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Rain hammered relentlessly against the scrapyard, drumming against twisted metal and shattered concrete as Nickle stood frozen in place—half relieved, half stunned. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, steam faintly lifting from his drenched closed fist as the echo of the impact still rang in his ears. The wall Austedd had been blasted through lay ruined and left open with a gaping hole, a jagged wound torn clean through concrete and steel. Nickle slowly lowered his arm, rainwater streaming down his fingers as his fist trembled uncontrollably. He stared at it, then flexed his hand open… closed… open again, as if testing whether it still belonged to him.
"H—haven't used that in a… long damn while…" he muttered under his breath.
The rain swallowed his words. Shaking the lingering tension from his shoulders, Nickle snapped back to the present. His eyes darted toward the ground where his briefcase lay abandoned among puddles and scrap. He moved quickly, shoes splashing against shallow water as he scooped it up, slung the strap securely over his shoulder, and adjusted it into place. For a moment, he considered leaving—just turning around and disappearing before more trouble came crawling out of the scrapyard's shadows.
But something stopped him.
With a quiet exhale, Nickle turned back Reid his steps. He climbed the heap of twisted metal and broken machinery, rain slicking the surfaces beneath his shoes, until he reached the hole torn into the building's side. He leaned forward and peered inside.
The interior was bare—nothing but a cold, empty concrete floor littered with fresh rubble and dust. At the center of it all lay Austedd, sprawled across the ground. Bruises darkened his skin, burn marks and grazes traced across his body, and his chest rose faintly as he struggled to breathe.
"Yo… Austedd, is it?" Nickle called out, voice steady despite the ache creeping through his body. "Are you… good?"
Austedd coughed, the sound raw and wet, and slowly dragged himself into a sitting position. One hand clutched his abdomen, fingers trembling as he sucked in air through clenched teeth. He lifted his head just enough to look at Nickle, a crooked grin forming despite the blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
"D—damn…" he rasped. "You're… hella good… w—what's… what's your name?"
"Nichola," Nickle replied after a beat. "And that's, uh… all you need to know."
That was enough. Nickle turned away, sliding back down the pile of scrap and landing with a dull splash. He wasted no time, picking up his pace as he headed for the scrapyard's exit. Once clear of the heaps of metal, he reached into his briefcase, pulled out an umbrella, and snapped it open above his head. The rain softened instantly, reduced to a steady patter against the canopy as he walked.
He stretched out his free hand, letting rainwater pool against his palm before bringing it up to his wounded shoulder, using the cold to dull the stinging pain. His jaw tightened, but he kept moving.
At the scrapyard's entrance, Nickle passed another man walking in the opposite direction—also holding an umbrella. The stranger had slicked-back yellow hair streaked with black, and wore a long, flowing overcoat that swayed with each step toward the scrapyard. They didn't look at one another. Not even a glance.
And yet—
Both felt it.
A quiet certainty.That this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.
As the rain continued to fall, they disappeared in opposite directions, each carrying the weight of what was yet to come...
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~{Kanoa Street}~
By the time Nickle reached Kanoa Street, night had fully settled in.
Neon signs flickered above lively storefronts, their colors reflecting off rain-darkened pavement. Music spilled from open doors, laughter and chatter blending with the distant hum of traffic. Compared to the scrapyard, the street felt almost unreal—alive, warm, and noisy in a way that made his shoulders tense rather than relax.
Nickle slowed his pace, pulling the folded map from his pocket and glancing between it and the street ahead.
"Where the hell is Gemenic Street…?" he muttered, scanning the crowded sidewalks.
Before he could take another step, a finger lightly tapped his shoulder.
"Yo. You lookin' for the Wingarde House, huh?"
Nickle reacted instantly.
His body turned before his mind caught up—his leg snapping upward into a sharp, practiced roundhouse kick aimed straight for the stranger's head. The motion was clean, fast, and precise.
—but it stopped short.
The man raised both arms just in time, bracing and absorbing the impact with a solid block. The force pushed him back half a step, boots scraping against the pavement.
"Damn!" the man exclaimed, lowering his arms with a surprised laugh. "Nice kick! But chill—"
Nickle's foot returned to the ground just as smoothly as it had risen, his posture guarded but controlled. He studied the man carefully now—no immediate hostility, no weapon drawn.
