Herro Touya was having the best sleep he'd experienced in months.
No nightmares about the incident. No anxiety dreams about courtrooms or disappointed family members. No waking up in a cold sweat wondering if today was the day he'd lose control again. Just deep, peaceful unconsciousness—the kind of sleep that came from complete exhaustion and the weird relief of finally knowing where he stood in the world.
His new mattress wasn't great. The room was unfamiliar. The sounds of Central Terra filtering through his window were nothing like South Terra's quieter suburbs. But for the first time since his parents died, Herro felt like he could actually rest.
Which made it extra jarring when someone grabbed his shoulder and shook it.
"Hey. New kid. Wake up."
Herro made a noise that might have been words if words were made of sleepy confusion and buried his face deeper into the pillow.
The shaking stopped. Footsteps retreated slightly. Blessed silence returned.
Then the shaking came back, harder this time. "Touya. Breakfast. C'mon."
Herro's brain registered that someone was talking to him. His body, however, had other priorities. Mainly: continuing to sleep for the next seventeen years.
"Mngh," he said eloquently.
"Are you serious right now?" The voice was female, familiar, and increasingly annoyed. Hilda. That was Hilda's voice. Why was Hilda in his room?
(Wait. Girl in room. Should probably wake up for that.)
His body disagreed. Sleep was happening. Sleep was continuing to happen. Nothing short of a natural disaster could—
The entire bed frame shook violently. Herro's eyes snapped open to find Hilda gripping the metal frame with both hands, her expression somewhere between exasperated and murderous.
"HERRO TOUYA IF YOU DON'T WAKE UP RIGHT NOW I'M THROWING THIS BED OUT THE WINDOW WITH YOU STILL IN IT!"
Herro bolted upright so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "I'M UP! I'M AWAKE! WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
Hilda released the bed frame, crossing her arms. Morning sunlight streamed through the window behind her, making her dark hair catch the light. She was already dressed in black cargo pants and a grey tank top, looking significantly more alert than any Terran being had a right to be at—Herro glanced at his phone—seven in the morning.
"Breakfast," Hilda said flatly. "Dean makes it in thirty minutes. Lyra's training thirty minutes after that."
Herro's sleep-addled brain tried to do the math. Seven... plus thirty... carry the one... wait, no—
He actually raised his hands and started counting on his fingers.
Hilda's eye twitched. "EIGHT. EIGHT O'CLOCK. TRAINING IS AT EIGHT. HOW IS BASIC MATH THIS HARD FOR YOU?!"
"I just woke up!" Herro protested, running a hand through his messy hair. "Give me a second to—wait. Eight? That's really early."
"It's the military. What did you expect?" Hilda glanced around his room, taking in the stark emptiness. Bed. Desk. Window. Nothing else. Her expression shifted slightly—not quite concern, but something adjacent to it. "Why's your room so empty? You got like... nothing."
Herro followed her gaze, suddenly self-conscious. "My parents died when I was fourteen. Moved in with my aunt and uncle in South Terra after that. Most of my stuff is still at their place—I was supposed to go back for it but then..." He trailed off, the memory of his arrest still fresh. "Then I got arrested before I could retrieve anything. So this is basically it."
The silence that followed was profoundly uncomfortable. Hilda stared at him, clearly trying to figure out how to respond to that information. Social grace was not her strong suit.
"...Oh," she said finally. "That sucks."
"Yeah."
More awkward silence. Herro became acutely aware that he was sitting in bed in his wrinkled sleep clothes while a girl stood in his room. Technically not his room since it belonged to the government and he was just borrowing it as part of his sentence, but still. A girl. In his space. This had never happened before.
(Should I say something? Is this weird? This feels weird. Why is she just standing there?)
Hilda seemed to come to some kind of internal decision. Without another word, she turned and walked out, closing the door behind her with a decisive click.
Herro sat there for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.
(What just happened?)
He shook his head and scrambled out of bed, grabbing his clothes from the plastic bag. The purplish-black jersey his aunt had bought him—one of the few things he'd managed to keep. Black cargo pants that were slightly too big but functional. And his signature red-white cap, worn and faded but familiar.
