Kovacs dragged himself up the steps to his apartment, every muscle aching from the long day. His hip throbbed with a dull, persistent pain, and the last of his energy had been sapped during the walk back from class. He noticed a figure lingering in the dim hallway as he approached his door, leaning casually against the wall.
The man straightened as Kovacs neared, a smirk playing on his lips. He was one of the thugs Kovacs had met before, dressed in a leather jacket that seemed to creak with every movement. “Mr. Kovacs,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Got a message for you.”
Kovacs tensed, forcing himself to remain calm despite the growing sense of unease. “A message?”
The thug nodded, pulling a small envelope from his pocket and handing it over. “The boss wants you to know he’s expecting progress. No slacking off.”
Kovacs took the envelope, his fingers brushing against the rough paper. “Tell him I’m working on it. He’ll get what he’s asking for.”
“Good,” the thug replied, his tone almost mocking. He tipped an imaginary hat and turned on his heel, sauntering down the hallway and disappearing into the shadows.
Kovacs exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the envelope. He wasn’t sure how much more pressure he could take, but there was no turning back now. A faint sound caught his attention as he fumbled for his keys—a barely audible click from somewhere above. His eyes darted to the ceiling, but he saw nothing unusual.
Unseen to both Kovacs and the thug, an investigator from the Special Investigations Division (SID) sat in a parked car down the street, watching the building through a pair of binoculars. The man’s expression was of cold calculation as he scribbled notes in a small notebook. He had no idea that the building was now bugged nor that Kovacs was being closely monitored. All he knew was that this young man had become a person of interest, and it was his job to uncover why.
Inside, Kovacs closed the door behind him, leaning against it momentarily as he tried to steady his racing thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in his apartment—the tiny, almost invisible devices planted strategically, capturing every word and movement. He was too preoccupied with the envelope in his hand, too consumed by the weight of what was to come.
He moved to the small kitchen table, tearing open the envelope and unfolding the note inside. The message was simple, but it carried the unmistakable weight of a warning. Make it happen, or else.
Kovacs crumpled the note in his fist, feeling a surge of frustration and fear. He was being pushed to his limits, and now, more than ever, he had to be careful. He couldn’t afford any mistakes—not with the thugs breathing down his neck, and certainly not with whoever else might be watching.
He set the crumpled note aside and sank into a chair, running a hand through his hair. His mind was racing, trying to plan his next move. He needed to figure out what the least he could do to satisfy the crime lord’s demands while keeping himself safe. The mechas had to be upgraded; that much was clear. But how much could he realistically accomplish on his own?
Armor, weapons, sensors—it all needed improvement. But he had to be smart and efficient about it. He couldn’t afford to get caught up in the details, not when his life might depend on it.
As he sat there, lost in thought, the subtle hum of hidden equipment continued unnoticed, capturing every word and every sigh. The investigator outside scribbled another note, oblivious to the fact that he, too, was part of a much larger game. The net was closing in, and Kovacs was at the center of it all, whether he realized it or not.
Kovacs remained slumped in the chair, the weight of his situation pressing down on him. His hip throbbed with a relentless pain, a constant reminder of his physical limitations. He winced as he shifted his position, his mind still spinning with thoughts of the mecha upgrades he needed to complete.
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the appliances and the distant sounds of the city outside. But Kovacs couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, even here in the supposed safety of his apartment. The air felt thick with tension, and every creak of the floorboards seemed amplified in the silence.
He forced himself to focus, reaching for a notepad on the table. He needed a plan, something concrete to keep him on track. His hand trembled slightly as he jotted down a list:
Replace Armor - Complete testing formula.
Upgrade Weapons - Maybe a combination of long- and short-range systems would give the mechas the versatility they need.
Improve Sensors and Targeting - Enhanced sensors could provide better battlefield awareness, and upgraded targeting systems would ensure every shot counted.
Set a Timeline for Manufacture - Establish a realistic timeline.
Review Performance Reports - Identify weaknesses in their previous engagements,
He paused, staring at the list. It was daunting, but it was a start. Kovacs knew that he couldn’t afford any mistakes. One wrong move, one misstep, and the crime lord would lose patience with him. Worse, the military’s interest in his designs could attract unwanted attention.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
With a heavy sigh, he looked at the clock. It was late, and his body ached for rest, but his mind was too restless to sleep. The pain in his hip flared up again, and he gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to reach for another pill. The nausea from the last one still lingered, a sickly reminder that his options for relief were limited.
But he needed a distraction, something to keep his mind occupied and away from the dark thoughts creeping in. He glanced at the headset on his desk, the portal to his virtual workshop. It wasn’t rest, but maybe it would be enough to give him some peace, even if only for a little while.
Dragging himself from the chair, Kovacs moved to the desk and picked up the headset. He settled onto his bed, careful not to jostle his hip too much, and pulled the device over his head. The familiar weight of it was almost comforting, like slipping into another world where his problems were just a little less real.
