General Emil Patton—or as the grunts called him, Pogue One—sat hunched over the flickering holo-display, the pale light casting sharp shadows across his weathered face. His uniform, once immaculate, was now crumpled from days without proper rest. The battle that had decimated the cities of Prescott had also eviscerated its military command structure, leaving him—an officer in charge of logistics—one of the highest-ranking survivors.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was a supply general, not a battlefield commander. His wars had always been fought behind desks, moving supplies and logistics to keep the real fighters armed and fed. And now, by some cruel twist of fate, he was in charge of what remained of Prescott’s defense.

He rubbed a hand over his graying beard, eyes scanning the holographic map of Prescott’s remaining forces. It wasn’t much. Scattered training cadre, a handful of soldiers on maneuvers, and whatever remnants of the CID—the covert intelligence division—were still operational. These were his “assets,” if you could call them that.

The vast majority of the military was gone, either dead or missing in action. Command centers had been wiped out, strategic bases razed, and the senior officers… they were either dead or unreachable. There had been no word from General Ross, no communication from Admiral Vexis. Emil Patton was now in charge.

He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling of the underground bunker. The invasion had been swift and brutal, but they hadn’t taken everything yet. Prescott still had a chance, however slim.

The soft chime of the comms panel interrupted his thoughts. One of his few remaining aides, a wiry lieutenant named Garrett, appeared on the screen, looking harried.

"General, the latest reports are in. It's not good, sir." Garrett’s voice was tight, trying to suppress the panic that had swept through the ranks.

Patton grunted. "It hasn’t been good for a while, son. What’s the status?"

Garrett swallowed. "Most of the city defense lines are gone, sir. The invaders are consolidating their hold on the major urban centers. Our supply depots in the northeast sector have been overrun, and the western munitions stockpile was bombed last night. We have... very little left in terms of material, sir."

Patton gritted his teeth, but he wasn’t surprised. The enemy had been thorough. "What about the troops? What do we have left?"

Garrett checked his tablet before answering. "Sir, most of our standing forces were wiped out in the first strikes. But we still have a few units. The training cadre stationed at the northern outpost is intact. They’ve got some experienced sergeants and drill instructors—though mostly cadets. We've also got a small group of soldiers on maneuvers in the southern jungles. They’ve been out of contact but reported in a day ago—maybe a hundred men, max."

Patton exhaled slowly, absorbing the grim details. His military strength was now down to raw recruits and a few seasoned instructors. A handful of soldiers was all that stood between what was left of Prescott and complete destruction.

"And the CID?" Patton asked, sitting up straighter. They were his best hope now—shadowy, covert operators who had been playing in the world's dark corners long before the invasion. If anyone could help him salvage this mess, it would be them.

"We’ve contacted some of the CID operatives, sir. They’re still running special ops, but their numbers are thin. Commander Hartwell sent a coded message an hour ago—they’re working to disrupt the invader supply lines, but... their resources are stretched."

Patton nodded, though the tension in his neck didn’t ease. He knew Hartwell—a cold and calculating man but reliable. If anyone could make something out of nothing, it was Hartwell. But CID couldn’t win a war alone.

"Alright," Patton muttered, mostly to himself. He pushed himself to his feet, squaring his shoulders as if the action could force the weight of command into a manageable burden. "Get me a list of every unit still operational. I don’t care if it’s cadets, cooks, or janitors. I want them organized if they can hold a rifle or fix a vehicle. We’ll need every pair of hands we can get."

Garrett nodded, his eyes wide with grim determination. "Yes, sir. And... what about the fallbacks, General? We’ve lost Point K, and fallback Echo-Seven is too close to the enemy lines now."

Patton’s lips tightened. Echo-seven had been a vital regroup point for the forces on the ground. Their ability to retreat and regroup was in jeopardy if it was no longer viable.

"Move the fallback to Delta Base," Patton said after a moment. "It’s not ideal. We’ll have to use it as our central hub for now. Send word to all remaining units. They’re to converge there if they can make it."

Garrett hesitated. "Sir, Delta Base is... under-equipped. It wasn’t meant for long-term occupation."

"I know that Lieutenant," Patton said sharply. "But it’s the best we’ve got. We’ll make it work."

Garrett nodded and quickly disappeared from the screen, leaving Patton with his thoughts again. The reality of the situation hit hard. Prescott was on the brink of collapse. He was an old war dog, used to manage the logistics that kept the real soldiers fighting. Now, he was being asked to do something he had never truly prepared for—lead.

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He wasn’t General Ross or Admiral Vexis. He wasn’t the man who gave speeches to rally the troops or commanded fleets of warships. He was the man who got the right equipment to the right place at the right time.

But now… now he had to be something more.

His hands hovered over the holo map, tracing possible routes and fallback positions, contemplating every asset he had left. They needed to regroup, rebuild, and resist. Every man and woman, every last bullet and mecha, was crucial now.

"Time to find out if we’ve got any fight left in us," Patton muttered, a grim resolve hardening in his chest.

