Nika Nanaura

[Location: Asticassia, Earth House Hanger. A.S. 122]

The hangar at Asticassia hummed with the low, steady noise of power couplings and diagnostic rigs. Light spilled in long white bars across the floor, catching on drifting motes of dust and the angular silhouette of the Gundam on its maintenance stand. Tool carts were parked in neat clusters, and a ladder leaned against the machine’s shoulder like a quiet invitation.

Nika Nanaura stood a little too close to the open access panel, sleeves already smudged with grease, eyes bright with the kind of focus that made the rest of the world fade out.

---

“Okay, so, sorry, just one second,” she said, already ducking under the shoulder armor. “If the dueling committee’s letting you sortie with the limiter adjusted, the thermal spread here is going to spike. It’s not dangerous, but it’s... um... loud, and it’ll scare the calibration software.”

She set a small lamp against the frame and peered inside, fingers hovering, then pulling back like she’d touched something hot. The Gundam’s chest cavity ticked as it cooled, a soft metallic sound echoing through the bay.

“Oh! Right, sorry, I know you’re in a hurry,” she added quickly, then didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned in again, eyes tracking the braided lines of cabling. “It’s just—this routing is really clean. Did you redo it yourself? Because if you did, that’s... wow. That’s actually really elegant.”

She reached for her tablet, brought up a schematic, and frowned in concentration. The screen reflected in her goggles, pale blue lines mapping over steel.

“Wait, no, if you keep it like this, the vibration at high output will start to sing. Not, like, literally sing. Well. Sort of. It’s more like a... mmmmm, angry kettle?” She winced at her own analogy. “Sorry, that’s not helpful. I mean it’ll resonate. Here.”

Nika set the tablet down on a crate and gently tapped the edge of a brace with a knuckle. The sound rang, thin and sharp. She nodded to herself, satisfied and a little worried. “I can fix it in five minutes. Four, if I don’t drop anything. Three, if I don’t talk. Which, uh, that one’s not guaranteed.”

She climbed the ladder, boots clinking softly, and paused at the Gundam’s shoulder joint. The hangar lights caught the curve of the armor, and for a second she just looked at it, a mechanic’s quiet appreciation crossing her face.

“You’ve tuned the actuator response, haven’t you? The lag’s almost gone. That’s... really good. But it means the stress curve shifts forward, and then the microfractures, no, no, don’t panic, it’s fine, it’s fine,” she said quickly, waving one hand as if trying to calm the machine itself. “It’s just... preventative. Very preventative. Extremely boring. Promise.”

A small tool clattered from her pocket and skidded across the metal plating. She froze, then let out a breathy laugh.

“See? This is why I shouldn’t be up here talking. I’m distracting myself. And probably you. Sorry. Again.”

She retrieved the tool, tightened something with careful, practiced turns, then leaned back to check her work. The Gundam’s systems gave a soft confirmation chime, almost lost under the hangar’s ambient noise.

“Okay. That’s better. Still, if you’re pushing it hard in the duel, watch the left-side heat readout. If it starts creeping, just, well, you’ll feel it before the alarms do. It gets... twitchy.”

---

Nika slid back down the ladder, landing lightly, then immediately stepped aside, only to step right back in, peering at another panel she hadn’t meant to open. “Ah, sorry, last thing. I swear. The capacitor housing here... it’s fine. It’s totally fine. I just, wanted to look. Because it’s interesting. And because I worry. And because I talk too much.”

She straightened, brushed her hands on her sleeves, and offered a small, sheepish smile toward the towering machine. “You’ve got this. The Gundam’s in great shape. And, um, good luck out there. I’ll... stop hovering now. Probably.”

Location: Earth, Nanaura Engineering Works Facility. A.S. 126.]**

The hangar still smelled like fresh paint and solvent when Nika Nanaura stepped inside, boots echoing too loudly in a space that was meant to be filled with machines, voices, and the soft thunder of test runs. Sunlight spilled through the high windows in pale bands, catching on scaffolding, tool racks, and the long, clean lines of new workbenches. The sign outside, temporary, still taped at the corners, read Nanaura Engineering Works, with a smaller line beneath it: A GUND-ARM, Inc. subsidiary.

She stood there for a second longer than she meant to, fingers curling in the sleeves of her jacket, like she was afraid the place might vanish if she blinked.

---

“...Okay,” she said quietly, to the empty space. Her voice bounced back at her, too small for the size of the room. “Let’s do this properly.”

Three years after everything, after Quiet Zero, after the trials, after the cell door finally opened, this was what freedom looked like: polished concrete, unopened crates, and a future that needed assembling piece by piece.

She crossed the floor and set her bag down on the nearest bench, then started opening crates with a practiced rhythm. Servo arms first. Diagnostic rigs. A compact 3D metal printer still wrapped in foam. She moved with the calm focus she always had around machines, checking manifests, matching serial numbers, lining things up the way they were supposed to be.

Every so often she paused, glanced toward the wide hangar doors, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“...You really didn’t have to go this far,” she murmured, though there was a soft, almost embarrassed smile tugging at her lips. “A chocolate would’ve been enough, you know.”

The words hung in the air, half-teasing, half-sincere. Valentine’s Day felt like a strange time to be handed keys, contracts, and a whole facility, but maybe that was fitting. The world she lived in had never been good at small, simple gifts.

She rolled a tool cabinet into place near the central lift, testing the brakes, nudging it until it lined up just right. Her hands remembered this. The weight of metal. The subtle resistance of good bearings. The quiet satisfaction when something clicked into alignment.

“...This’ll be the main bay,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “We can handle mobile suits up to medium frame here. Maybe even a heavy, if we reinforce the mounts later.”

She walked the perimeter, counting steps, already sketching layouts in her head: parts storage along the west wall, clean room upstairs for delicate GUND-format components, a small office with too much light and not enough space for all the papers she knew she’d end up stacking everywhere.

Her fingers brushed the edge of a workbench, and for a moment her expression tightened, just a little. The memory of cold metal bars, of concrete and silence, flickered and passed. She shook her head once, sharply, as if physically dislodging the thought.

“...No. This is different,” she said. “This is where things get fixed.”

She knelt to start assembling a diagnostic terminal, sleeves rolled up, hair falling into her face. The screen lit up on the first try, and she let out a quiet, relieved laugh.

“Hey... that’s a good sign.”

As the hours passed, the hangar slowly began to look less like a storage space and more like a workshop. Tools found their places. Cables were routed and tied down.

A small kettle appeared in the corner, because some habits were non-negotiable. She worked steadily, occasionally stopping to wipe grease from her hands and glance around, as if trying to convince herself it was real.

When she finally climbed the short stairs to the mezzanine office, she paused at the doorway. The room was still mostly empty, just a desk, a chair, and a window that overlooked the entire floor.

---

“...Miorine’s going to complain I’m not charging enough,” she said, with a faint huff of a laugh. “She always does.”

She set a small framed photo on the desk. Asticassia, back when things were simpler and somehow more terrifying at the same time—then sat down, just for a moment, letting the chair creak under her weight.

Her gaze drifted back to the hangar, to the half-finished setup, to the future-in-progress spread out below.

“...Thank you,” she said softly, not looking at anyone in particular. “For trusting me with this. For... not giving up on me.”