Kovacs woke up the following day, his eyes gritty and red from the late-night study session. He blinked against the harsh morning light filtering through his window, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. He had spent most of the night hunched over his desk, the datapad glowing as he delved into the specifications of the Fusilier.

The mecha’s design had fascinated and frustrated him in equal measure. It was the lightest of the bunch at thirty tons—an agile, quick machine, but its armor was thin, offering little protection. The three missile launchers it carried had a punch, but not one that could last. Kovacs had noticed right away that the Fusilier was designed as a hit-and-run machine, able to harass enemy forces but not capable of standing its ground in a prolonged fight.

The lack of lasers or other sustainable weaponry was a glaring flaw in his eyes. Once the missiles were spent, the Fusilier was effectively toothless, a sitting duck on the battlefield. He had spent hours thinking about how to address this and enhance its battlefield longevity without compromising its speed or overburdening its frame. But even as ideas swirled in his mind, he knew that the design had its constraints, and he would have to work within them.

Kovacs rubbed at his temples, trying to dispel the lingering fog of sleep. He had much to do, and the day was already slipping away. Despite the fatigue, there was a spark of excitement in him. The Fusilier was a challenge and one that he was eager to tackle. But first, there was the rest of the day to face—the classes he had to attend, the assignments to complete, and the looming task of redesigning not just one but all of the mecha on that list.

With a groan, he pushed himself out of bed. He knew the day ahead would be long, but there was no turning back. The work had to be done, and if there was one thing Kovacs had learned, it was that no one else could do it but him.

Kovacs sat back down at his desk, the weariness from the night before still clinging to him. He reached into his drawer, pulling out the small rubber duck. It had become familiar during moments like these when his thoughts felt too tangled to sort through alone.

He placed the duck on his desk and stared at it as if waiting for it to respond. Of course, it didn’t, but having it there helped him focus. Kovacs exhaled slowly and began to speak.

“Okay, Duck. Here’s where we stand,” he said, his voice low but steady. “We’ve got three main things to figure out: classes, getting out from under the Duchelub’s thumb, and earning more points from the system. If we don’t do this right, it’s not just my grades on the line—everything.”

He picked up a pen and started making a list on a scrap of paper. His handwriting was hurried but legible.

1. Classes:

“I need to catch up on the work I’ve missed—no way around it. I’ve got to stay focused, get those assignments done, and make sure I don’t fall behind. The sooner I’m on top of things, the better.” He tapped the pen against the desk, thinking. “The system will help, but I must be smart about my pick. Every point counts.”

2. Mecha’s:

“This is the big one,” he said, glancing at the duck as if it might offer some advicse. “I’ve got to figure out what resources I’ll have from Johnson and his ‘advisor.’ Where am I going to be doing this work? What parts and licenses do they already have? And more importantly, will I have any help—technicians, engineers, anyone who knows these old mecha as well as I do?”

3. System Points:

“The system’s been my lifeline so far, but I need more points if I’m going to keep up with everything. That means more designs, work, and hopefully some commissions once these mecha start selling. But first, I need to see what kind of tools and resources I’ll have access to.”

Kovacs stared at the list, chewing on the end of his pen. “I can’t afford to mess this up. The classes are on me—I’ve got to put in the work. But the asshole… that’s a whole different problem.”

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

He looked back at the duck. “We need to get the details from them. What kind of budget are they working with? Where’s the workshop? Do they have any technicians lined up? I can’t do all this alone, not with thirty mecha to rebuild.”

Kovacs leaned back in his chair, feeling more organized but no less pressured. “First thing’s first, Duck. I’ve got to focus on what I can control—classes and studying. Then, I’ll dig into the resources and clearly understand what I’m dealing with. One step at a time.”

He picked up the duck, giving it a slight thanks, and set it back in the drawer.

***

Kovacs sat in his materials class, trying to focus on the lecture, but his mind kept drifting back to the specs of the Fusilier mecha. The professor was talking about compressed armor, a relatively new advancement that compacts armor material, making it take up less space while maintaining its weight. The surface of this armor was slightly more reflective, a feature that caught Kovacs' attention.

"As you can see," the professor continued, projecting images of different armor compositions, "these three formulations have been around for some time, and their licenses have recently expired. Each has unique properties, but they all share the advantage of space-saving without compromising durability."

Kovacs leaned forward, intrigued. The Fusilier was a light mecha, its armor thin and quickly depleted in battle. If he could improve its armor without adding extra weight, it might last longer in the field—perhaps long enough to make a difference.

After class, Kovacs approached the professor. "Excuse me, Professor," he began, feeling the familiar stiffness in his hip as he stood. "Those formulations you showed us—could I get their details? I’m working on a project, and I’d like to compare the three to see if there’s a significant difference in their performance."

The professor raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Curious, are you? Well, I suppose it can't hurt. I'll send you the data. Just ensure you understand the nuances—compressed armor can be tricky to work with."

"Thank you, Professor," Kovacs replied, his mind racing with possibilities.

Kovacs returned home with excitement and exhaustion, his mind buzzing with the possibilities of compressed armor. After dropping his bag on the floor, he sat down at his desk, the data from the professor already waiting for him on his terminal. His thoughts drifted back to the Fusilier mecha, with its lightweight armor barely protecting in prolonged engagements. Enhancing it with a more efficient, compact armor was too promising to ignore.

He pulled up the three formulations the professor had sent over, each a blend of different materials designed to compact armor while retaining its structural integrity. Kovacs leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes as he considered the challenge. He knew that simply using one of these formulations would improve, but he was aiming for something more—something explicitly tailored to the mecha he was rebuilding.

As he began to sift through the data, he reached over and grabbed his small rubber duck from the corner of his desk. This tool, which he often used to talk through his thoughts, was held in his hand. Holding it in his hand, he began to speak aloud, a habit that had helped him clarify his ideas more times than he could count.

"Okay, ducky, let’s break this down," he said, his voice filling the quiet room. "I’ve got three formulations here. They’re all decent, but I need the one that uses the most common materials. That way, I won’t run into supply issues down the line, especially with the resources I’ll have access to—or lack thereof."

He tapped the screen, bringing up the first formula. "This one looks good, but it's got a rare alloy in the mix. It could be a problem if I can’t source it locally. The second one... hmm, not bad. It uses a lot of standard materials, but the processing could be a pain without the right equipment."

He frowned at the third formula. "This one’s interesting. It’s not as strong as the other two, but it has the most common materials. If I can tweak it, maybe add a bit of reinforcement, I could make it work. Might even save some weight in the process."

Kovacs placed the duck on the desk and opened a new file. "I will develop my formula, something that will work specifically for the mecha I’m rebuilding. I’ll need to test it, see how it performs under stress, and make sure it can handle the heat and impact these mecha will face."

He began drafting notes, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he outlined his plan. "First, I need to get a clear picture of what resources I’ll have from the organization. That means finding out where I’ll be doing the work, what parts I can salvage, and if there are any existing licenses or materials I can use. And technicians—I need to know if anyone can help with the heavy lifting."

He glanced at the data pad on his desk, the list of mecha he had to work on still fresh in his mind. "Study first, work second," he reminded himself, but the lines were already beginning to blur.

Kovacs stood up and stretched, feeling the familiar ache in his hip. He had a lot to do, but the first step was clear for now. He needed to build something that could withstand the pressure—just like he did.