Once, roughly fifteen years earlier, Kenta had a happy-go-lucky kind of attitude toward most things in his life. He got along fairly well with the other children his age without a lot of strife and accepted trouble as it came to him, so long as no one damaged his toy robots. He loved tinkering with the scrap parts from his uncles lab and often cobbled together various little mechs to assist in bringing him sheets of paper, or a pencil and pen. But anyone who threatened or even physically assaulted them would arouse an uncommon frustration within the boy that would eventually help shape his future years. After his uncles death Kenta grew into a more brooding young man and often spent his time sequestered away, looking over the left over charts and displays and attempting to come to unders