The next morning, Kovacs awoke to the sound of crying and shouting, piercing the stillness of dawn. His eyes blinked open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the gaps in the makeshift shelter. The clang of metal tools and low hum of the mechs had been replaced by a different kind of chaos—one filled with desperation and grief.

He groaned as he pushed himself upright, feeling a sharp cramp in his hip. The pain was a familiar one, a dull throb that had worsened from the long march the day before. He winced, stretching his leg gingerly, then peered out from where he’d been sleeping near the mechs.

Outside, a crowd had gathered, spilling across the clearing. Refugees—men, women, children—many of them visibly injured and clearly starving. The sight was gut-wrenching: hollow-eyed adults carrying limp, malnourished bodies, soot-covered faces streaked with tears, and wounded limbs hastily wrapped in bloodied rags.

Kovacs grabbed his jacket and limped out into the cold morning air, his hip protesting with each step. The scene was worse up close. A group of med techs was working frantically, trying to triage the worst cases. A frail-looking woman, her hair matted with dirt and sweat, was leaning over a young child with severe burns on her arms and legs. Nearby, another child, barely old enough to walk, sat shivering, a deep gash visible on his forehead.

"God," Kovacs muttered, his throat tightening at the sight of the children. He wasn’t a medic, but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. With a deep breath, he forced himself forward, pushing past the bodies and crouching down beside one of the med techs.

"What happened here?" he asked, voice low.

The med tech, a young woman with dark circles under her eyes, barely glanced at him. "Shelling," she said tersely, hands moving quickly to clean the burns on the child in front of her. "They were caught in the crossfire. Most of them lost everything."

Kovacs' jaw tightened. His gaze moved across the makeshift medical area. It was clear they were low on everything—bandages, antiseptics, painkillers. He felt a surge of frustration at his own helplessness. But then his hand instinctively reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small bottle of pain medication he’d been rationing for himself. He had only a few pills left, and each one was precious—needed to dull the pain that haunted him day and night.

He looked at the bottle, then back at the children, the burns on their thin bodies, the ragged gasps of pain escaping from their lips. It was no choice at all.

Kovacs fished out the bottle and held it out to the med tech. She paused, her eyes flicking to the pills, then back to him, unsure.

"Take it," he said, pushing the bottle into her hands. "It’s not much, but it’ll help with the worst of the pain."

The med tech looked at him, her expression a mix of surprise and gratitude. "Are you sure? You look like you could use it yourself."

Kovacs gave a faint, bitter smile. "I’ve had pain almost all my life. I can live through it. They can’t."

The med tech nodded slowly, taking the bottle. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft, touched with exhaustion. "It’ll help a lot. You don’t know how much."

Kovacs limped back to the mechs, every step a reminder of the pain he’d chosen to endure. The camp was buzzing with activity as people tried to tend to the wounded and find food, but Kovacs’ focus was singular: getting these mechs into fighting shape.

The machines stood in a ragged line, battered and neglected. Kovacs surveyed the rusted frames and cracked armor plates. His gut told him that getting even one of them fully operational would be a miracle. With a sigh, he grabbed a crowbar and pried open the access panel on one of the *Roundheads*. Inside was chaos: frayed wires, burnt-out circuits, and leaking hydraulic lines.

"Alright, let’s get to work," he muttered to himself. He rummaged through the pile of spare parts nearby—bits of mismatched armor, lengths of twisted wiring, and random metal scraps that seemed more likely to fall apart than hold anything together.

Using makeshift tools and whatever materials he could find, Kovacs began the arduous process of patching up the mechs. It was all improvised—sealing ruptured lines with scraps of metal, reinforcing joints with salvaged bolts, and bypassing damaged circuits with lengths of spare wiring.

It was a grind, but Kovacs fell into a rhythm. He ignored the throbbing pain in his hip, his fingers moving steadily as he reconnected loose wires and welded broken components back together. Then, something unexpected happened. A strange sense of satisfaction welled up inside him as he made progress—a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Suddenly, his HUD flickered to life, and a notification flashed across his vision:

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[System Notification]

Skill Learned: Jury Rigging 1

Description: You have mastered the basics of improvisational repair. You can now fix mechs and machinery with whatever materials are available, albeit temporarily.

Award: 200 Points for Self-Learning

Kovacs paused, blinking in surprise. He hadn’t expected the system to reward him for this. It was a hard-won, improvised skill—born of necessity rather than design. He quickly glanced at his point total, which had increased to 712. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a small victory in the middle of this chaotic battlefield.

“Not bad,” he muttered, a hint of a smile forming on his lips. The added points were a welcome surprise, and he knew they could be useful when he next had access to a terminal. But right now, he had to focus on the task at hand.

The *Roundhead* was starting to show signs of life. Its servos moved with slightly less resistance, and its targeting systems, while still outdated, were coming back online. The repairs weren’t pretty, but they were functional—good enough for a fight, if the militia needed one.