As he dressed, Herro caught his reflection in the window glass. He looked... tired. Dark circles under his eyes despite the good sleep. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much weight for too long. But there was something else too. Something that hadn't been there before.
Hope, maybe. Or at least the possibility of it.
(Family is in the name. Maybe I can actually do this.)
He adjusted his cap, took a breath, and headed for the door.
Herro stepped into the third-floor hallway to find Hilda waiting by the stairs, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. She glanced up when he emerged, expression unreadable.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yeah. Sorry about the whole... sleeping thing."
"Whatever. You were tired." She pushed off the wall and started down the stairs. "Just don't make it a habit. Lyra hates waiting."
Herro hurried to catch up, falling into step beside her. The stairs creaked under their combined weight, old wood protesting the early morning movement. He searched desperately for something to say—some way to make a good impression after the awkward room interaction.
"So, uh... how long have you been with Ironhide?" he tried.
"Months."
"And you like it here?"
"It's fine."
"Cool, cool. That's... that's good. Fine is good."
Silence. Hilda didn't even look at him, just kept walking with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly where they were going and didn't need company to get there.
(This is going great. Really nailing this whole 'making friends' thing.)
They reached the second-floor landing. Herro could hear movement from somewhere down the hall—probably Lyra's room, or maybe the training area Hilda had mentioned. The sound of his own footsteps seemed too loud in the quiet building.
"Where in South Terra are you from?" Hilda asked suddenly.
Herro perked up immediately. "Oh! South Valor district, near the old market. You?"
"Same area. Different neighborhood."
"No way! That's—" He tried for a joke, desperate to keep the conversation going. "Guess we're basically neighbors! Like, neighbor-neighbors. Neighborhood neighbors. From the same... place."
Hilda stopped walking and stared at him. "Did you just have a stroke?"
Herro wanted to sink through the floor and disappear into the Terra's core.
"...Maybe."
"Hm." Hilda resumed walking, and Herro couldn't tell if that was a good 'hm' or a 'this guy is hopeless' hm.
They descended the stairs to the first floor in silence. Herro had officially given up on making a good impression. He'd tried. He'd failed spectacularly. Time to accept defeat and just exist quietly in Hilda's general vicinity without embarrassing himself further.
Then Hilda spoke again. "Saving JJ yesterday was cool."
Herro nearly tripped on the last step. "What?"
"The mission. Quick thinking. Could've gone bad but you kept it together." She glanced at him, and for the first time her expression wasn't hostile or annoyed. Just... neutral. Maybe even slightly approving. "Your Gear's kinda awesome, by the way. Punching an entire car away is certainly and way to say hi I guess."
Wait. Was Hilda complimenting him? Was this happening?
"I—thanks? Your Gear is amazing though. You tured into metal and jumped through a truck roof. That was the coolest thing I've ever seen."
Hilda actually looked surprised. Genuinely, visibly surprised. "You think so?"
"Yeah! I mean, it's incredible. You're like a living weapon. In a good way! Not like a—I mean—" Herro scrambled to recover before he said something stupid again.
"...Huh." Hilda turned away, but not before Herro caught what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Thanks."
They walked in more comfortable silence after that. Herro felt like he'd somehow stumbled through a minefield and miraculously avoided all the explosives. A tentative connection, maybe. Or at least less active hostility.
"Why does Dean cook though?" Herro asked as they approached the kitchen area. "I thought—"
"Family Units aren't just fighters," Hilda interrupted. "We live here. Someone's gotta cook, clean, handle medical, do the boring shit. We divvy it up."
"Lyra mentioned that yesterday but it was kind of vague."
"Lyra doesn't pay attention to anything that isn't fighting or drinking." Hilda's tone was matter-of-fact, no judgment. "She was right about me handling medical, but only technically. I'm still learning. Mostly just first aid and keeping idiots from bleeding out."
"And Rosa?"
"Team fighter and basically our mascot. She's got social skills, so she handles the public-facing stuff. Makes us look good to civilians so they keep donating." Hilda paused. "Dean's our scout and cook. He's got crazy good mastery of the Seeing application."