"…I ain't your enemy," the stranger continued, tone calm and casual. "If anything, I guess you could call me your new comrade."
He hooked a thumb toward his own chest and pulled back his hood. A red cloth armband wrapped around his left arm caught the glow of a nearby streetlight—the insignia unmistakable.
The Wingarde Family.
"Sup!" the man said brightly. "Name's Arthur McAlahad—but you can call me Arty!"
He grinned openly, then tilted his head. "What's your name, bud?"
Nickle let his guard drop, just slightly. Relief washed over him, though a quiet thought lingered in the back of his mind.
That was a good block.
"Sorry for the sudden attack," Nickle said evenly. "Name's Nichola Amacaria. You can call me Nickle."
"Ah—nah, that one's on me," Arty replied easily, waving it off. "Sneakin' up on you like that wasn't exactly smart."
Then his grin widened. "Besides, I've been watching your fight back at the scrapyard. That was hella sick, man."
Nickle blinked. "You were there?"
"Sure was," Arty said with a chuckle. "Nickle, huh? That's a unique nickname—I like it. Nice to meet'cha!"
He extended his hand, offering a firm, friendly handshake.
Nickle hesitated for only a moment before accepting it. His grip was steady, his expression softening just a little.
"…Nice to meet you too," he said. "Arty."
With that, the two fell into step beside one another, heading deeper into the streets toward the Wingarde House. The noise of Kanoa Street surrounded them as they walked, conversation coming easily—small talk, light laughs, the quiet beginnings of something that felt like the start of a long road forward.
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~{Wingarde Family House}~
The two of them stopped at the edge of the courtyard.
Nickle lifted his gaze—and paused.
Before him stood what could only technically be called a house. The structure rose several stories high, a vast fusion of sleek architecture and reinforced plating, its illuminated windows and embedded lights outlining a building that looked more like a fortified headquarters than a residence. Subtle mechanical hums vibrated through the stone beneath his shoes, and distant silhouettes moved behind the glass.
"Well…" Nickle muttered, staring up at it. "House, huh?"
Arty laughed loudly beside him. "HAH! I know, right? More like a giga-mansion. Or a super base of operations. Or—hell—I don't even know what to call it!"
Nickle let out a quiet huff of amusement.
"Anyways," Arty continued, already stepping forward, "let's head inside, yeah?"
Nickle nodded, and the two made their way through the massive entrance.
The interior opened into a wide, tech-infused lobby bathed in warm lighting. Smooth metallic walls blended seamlessly with polished stone flooring, holographic panels hovering near corridors and stairwells. The space buzzed with life—Wingarde members and fresh recruits gathered in small groups, talking, laughing, exchanging introductions. Some wore boots and long coats, others carried equipment cases or training gear, the red armband of the Wingarde Family visible on nearly every arm.
Nickle stood out slightly among them—shoes instead of boots, no coat to drape over his shoulders—but no one spared him more than a passing glance.
They approached the reception area, where a young woman sat behind a sleek desk of glass and metal. She looked up as they arrived, her expression immediately brightening.
"Ah! Welcome back, Mr. Arthur," she said warmly. "It's very nice to see you again."
Her eyes then shifted to Nickle, curiosity softening her smile. "And, um… who's this fine sir?"
Nickle cleared his throat.
"Uh… Nichola. Nichola Amacaria. From Astononia City."
He reached into his briefcase, carefully retrieving the envelope he'd kept sealed the entire way. He placed the invitation letter onto the counter and slid it toward her.
"This is the invitation from the head of the Wingarde Family. I'm here to join… and be a part of it."
The receptionist's eyes widened slightly as she read the name. She looked back up at him, smiling more brightly than before.
"Ah—you're that Nichola Amacaria." She stood slightly and bowed her head. "My name is Madie. Welcome to the Wingarde Family."
She tapped a few commands into her terminal, then continued, "You'll be assigned to Section Seven, and your personal quarters will be Room 7–3."
Madie glanced between the two men and smiled. "Your roommate will be Mr. Arthur—who's standing right beside you."
