Don Johnson leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on the Colonel across from him. The room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the overhead lights barely audible over the muffled sounds of the bustling base outside. The Colonel, a grizzled man in his late fifties, looked like someone who had seen one too many battles. He leaned forward, studying the data pad before him, his brow furrowed.

“These mecha,” the Colonel began, his voice gravelly from years of barking orders on the battlefield. “They’re solid, I’ll give you that. But from what I can see, they’re a little better than current-generation second-line units. Their armor is light, and they rely heavily on ammunition-based systems. Not exactly cutting-edge.”

Johnson nodded, unfazed. “True, Colonel, they aren’t first-line material. But then again, you’re not paying first-line prices, right?”

The Colonel grunted, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fair point. Still, I need to know what I’m getting for my money. If I’m putting my people in these, I need to be sure they’re not walking into a death trap.”

Johnson leaned forward, his tone measured and calm. “Look, Colonel, these Fusiliers are designed for a specific role. They’re fast, agile, and perfect for flanking maneuvers and hit-and-run tactics. They might not go toe-to-toe with a frontline enemy mecha, but that’s not what they’re for. You’re not going up against the big boys. You’re dealing with insurgents, pirates, and second-rate opponents at best. These mecha are more than capable of handling that.”

The Colonel considered this, nodding slightly. “And the weapons loadout? You’ve got them loaded with missile launchers and machine guns. They’ve got decent firepower, but I’m worried about sustainability. Ammunition runs out. What then?”

Johnson shrugged. “They’re equipped for short engagements, quick strikes. You hit hard, hit fast, and get out. The missile launchers give you the heavy punch you need to break through enemy lines or take out fortified positions. The machine guns are for close encounters, clearing out infantry or light vehicles. It’s a balanced loadout for the kind of operations you’re running.”

The Colonel tapped the screen of his datapad, pulling up the specifications. “And what about the armor? You’ve upgraded to this new compressed variant, but it’s still on the light side. How much punishment can they take?”

Johnson smiled. “The compressed armor is tougher than it looks. It’s lighter, sure, but it’s designed to deflect and absorb hits more effectively than standard plating. It’s not going to stand up to sustained fire from a heavy mech, but again, that’s not the point. These units are meant to avoid direct confrontation. Use their speed and agility to stay out of trouble.”

The Colonel grunted again, clearly still weighing his options. “And what about maintenance? You know how it is out there. We need something that’s easy to repair and doesn’t require a warehouse full of spare parts.”

Johnson nodded. “These mecha are built with that in mind. The designs are simple and modular. You won’t need a team of specialists to keep them running. Your techs can swap out parts quickly and keep them operational with minimal downtime. I’m not saying they’re perfect, but for what you’re paying and the enemies you’re facing, they’re a damn good fit.”

The Colonel leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’ll admit, you’ve made a decent case. But I need to know one thing, Johnson. Why are you so eager to unload these on us? What’s your angle?”

Johnson chuckled, a knowing smile on his face. “No angle, Colonel. It's just good business. I’ve got a product; you’ve got a need. We both walk away with something we want. Besides, if you’re satisfied with this batch, there might be more business down the line. And I’m always looking for long-term partners.”

The Colonel studied Johnson for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright, Johnson. You’ve convinced me. We’ll take the mecha. But I want a clause in the contract. If these units don’t perform as promised, I expect a discount on the next batch. Fair?”

Johnson extended his hand, his smile broadening. “Fair. You’ve got a deal, Colonel.”

The Colonel shook his hand, his grip firm. “Deal. I’ll have my people draw up the paperwork. Just make sure these mecha are ready for deployment. I don’t want any surprises out there.”

Johnson nodded. “You have my word. The mecha will perform. And if they don’t, you know where to find me.”

“Now, what about the delivery of the other three types,” he said, looking down at his data pad: the Ravagers, Muskaters, and Roundheads.”

Don Johnson leaned back slightly, his smile never faltering. “Ah, yes, the Ravagers, Musketeers, and Round Heads,” he said smoothly. “I’ve got my best tech working on them. We’re in the final stages of outfitting and testing. Delivery is set for three weeks from now.”

The Colonel raised an eyebrow. “Three weeks? Cutting it close, aren’t you?”

Johnson’s grin widened, a hint of a challenge in his eyes. “Close, perhaps, but manageable. My techs are efficient and ahead of schedule on most retrofits. The Ravagers are already completed. The Musketeers just need a few finishing touches on the targeting systems. As for the Round Heads, they’re a bit more complex, but they’re coming along nicely. I guarantee you’ll have them on time.”

The Colonel glanced at his datapad again, frowning slightly. “I’m not just worried about timing, Johnson. I’m concerned about quality control. These are older models you’re refurbishing, after all. I need to know they’ll stand up to field conditions.”

Johnson nodded. “Of course. Each mecha is being thoroughly tested before it leaves my hands. We’ve upgraded the fire control systems, replaced all worn components, and added custom tweaks to improve performance. They may be older models, but they’ll be as good as new once we’re done with them. You’ve seen the Fusiliers; you know the level of work we’re putting into these machines.”

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The Colonel’s frown deepened. “The Musketeers have always had a problem with overheating. Have you addressed that?”

Johnson nodded again, his expression serious. “We’re aware of the issue and added heat sinks to the Musketeers to manage the heat dissipation more effectively. We’ve also modified the engine shielding to reduce heat buildup. They’ll run cooler and more efficiently than the original design.”

“And the Round Heads?” the Colonel pressed. “Their biggest flaw was their weak knee joints, which made them vulnerable in close combat. I can’t have my mechs collapsing in the middle of a skirmish.”