"Seeing?"
"You'll learn later."
Herro filed that away for future investigation. "But Rosa cooks, right? Last night she made—"
"No." Hilda's voice went sharp. "Rosa does NOT cook. She tries. She fails. Dean does the actual cooking. Don't tell Rosa she's terrible directly or she'll cry and then I'll have to deal with it."
"Got it. Dean cooks. Rosa... tries."
"JJ handles tech, intel, mission planning. He also keeps the base clean since he doesn't go on missions unless absolutely necessary. Lyra forced him into the cleaning part." Hilda glanced at him. "Nate's technically vice-commander. He handles all the administrative crap Lyra can't be bothered with. Which is most of it."
They reached the first floor, and Herro could already hear Rosa's voice echoing from the kitchen area. Loud, cheerful, and definitely pestering someone about something.
Hilda sighed. "She's awake."
"Is that bad?"
"Depends on how much coffee she's had."
They rounded the corner into the kitchen, and Herro got his first real look at Ironhide's domestic setup. The kitchen was small but functional—older appliances that had seen better days, mismatched cabinets, a table that seated maybe eight people if everyone squeezed. Dean stood at the stove, calmly cooking while Rosa hovered over his shoulder like an overeager apprentice.
"Let me help! Please! I can chop things!" Rosa was practically vibrating with energy.
Dean didn't even look up from whatever he was stirring. "Rosa, no."
"But I—"
"Last time you 'helped,' you somehow set water on fire."
"That was ONE TIME and it wasn't even my fault—"
Hilda crossed the kitchen in three strides, grabbed Rosa's face with one hand, and physically turned her head away from Dean.
"Leave him alone," Hilda said flatly.
Rosa accepted this with zero resistance, like it was a completely normal occurrence. "Fine..."
Herro watched the interaction with growing fascination. They really didn't look alike at all—
one could obviously tell they were related....but identical twins was not the case
Rosa with her shorter hair in buns and bright eyes, Hilda with her longer ponytail and permanent scowl. How had they ever been identical?
Rosa noticed his staring and grinned. "We used to look exactly the same when we were kids. Same face, same hair, same everything. But people Hilda beat up kept targeting me for revenge thinking I was her, so I started changing how I looked. Grew my hair out, different clothes, that whole thing."
"Wait, beat up? Like—"
Dean's voice drifted over from the stove, casual as anything. "Hilda's an infamous delinquent from South Terra. You're from the same region—surprised you don't know."
Herro's brain stuttered to a halt. Delinquent? Hilda was aggressive, sure, but infamous seemed like a stretch. Unless...
Wait.
He searched his memories. There had been rumors back in South Valor. Whispers about a girl from a different neighborhood. The Terran Tiger. Some kind of urban legend about an unbeatable fighter who'd take on entire groups alone and walk away without a scratch.
But that was supposed to be just a story. An exaggeration. The kind of thing bored teenagers made up to sound cool.
"That's Hilda!" Rosa chirped happily. "'Tiger' was her nickname!"
"WHAT?!"
Hilda looked defensive. "It's not a big deal."
"Not a—the Terran Tiger fought ONE HUNDRED guys at once!"
"Technically it was like seventy-something," Rosa corrected cheerfully. "But who's counting?"
Herro stared at Hilda with new eyes. The aggressive posture. The absolute confidence. The way she'd jumped through that truck roof yesterday without hesitation. It all made sense now.
(That makes so much sense and also I'm going to die living here.)
"What's that look supposed to mean?" Hilda demanded.
"Nothing! Just—makes sense! You're very... capable!" Herro scrambled for safer ground. "Where's everyone else?"
Rosa bounced over to the table, grabbing plates with alarming enthusiasm. "JJ's probably in his room being disgusted by the concept of breakfast together. Lyra's likely drunk somewhere. And Nate's trying to make her functional."
"Is that... normal?"
All three of them—Dean, Rosa, and Hilda—answered simultaneously: "Yes."
Herro decided not to dig deeper into that particular rabbit hole.