He tapped a few commands, sending orders across the remaining comm networks. His eyes never left the holo-display, watching the blinking icons of his few remaining assets like a predator watching prey.

"Pogue One or not," Patton said quietly, "we’re not going down without a fight."

Emil leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the edge of his holo-display. The room was silent except for the hum of machinery, but a war was raging inside his mind. He wasn’t a line commander. He had never led soldiers into the chaos of battle. His battlefield was logistics, supply routes, and warehouses stacked high with munitions and fuel. And right now, that battlefield had been obliterated.

He had read the after-action reports with grim clarity: the enemy knew exactly what they were doing. They didn’t hit the frontlines; they went straight for the supply bases, fuel depots, and factories. Prescott’s logistical heart had been gutted, and the military’s ability to fight had been crippled. There was no chain of command, no factories turning out the tools of war, no resupply lines keeping the remaining troops fed and armed.

But Emil Patton knew how to fight in his way. He would fight with supply. He’d rebuild the infrastructure, gather resources, and establish new manufacturing centers from the ruins.

"Where the hell am I going to get the manpower?" he muttered. His thoughts were already spinning, and he was drafting strategies, logistics, and plans.

The factories he once commanded were dust now. He needed new facilities. New mecha. New weapons. And most of all, new designers and technicians. Prescott’s military had once thrived on the creativity and innovation of its mecha builders, but those men and women were likely dead or scattered to the winds.

His hand hovered over the comms panel, then slammed down as if a decision had been made.

"Get me a connection with Holdings in supply and whatever remains of the industrial council," Patton ordered his aide, who quickly ran to execute the command.

As the request was sent out, Patton returned to the map. The factories weren’t just gone; the designers, the intellectual minds behind Prescott’s engineering corps, had been high-value targets. He wouldn’t find them easily, and even if he did, they would be fragmented, scattered, or too afraid to escape hiding.

But hiding wouldn’t save them now.

"Alright," he muttered. "If I can’t find them, I’ll have to make do with what I have."

He pulled up the few remaining contacts in his network: small-time engineers, a handful of supply officers who had escaped the attacks, and mecha technicians scattered across remote locations. It's not the best, but it's better than nothing.

He began drafting orders.

Requisition sites would be established in the rural areas of Prescott, away from the enemy’s immediate grasp. Makeshift factories would spring up in abandoned cities and remote towns. The few mecha engineers he could gather would work day and night to reverse-engineer the surviving machines. Spare parts and raw materials would be salvaged from the wreckage, and every bolt and scrap of armor would be repurposed.

He also had to think of the human side. Soldiers weren’t the only ones who needed supplies. Civilians had fled into the wilderness, their lives being destroyed by the invaders. They would need food, shelter, and protection. He’d draft conscription orders—any able-bodied person would be put to work in the factories or logistical units.

The more he thought about it, the more the puzzle came together. It wasn’t just about finding the designers and technicians but about rebuilding Prescott’s infrastructure from the ground up. He didn’t need a top-tier industrial complex—he needed a thousand smaller efforts working together. He needed resilience and adaptability.

And he knew how to make that happen.

"Pull together every blacksmith, machinist, and technician you can find," Patton said to Garrett, who had returned with the comm lines ready. "I want civilian contractors. Hell, find me some underground engineers. I don’t care if they’ve been working off the books; we need everyone who can swing a wrench or sketch a design."

"Yes, sir," Garrett responded, a look of quiet determination crossing his face. He recognized the urgency.

Patton returned his focus to the comms, his voice steady as he addressed General Holdings, his old colleague in the supply division.

"Holdings, I need everything you’ve got left. I don’t care if it’s a hidden stash of field rations or a rusted-out factory. We’re starting from zero here, and I need every scrap of material we can gather. Fuel, parts, food, medical supplies—everything."

Holdings’ voice crackled through the feed, weary but compliant. "Understood, Emil. I’ll dig up what I can, but you know the situation. The invaders were surgical. Most of our prime supply depots are gone."

Patton nodded grimly. "I know. But we’re not going to fight like they expect us to. We will scatter, regroup, and rebuild from places they won’t bother to look. I need you to locate any supply caches hidden off the main grid. Underground depots, forgotten warehouses, civilian stockpiles—everything."

Holdings paused before saying, "I’ll get you a report within the hour."

When the call ended, Patton took a long breath, his mind racing ahead to the next step.

Factories could be rebuilt, and mecha could be designed. But none of it mattered if they didn’t have enough technicians. He’d need to find more hands, skilled or not. They’d train civilians if they had to, turn refugees into mechanics and engineers.

And then there were the designs. They needed new mecha—machines built for a different kind of war that could match the invaders in speed and power. Patton's fingers hovered over the controls as he pulled up a list of prototype designs developed before the invasion. None were complete, but maybe they didn’t have to be.

He paused to consider what came next as the orders were sent out. He’d fought wars with logistics before—on the edge, ensuring the right supplies were there when needed. But this... this was different. Now, he had to rebuild an entire army, starting from shattered remnants.

"Time to see if supply can win a war," Patton murmured, a grim smile touching his lips.