate and Rosa flee in genuine fear. Tomorrow he'd learn what he could really do with this power. Tomorrow he'd start figuring out how to control it, master it, make it something useful instead of dangerous.
Tomorrow he'd prove he deserved to be here. Or fail spectacularly and end up back in a cell. One or the other.
But tonight? Tonight he had a room. A bed. A team that was willing to give him a chance. A Gear with a proper name. A future that wasn't just "sitting in prison waiting to age out."
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't what his parents would have wanted. But it was his.
(Divergent Impact. That's what it's called. That's what I am.)
Herro closed his eyes, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Outside, Central Terra hummed with life. Inside, Ironhide headquarters creaked and settled, full of broken teenagers trying to build something that resembled a future.
Family is in the name.
And for the first time in months, Herro thought maybe—just maybe—he could believe that.
END OF CHAPTER 5