Dean finished whatever he was cooking and started serving plates. The smell hit Herro like a physical force—eggs, some kind of meat, toast, and something else he couldn't identify but desperately wanted to eat. His stomach growled loudly enough that Rosa giggled.
"Someone's hungry!"
"I haven't eaten since yesterday morning," Herro admitted, accepting a plate from Dean. He took a bite and his eyes widened. "Holy—this is really good!"
"Dean's the best cook in Central Terra! Probably! I haven't tried everyone's cooking but I'm confident!" Rosa was already halfway through her own plate.
Hilda made a noncommittal sound. "It's fine."
Dean smiled gently. "Thank you, Hilda."
Herro glanced between them, confused. Why did Dean sound so genuinely grateful when Hilda had basically just called his cooking mediocre?
(Oh. Wait. That's how Hilda gives compliments. 'Fine' means 'this is amazing.' Got it.)
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
Herro looked up to find JJ standing in the kitchen doorway like a ghost that had manifested from pure social awkwardness. He was pale, thin, and looked like he hadn't seen sunlight in approximately three years. His dark eyes swept the room with the detached interest of someone observing an experiment.
"Food ready?" JJ asked.
Dean handed him a plate without comment.
JJ accepted it, turned, and vanished back into the hallway at a speed that shouldn't have been Terranly possible.
"Does he always do that?" Herro asked.
"Yes," everyone said again.
The sound of shuffling footsteps preceded Lyra's arrival. Nate appeared first, looking tired but functional, physically pushing their commander into the kitchen. Lyra moved like a zombie—slow, uncoordinated, and clearly suffering from the kind of hangover that made existence itself painful.
"Why is it so bright?" Lyra mumbled, shielding her eyes. "Who made the sun loud as shit?"
"That's not how senses work," Nate said patiently.
"Don't care. Still hate it."
Herro couldn't help staring. In yesterday's adrenaline-fueled chaos, he hadn't really looked at Lyra. But now, in the morning light, he could see just how imposing she was. Tall—easily six feet or more. Muscular in a way that suggested decades of training. Her prosthetic left arm caught the light, metal gleaming. She looked like she could break a Terran being in half without using her Gear.
Which, according to Dean, she didn't even have.
Lyra's eyes snapped open and fixed on Herro with predatory precision. "Stop staring."
"I wasn't—"
She reached out and flicked him in the forehead. Not hard, but enough to sting. "Liar."
Rosa immediately launched into conversation, bouncing over to Lyra with boundless energy. "Ms. Lyra! Good morning! Did you sleep well? I made—well, Dean made—breakfast! It's really good! Also can we talk about—"
Lyra grabbed Rosa's entire face with one hand. "Shh."
"Mmph?"
"Inside thoughts. Use them."
Rosa was released and actually managed to be quieter for approximately five seconds before starting again. "...Maybe go easy on Herro today? Since it's his first time and—"
Everyone else carefully did NOT say the word 'training.' It hung in the air like a bomb they were all trying to avoid.
Herro, in his infinite wisdom, did not pick up on this. "Why won't anyone say training?"
The entire team rounded on him.
"SHUT UP!"
Too late. Lyra's eyes snapped fully open, hangover forgotten. A predatory grin spread across her face—the kind of smile a shark might give right before eating something.
"Training," she said slowly, savoring the word. "Right. I haven't properly trained you kids in weeks." She stood up, and somehow she looked ten years younger. "Everyone. Second floor. Training room. Now."
The collective groan from the team was like something out of a horror movie.
The walk up to the second floor felt like a death march.
Everyone trudged up the stairs with the resigned energy of condemned prisoners heading to execution. Rosa dragged her feet. Dean moved with quiet acceptance. Hilda's expression was stoic but her shoulders were tense. Even Nate looked grim.
Herro leaned toward his cousin, whispering. "Why is everyone so scared? It's just training, right?"
Nate's response was rapid and quiet. "Lyra's a veteran of the Second and Third Terran World Wars. She's been fighting longer than we've been alive. She doesn't train people—she tries to recreates battlefield conditions."