“We’ve reinforced the knee joints with newer, stronger materials,” Johnson replied confidently. “The Round Heads will hold up in close combat. We’ve run extensive simulations and even some live drills. They’re tough, agile, and ready for whatever you throw at them.”

The Colonel tapped his fingers on the table, considering this. “Alright, but I want to see them in action before we finalize the last part of the payment. A live demonstration, full combat scenario.”

Johnson’s smile remained steady. “That can be arranged. I’ll set up a demonstration in two weeks, allowing you to see them perform firsthand. You’ll be impressed, I promise.”

The Colonel nodded slowly. “Fine. Two weeks. And if I’m not satisfied, we will have a problem.”

Johnson’s eyes glinted. “I’m confident you’ll be more than satisfied, Colonel. These mecha will exceed your expectations.”

The Colonel stood up, slipping his datapad into his jacket pocket. “We’ll see about that. I’ll be in touch, Johnson. Make sure everything is ready. I’m not a man who likes to be disappointed.”

Johnson rose as well, extending his hand again. “You won’t be, Colonel. I assure you.”

They shook hands once more, the Colonel’s grip firm and unyielding. “Good. Then I’ll see you in two weeks.”

With that, the Colonel turned and left the room, leaving Johnson alone. As the door closed behind him, Johnson’s smile slowly faded, replaced by a look of determination. Three weeks to deliver the last of the mecha. Two weeks until the live demonstration. He would need to ensure everything was perfect—there was too much riding on this deal to let anything go wrong. He picked up his phone and began dialing his head technician, ready to issue new orders to ensure their success.

“We’re on a tight schedule,” he muttered to himself. “No room for mistakes now.”

***

Don Johnson leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Kovacs with a calculating smile. The two of them were seated in Johnson's compound's dimly lit back office, where business deals were made and secrets were kept. Johnson’s demeanor was friendly, almost paternal, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Kovacs didn’t entirely trust.

“You’ve done good work, Kovacs,” Johnson began, his tone almost too warm. “The redesigns are top-notch. My clients are happy, and I’m happy. You’ve got a real talent for this, kid. I’d say you’ve got a bright future ahead of you in this business.”

Kovacs shifted in his seat, unsure where this was going. “Thanks, Mr. Johnson. I’m just doing what I can.”

“Oh, you’re doing more than that,” Johnson continued, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve been around a long time, seen many designers come and go, but you… you’ve got something special. And that armor formulation you’ve been working on? That’s some impressive stuff. Real game-changer.”

Kovacs felt a flicker of pride but kept his expression neutral. “Yeah, it’s coming along. Still tweaking the formula, trying to find the right balance.”

Johnson nodded, and his smile widened, hinting at something sharper behind it. “Funny thing, though. I heard someone’s been shopping around a formula very similar to yours. I caught wind of it through some of my contacts. Made me wonder—how’d something like that get out?”

Kovacs blinked, surprise and anger flaring up inside him. “What? Who—who’s shopping it around?” His mind immediately jumped to Professor Thornton or Angstrom. They were the only ones who could have gotten a look at his notes.

Johnson shrugged casually, but his eyes never left Kovacs’. “Oh, I don’t have all the details. I just heard some whispers. Thought you might know something about it.”

Kovacs clenched his fists, trying to keep his anger in check. “I—I don’t know anything about that. But I’ve got a pretty good idea who might be behind it.”

Johnson’s eyebrows raised, and he leaned in as if sharing a secret. “Oh? Do tell.”

“One of my professors,” Kovacs muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ve been getting this weird feeling like I’m being watched—spied on. And it’s not just paranoia. Some of the faculty they’ve been asking questions, and poking around my projects way more than usual. Almost like they’re waiting for me to slip up or something.”

Johnson nodded thoughtfully, his expression one of mock concern. “That’s rough, kid. Rough. Sounds like you’ve got some people looking to take advantage of your talent.”

Kovacs nodded, feeling the frustration boiling over. “Yeah, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t just accuse them without proof, even if I could… I’m not exactly in a position to make waves.”

Johnson leaned back again, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Well, it’s a damn shame. Talent like yours should be nurtured and protected. Not exploited by a bunch of vultures in academia. Have you ever thought about taking your skills somewhere… more appreciative?”

Kovacs looked up, suspicion creeping into his mind. “What do you mean?”

Johnson smiled, his tone smooth. “I mean, I’ve got connections—people who would pay good money for someone with your skills. There is no need to worry about professors stealing your work or dealing with school politics. Just you, your designs, and a fat paycheck at the end of the day.”

Kovacs hesitated. The offer was tempting, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than Johnson was letting on. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Johnson, but… I’ve still got a lot to learn. And I need to finish my education. Besides, I’m not sure I’m ready to leave yet.”

Johnson’s smile tightened slightly, but he nodded. “Fair enough, fair enough. I just thought I’d put it out there. But keep it in mind, yeah? You never know when you might need a change of scenery.”

Kovacs nodded, still processing the news about his armor formula. “I will. And thanks for letting me know about… you know, the formula. I’m going to have to look into that.”

“Do what,” Johnson replied, his voice friendly but with an edge of finality. “And if you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me.”

Kovacs stood up, ready to leave. “Thanks, Mr. Johnson. I appreciate it.”

Johnson watched him go, his expression thoughtful. “Take care, Kovacs. And remember—keep your eyes open. You never know who’s watching.”

Kovacs nodded, a shiver running down his spine as he left the office. He had much to think about—and even more to figure out. If his professors were spying on him, he needed to find out why quickly. And as for the stolen formula… he’d deal with that soon enough.

As for the people with bad intent, it seemed like all he had to do was look in any direction to find someone. “I almost wish I had never been given this thing.” He muttered after he left the office.