"Huh!" Arty said, flashing a wide grin. "Ain't that neat? We roomies now!"
Madie reached beneath the desk and placed two keycards into Nickle's hand.
"This one is your Room 7–3 keycard. Please keep it with you at all times."
She placed the second card beside it. "And this is your Rookie & New Recruit Facilities Keycard. It grants access to training rooms, simulation chambers, and other areas available to new members."
Finally, she handed him a folded red cloth armband. A white pigeon emblem rested at its center, with the number 7 marked near the top corner.
"Please wear this both inside and outside the Wingarde Family House," Madie explained clearly. "It lets everyone know you're a member of Section Seven of the Wingarde Family."
She bowed politely once more. "Thank you—and welcome."
Nickle carefully gathered everything she had given him. He nodded respectfully.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
Arty leaned in, still grinning. "Pretty official, huh?"
Nickle smirked faintly. "Yeah. Pretty neat, indeed."
He offered Madie a small bow in return, then turned toward Arty. "Well then… lead the way."
"Alrighty!" Arty replied, already moving, excitement clear in his stride.
Nickle followed behind, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he watched Arty practically bounce forward.
"Enjoy!" Madie called out after them. "And once again—welcome to the Wingarde Family!"
"Thank you, Madie!" both Nickle and Arty replied, their voices fading as they disappeared deeper into the heart of the Wingarde Family House.
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~{Northwest Wing, en route to Section 7}~
The corridor gradually shifted in character as Nickle followed Arty deeper into the Wingarde House. The air grew warmer, the lighting softer, the polished floor reflecting long ribbons of light that curved toward the northwest wing. Their footsteps echoed at different rhythms—Arty's boots confident and loud, Nickle's shoes lighter, more restrained as they also passed by some members as well.
Arty walked backward for a few steps, hands laced behind his head as he spoke, clearly enjoying the temporary role of tour guide. "Alright, quick rundown before we get there. Wingarde House has five wings in total."
Nickle listened quietly, eyes moving from signage to ceiling arches as Arty continued.
"East wing covers Sections One and Three. West wing's got Sections Two and Four. Northeast wing holds Sections Five and Six." Arty pivoted and pointed ahead with a grin. "And this—this is the Northwest wing. Brand new. Section Seven's already finished, and Section Eight's scheduled to be made soon."
Nickle hummed thoughtfully, signaling he was following along.
"And then," Arty added, voice lifting with emphasis, "there's the North wing. The important one. Lounge and break rooms, meeting halls, science and tech labs, arsenal, armory, testing floors, simulation rooms—yeah, plural—and all the main offices." He leaned closer, lowering his voice theatrically. "Even the Wingarde Head's office is there."
Nickle tilted his head, a small smile forming. "That actually sounds… surprisingly accommodating."
"Riiiight?" Arty laughed, flashing a bright, almost boyish grin. "As long as we do our jobs and survive our missions, it's pretty much paradise for rookies like us."
They slowed to a stop.
"Oo—here we are!" Arty spun on his heel and flared his arms outward in exaggerated presentation. "Section Seven!"
Nickle stepped forward—and paused.
The space opened into a wide, circular lounge that immediately radiated warmth. The lighting was amber-toned and indirect, casting soft halos along the curved walls. Embedded into the polished floor was a massive, stylized numeral 7, its surface faintly luminous.
Eight doors were evenly spaced around the perimeter, each leading to a living quarter designed for two occupants. Modular panels and adaptive fixtures hinted at full customization—walls that could change tone, fixtures that could be rearranged, space that could be made personal. One door stood out subtly: Room 7-1. The placement alone marked it as different.
"Room One's always for the Section Captain and Vice-Captain," Arty explained casually. "Same rule applies to every other section."
Nickle took a moment to absorb it all—the symmetry, the quiet hum of systems behind the walls, the sense that this wasn't just housing, but a controlled, living ecosystem.
"Yo! Nicky!" Arty called out, already halfway across the lounge. He jerked his thumb toward one of the doors. "This is us. Let's move!"
Nickle blinked and followed, his expression briefly puzzled. "Alright, alright… wait—Nicky?"
Arty shot him a sideways look, lips curling into a teasing smirk. "What? Just another nickname. Why—don't like it?"