Just as Kovacs was tightening the last bolt on the mech’s knee joint, Prentis approached, his expression a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. “How’s it going, Kovacs? Making progress?”

Kovacs straightened up, wincing slightly as his hip protested. “Yeah,” he said, wiping grime from his hands. “These mechs are in terrible shape, but I’m getting somewhere. I’ve got this one moving again, at least.”

Prentis surveyed the mech, eyebrows raised. “Damn, I didn’t think you’d actually get any of them running. I mean, look at these things—they’re practically relics.”

Kovacs allowed himself a brief, tired grin. “Relics, sure. But even relics can fight if you know how to coax them back to life.”

Prentis shook his head, a mixture of admiration and worry on his face. “I’m impressed, but I’ve got to say—I don’t like this, Kovacs. The more you fix, the more valuable you become to them. You really think they’ll just let us walk away after this?”

Kovacs met Prentis’ gaze, his expression hardening. “I know the risks. But we need these mechs operational. If a fight comes—and you know it will—we’ll need all the firepower we can get. This is the only way we stand a chance.”

Prentis ran a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “Just be careful, alright? These militia guys are desperate. They might decide they need a mechanic more than they need to keep their word.”

Kovacs nodded, returning to his work. “I’ll be careful, Prentis. But for now, I’ve got to keep going.”

Prentis watched him for a moment longer, then sighed. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

Kovacs chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, it’s kept me alive this long.”

Prentis gave a slight smile, shaking his head before turning to leave. Kovacs glanced back at the *Roundhead*, feeling a renewed sense of determination. The mechs weren’t perfect, but they were better than before. He could keep pushing forward—one bolt, one patch, one improvised fix at a time.

***

Captain Hale stood at the edge of the makeshift command post, arms crossed as he watched Kovacs work on the ancient mechs. From where he stood, Hale could see the man’s movements—quick, precise, like someone who had done this a thousand times before. It was impressive, no doubt. But it was also troubling.

"Do you think it’s him?" Hale asked quietly, glancing sideways at the unit’s lead technician, Tanner, a grizzled veteran with silver hair and a cynical edge to his voice.

Tanner squinted through a pair of binoculars at Kovacs, then lowered them with a grunt. "I’ll be a blue-balled badger if it isn’t. Whoever he is, he’s got hands of gold. I’ve seen him turn those rust buckets into something that almost resembles a fighting mech."

Hale let out a slow breath, his face lined with the weight of command. "Command’s been dropping hints about this Kovacs guy," he said, voice low. "Seems he’s got skills worth protecting… but they’re not saying why. Could be he holds some secrets, something that could tip the scales. But all I’ve got right now are whispers, nothing concrete."

Tanner shook his head, the skepticism clear on his face. "Sir, whispers don’t stop bullets. If the enemy’s after him, keeping him here puts us all in their crosshairs. We’re already stretched thin—he could be the reason we get wiped out, not saved."

Hale’s eyes remained fixed on Kovacs, who was currently prying open a rusted panel on one of the mechs. “I get it,” Hale muttered. “He’s either the biggest asset we’ve seen in weeks or the biggest risk. And I can’t prove either one.”

Tanner leaned against a nearby crate, wiping oil-stained hands on his rag. "Sir, if he’s really got something worth hiding, you think he’d just be fixing up our mechs like a regular tech? It doesn’t add up."

Hale nodded slowly, still unsure of what to make of Kovacs. The man was clearly skilled—perhaps one of the best he’d seen—but was that skill born from experience, or was it tied to something deeper? Something dangerous?

"Maybe Command knows more than they’re telling us," Hale said, almost to himself. "Or maybe they’re keeping us in the dark for a reason."

Tanner crossed his arms, his voice turning grim. "Command’s got a history of leaving us with more questions than answers. But if they really want Kovacs, we need to get him out of here before the enemy comes sniffing around."

Hale felt the tug of duty versus practicality. If Kovacs had secrets, handing him over might be critical for the war effort. But it could also mean a fight they couldn’t win. He glanced around the camp, seeing his men working with renewed energy on the now-operational mechs, thanks to Kovacs.

"If we try to get him evac, we’re risking our position," Tanner warned. "And there’s no guarantee Command will even get here in time."

Hale clenched his jaw, the indecision gnawing at him. “If he’s as important as Command hints, we owe it to the war effort to get him to safety. I can’t just ignore that.”

Tanner regarded Hale with a wary look. "So, you’re calling this in?"

Hale’s eyes were still on Kovacs, who was now working on a delicate wiring repair. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Get me the comms. I’ll report his position and request immediate evac.”

Tanner handed over the comm device, his expression a mix of concern and resignation. "Just hope you’re right, sir. If Kovacs really has secrets, I guess it’s better they’re in our hands than someone else’s."

Hale nodded, dialing into a secure frequency. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “But right now, I’m gambling on a hunch.”

As the comm device buzzed to life, Hale kept his gaze on Kovacs, a man who might hold the key to victory—or disaster. Only time would tell which one.