With a deep breath, he powered it on, and the world around him dissolved into his virtual workshop's sleek, metallic interior. The CAD screens blinked to life, displaying the latest iteration of the Devil's Mantis, his personal project and potential masterpiece. Here, he could lose himself in the intricate details of the design, tweaking and refining until everything was perfect.
He began working, his hands moving instinctively over the controls as he adjusted the Mantis’s frame, considering different configurations for its weapons and armor. The pain in his hip faded into the background as he immersed himself in the work, his mind focused on the challenge of creating something truly exceptional.
But even as he worked, a nagging thought lingered at the back of his mind: the growing scrutiny from the crime lord. He felt like the walls were closing in on him, and he couldn’t afford to slip up. Every design decision, every modification, had to be perfect. His life depended on it and the future he so desperately wanted.
And so, with the virtual screens casting a pale glow across his face, Kovacs continued to work, pushing through the fatigue and the pain. The clock ticked on, but time had lost its meaning here. All that mattered was the design in front of him and the hope that it would somehow be enough to see him through the storm coming.
***
In the dim, wood-paneled office, the smell of aged oak and old books hung in the air, mingling with the scent of the dark liquor that swirled in two crystal glasses. Professor Thornton leaned back in his leather chair, a glass of deep amber liquid in his hand, his eyes fixed on the man sitting across from him. The warm glow from the desk lamp cast a soft light on the scene, giving the room an almost conspiratorial atmosphere.
Dr. Angstrom took a slow sip from his glass, letting the liquor burn slightly as it slid down his throat. He savored the taste—a rare, expensive whiskey Thornton always kept on hand for special occasions. This, it seemed, was one of those occasions.
"So, you’re certain about this formulation?" Angstrom asked, swirling the whiskey in his glass, the rich scent filling his senses. He eyed the manila folder lying on the desk between them, containing the key to their future profits. "This is Kovacs' work?"
Thornton nodded, a smirk playing on his lips as he took a measured sip from his glass. "The kid’s got a talent—more than I anticipated. He’s been working on a new variant of compressed armor. From my observation, it could be a game-changer regarding cost and efficiency."
Angstrom raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued despite himself. "And you think there’s real potential here?"
Thornton leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering as he spoke. "More than potential. I’ve reviewed his data—preliminary but promising. If the final formulation performs, we’re looking at a material that could undercut the current market while maintaining, if not exceeding, existing standards."
Angstrom considered this, the weight of the whiskey glass heavy in his hand. "So, what's your plan? You’re not exactly the type to let a golden goose walk free."
Thornton chuckled, the sound deep and resonant, echoing slightly in the enclosed space. "Of course not. Kovacs is smart, but he’s young and focused on the technical aspects and not the bigger picture. He has no idea what kind of value this formula could hold on the market. The military, private security firms and even some of the less... reputable buyers all pay top dollar for a material like this."
Angstrom took another sip of his drink, the warmth spreading through his chest, and nodded. "And Kovacs? What’s his role in this?"
Thornton took a long, deliberate sip from his glass before setting it down on the desk with a soft clink. "He doesn’t have one. Once I have the final version of his formulation, I’ll patent it under my name. The university will back me up, leaving Kovacs in the dark. He’ll think his experiment failed, and he’ll move on. Meanwhile, we’ll be the ones cashing in."
Angstrom frowned, the implications briefly crossing his mind, only to be washed away by another sip of the rich whiskey. "And if he catches on? He’s sharp—he might notice something’s off."
Thornton waved a dismissive hand, picking up his glass again. "Even if he does, what’s he going to do? He’s just a student. By the time he figures out what’s happened—if he does—it’ll be too late. The university will stand by me, and there’s no way he can take on the legal system. Besides, he’s just a student who will believe him over me? We’ll be in the clear."
Angstrom swirled his drink, watching the dark liquid move within the glass, his initial reservations fading as the prospect of easy money took hold. "You’re playing a risky game, Thornton. If this gets out, it could end your career."
Thornton took a final sip of his drink, savoring the taste before setting the empty glass back on the desk. "Risk is part of the game, Angstrom. But we’re smart—we’ll cover our tracks, and no one will ever know how we got the formula. Kovacs will be none the wiser, and if he realizes what’s happened, what can he do about it."
Angstrom looked at his glass; the whiskey was almost gone and finally nodded. "Alright. But we need to handle this carefully. If this formulation is as good as you say, we must secure it quickly and quietly."
"Agreed," Thornton said, reaching over to refill their glasses. The rich, dark liquid poured smoothly into the crystal, the sound punctuating their conversation. "I’ll have the final data by the end of the week. Once we’ve got it, we’ll file the patent and contact our contacts."
They raised their glasses in a silent toast, the clink of crystal echoing in the room as they sealed their pact. The warmth of the whiskey dulled any lingering doubts, leaving only the sharp edge of ambition and the promise of profit as they discussed the finer details of their plan; the atmosphere in the room grew heavier, the air thick with the scent of old whiskey and new betrayal.
In a far-off office, a recorder whirred. “... Got it. We’ll file the patent and start reaching out to our contacts." An agent leaned back, a smirk on her lips.
“Sounds like there will be more than enough profits for all to share.” She said with a dark laugh.