Nickle considered that as he walked. "I don't really mind. Just… not used to it."
They reached the door and stepped inside together.
"Pfft—what, you shy, man?" Arty's laughter echoed as the door slid shut behind them.
But just before it fully closed, another door opened across the lounge.
Room 7-1.
A girl stepped out—tall, with long, dirty-blonde hair that fell in wild, dense curls down her back. She adjusted her coat as she exited, boots striking the floor with purpose. Her gaze shifted briefly—and caught Nickle in that final sliver before the door sealed.
For half a second, her eyes lingered.
Then she turned away, heading down the corridor, the lounge returning to its quiet symmetry as if nothing had happened at all.
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~{Inside Room 7-3, Nickle & Arty's Room}~
The door to Room 7-3 slid shut behind them with a soft pneumatic hiss.
Nickle stepped inside alongside Arty, immediately taking in the layout of their shared living space. The room opened into a compact yet comfortable living area, warm-toned lights embedded neatly into the ceiling, giving the place a welcoming glow. A modest couch faced a low table, with a wall-mounted display dormant for now. To the side sat a small but fully equipped kitchen, its counters spotless, metallic surfaces reflecting the light faintly. Beyond that was a clean bathroom, its door slightly ajar, steamless and pristine—clearly well-maintained.
Two identical doors stood opposite one another at the far end of the room.
Arty raised a hand and pointed to the door on the left."Alright, so—this one's mine." Then, with a quick flick of his finger, he pointed to the door on the right."And that—" he grinned, "—is yours, Nicky."
Nickle acknowledged him with a firm nod.
"Oh, and quick tour rundown," Arty continued casually, already stretching as if the day had finally caught up to him. "Living room—warm as heck. Bathroom—super clean, don't worry. Kitchen's free-use. You can cook whatever you want as long as you clean your dishes and mess." He jerked a thumb toward the cupboards. "Complimentary ingredients in the fridge, easy-to-make stuff in the cabinets. Dishes are in the bottom drawer."
Nickle glanced briefly toward the kitchen, mentally noting the details.
"Anyways," Arty yawned, rubbing the back of his neck, "I'm gonna hit the hay. Gotta be ready for tomorrow."
Nickle paused. "Tomorrow?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "What's happening?"
"Oh—right." Arty turned halfway toward his room, flashing a playful wink."Section 7's testing and training day starts tomorrow. Better get up bright and early, yo!"
With that, he pushed open his bedroom door."G'night, Nicky, my buddy!"
"Yeah… good night, Arty," Nickle replied, a small smile forming as the door closed behind his new roommate.
Left alone, Nickle stood still for a moment.
The Wingarde House was pretty quiet here—no shouting, no alarms, just a low ambient hum running through the walls. He took a short walk around the living room and kitchen, his shoes making soft taps against the polished floor, before finally turning toward his own door.
Nickle entered his bedroom.
It was clean, modern, and warm, designed with simplicity in mind. A single bed rested neatly against the right wall, its dark sheets perfectly tucked. On the left side stood a long desk paired with a comfortable chair, the surface empty and waiting. Beside it was a compact closet, its doors smooth and unmarked.
He walked over and gently set his slightly damp briefcase onto the desk, placing his folded umbrella beside it.
Opening the case, he carefully removed its contents.
First, the same letter—worn at the edges, folded and unfolded countless times. His mother's handwriting stared back at him.
Next, his mother's necklace. Simple. Familiar.
Then, finally, a family photograph.
Young Nichola stood between his parents in the picture, smiling openly—freely—in a way he hadn't realized he no longer did. His chest tightened.
For a moment, he just stared.
A tear slipped free before he noticed it. He wiped it away quickly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"…I really do miss you, both of you..."
He placed the letter, the necklace, and the photo neatly together on one side of the desk, arranging them with care. After a short pause, he looked at his torn shoulder of his shirt and muttered "Damn... need to get this fixed soon, thankfully got some spares." as he then he reached back into the briefcase, pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste.
With one last glance around the room, Nickle stepped back out, heading toward the bathroom.
Tomorrow would be important.
And for the first time in a long while—he wasn't facing it alone.
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