Herro's brain processed this information. "Wait, those wars ended decades ago. How old is—"
Nate grabbed his arm with genuine panic. "Do NOT finish that sentence."
"But if she fought in—"
"SHUT. UP."
Lyra's head turned. Not her body. Just her head, rotating with the slow precision of a predator identifying prey. "Did someone just ask how old I am?"
Herro froze, terror locking his joints.
JJ appeared from literally nowhere, falling into step beside them. "He did. Asked Nate to confirm the math."
"JJ!" Herro yelped. "Why would you—WHERE DID YOU EVEN COME FROM?!"
"I've been here the whole time." JJ was already walking away, phone in hand, completely unconcerned with the chaos he'd created.
Lyra's predatory smile widened. "Step forward, Touya."
The team immediately shifted into funeral mode.
"It was nice knowing you, Herro!" Rosa said mournfully.
"You seemed like a good person," Dean added.
Nate gripped his shoulder. "Try not to die. I don't want to explain to your aunt."
"Don't be a wimp about it," Hilda said, which was probably her version of encouragement.
JJ's voice drifted back from wherever he'd disappeared to. "Statistically speaking, you have a 73% chance of survival. Those are decent odds."
"DECENT?!"
Hilda leaned toward Nate. "Your cousin's an idiot."
"He's just ignorant," Nate corrected. "There's a difference."
Dean shook his head. "Not when it comes to Lyra."
They reached the second floor. The hallway was different here—wider, with fewer doors. One of them had "TRAINING ROOM" stenciled on it in faded paint. The sounds coming from inside suggested movement, impact, the hum of equipment.
Herro stood before those doors and realized he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake.
"Come on, kid." Lyra stretched, her prosthetic arm whirring slightly with the movement. "Let's see what you're actually made of."
The training room doors opened with a creak that sounded like the gates of hell.
Inside was... actually pretty normal? Large space, maybe forty feet by fifty, with worn mats covering most of the floor. Training equipment lined the walls—weights, practice weapons, what looked like reinforced punching bags. The ceiling was high, with exposed beams and industrial lighting. Everything was clearly old and well-used, but functional.
It looked like a gym. A military gym, sure, but just a gym.
So why did Herro feel like he was walking into a slaughterhouse?
Lyra's entire demeanor shifted the moment she crossed the threshold. Gone was the hungover zombie from breakfast. This was a different person—focused, alert, dangerous. This was her domain, and everyone in it existed at her mercy.
"Alright." Lyra rolled her shoulders, facing Herro. "New kid goes first. Let's see what Divergent Impact actually does."
Herro's heart stopped. "How did you—"
"You figured it out last night, didn't you?" Lyra's smile was knowing. "Terra told you. Usually happens after your first real use of a Gear. You get this look—like something clicked into place. I saw it on your face when you came down for breakfast."
Herro nodded mutely.
"Good." Lyra's grin turned sharp. "Now show me what it can do. And don't hold back."
"I don't really know how to—"
"Then you're about to learn." She gestured to the open floor. "Come on. Hit me. Full power. I can take it."
(She's serious. She actually wants me to hit her. With my Gear. The Gear that threw a car.)
"Any day now, kid."
Herro looked back at his team. They'd arranged themselves along the wall like spectators at a boxing match.
Hilda gave a tiny nod.
Rosa had her hands pressed together in prayer.
Nate just mouthed "Sorry."
Dean offered a gentle smile. "You'll be fine."
JJ was on his phone, ignoring everything with the dedication of someone who'd seen this show before.
Herro turned back to Lyra. She stood in the center of the mat, patient and predatory, waiting for him to make the first move.
(I'm going to die. This is how I die. First mission went well but I'm going to die in training.)
"Whenever you're ready, Touya," Lyra said, and somehow that made it worse.
Herro took a breath. Stepped forward. Felt Terran Energy beginning to pool in his arms—that familiar, terrifying sensation of power waiting to be unleashed.
Divergent Impact.
His Gear. His responsibility. His chance to prove he belonged here.
He raised his fists.
Lyra's smile widened.
And the real training began.
END OF CHAPTER 6