Kovacs stood by the workbench, eyes tracing the delicate components of the mecha’s internal systems. His hands moved automatically, adjusting a few settings on the CAD machine, but his mind was elsewhere—turning over possibilities, weighing risks, and thinking about Professor Thornton's treachery. He glanced at Pitt, who was across the room checking diagnostics on the power core of one of the older mecha models.

She was gruff and brutally efficient, the kind of person who didn’t tolerate nonsense or waste time. Kovacs had learned that quickly enough. Maybe she could offer some insight, albeit in her own... unique way.

“Pitt,” Kovacs called over, trying to keep his voice casual though his stomach churned. “Let me ask you something.”

Pitt didn’t look up from the readout. “Make it quick, kid. We’re on a schedule.”

Kovacs hesitated for a moment, then pressed on. “Hypothetical scenario. Say... you worked on something—spent months or even years developing it. Something important, something valuable. And then you found out someone was trying to steal it from you. What would you do?”

Pitt finally glanced up, her eyes narrowing as she sized him up. She set the diagnostic tool down on the bench with a soft clang, crossing her arms. “Hypothetical, huh?” she said, her voice tinged with suspicion. “This about that fancy armor formula you’ve been dancing around?”

Kovacs shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just curious.”

Pitt snorted and leaned back against the bench, folding her arms across her chest. “If someone tried to steal something from me—something I’d busted my ass to create?” She paused for effect, her lips curling into a dangerous smile. “I wouldn’t let it get that far.”

Kovacs felt a small shiver run down his spine but kept his face neutral. “What do you mean?”

Pitt’s expression darkened, her tone flat and matter-of-fact. “First, I’d ensure I had all the evidence—proof they were trying to pull a fast one. Then, I’d confront them. No warnings, no niceties. Just lay it all out, so they knew I was onto them.”

She tapped her temple with a finger. “If that didn’t scare them off, then I’d make sure they’d never get the chance to steal again. And I don’t mean a polite chat over coffee.”

Kovacs blinked. “What... what exactly would you do?”

Pitt’s grin widened, a predatory sparkle in her eyes. “Depends. If it were some corporate stooge or an academic—like your professor types? I’d pay ‘em a little visit—Middle of the night, no witnesses. Let them know in no uncertain terms that trying to take what’s mine is the last mistake they’ll ever make. If they’re lucky, they’ll get the message and disappear. If not... well, people have accidents all the time. Industrial mishaps, you know? Real messy business.”

Kovacs swallowed hard. Pitt’s tone was almost too calm, like she was discussing how to fix a wiring issue, not planning a murder. “You think that’s the best way to handle it?”

Pitt shrugged. “Best way? Who knows. But it’s the way I’d handle it. You’re either the one holding the knife, or you’re the one bleeding out on the floor, kid. If someone’s coming after what’s yours, you don’t give them a second chance.”

Kovacs nodded slowly, his mind racing. He’d expected Pitt to be blunt, but the sheer ruthlessness of her answer caught him off guard. Still, she wasn’t wrong about one thing: when you were backed into a corner, you couldn’t afford to play nice.

He’d need to find his way to protect what was his. Maybe not as direct—or as bloody—as Pitt’s, but he had no intention of letting anyone steal from him. Not Thornton, not the mob. No one.

“Thanks, Pitt,” Kovacs said, a little more seriously than he’d intended.

Pitt grunted. “Yeah, sure. But don’t go gettin’ yourself killed over some fancy tech. Not worth it.”

Kovacs gave her a weak smile and returned to his work, mind spinning with new ideas. Pitt’s approach might not be his style, but she’d helped clarify one thing for him: if he was going to survive this, he’d have to take control of the situation—before someone else did.

***

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Kovacs paced back and forth in his apartment, his mind working overtime as he considered his next move. The investigator from SID had come snooping around earlier—an uninvited guest who nearly caught him off guard. But Kovacs was good at staying one step ahead. He'd managed to slip away, hiding in the cramped storage room until the man left. That near miss had solidified one thing in his mind: he couldn’t wait for things to unravel independently. He had to take action.

He needed a plan. One that would take down both his treacherous professors and the mobsters who were circling like sharks. He couldn’t afford to let either side crush him. If he played his cards right, though, maybe—just maybe—he could get them to turn on each other.

His thoughts drifted back to the investigator. The guy was digging, looking for something on Kovacs. But that was his advantage now. Kovacs knew the SID was sniffing around, and he could use that. The investigator wasn’t an ally, but he could be a tool, another piece of the puzzle.

A risky idea began to take shape.

Kovacs grabbed his communication device and started typing a message. The message was short and direct and planted the first seed of his plan.

---

The next day, Kovacs stood in the shadow of the main administrative building, his pulse racing as he waited. He was in no hurry to be seen, but today, he needed to get close enough to the offices to plant his trap. One slip-up and this whole thing could blow up in his face. But if it worked... he’d walk away from this mess with both sides too busy ripping each other apart to worry about him.

When the investigator finally showed up, Kovacs remained hidden in the background, watching. The man was careful, deliberate, and clearly looking for something—or someone. Kovacs knew he couldn’t approach the guy directly. No, he needed the investigator to come to him on Kovacs’ terms.

He turned his gaze toward the professor’s office across the courtyard. He’d planted a few breadcrumbs earlier, sending anonymous tips about the professor’s involvement in shady dealings. Just enough to catch the investigator’s attention. Now, he had to wait for the trap to snap shut.

---

Later that afternoon, Kovacs received the message he’d been waiting for.

"Meet me. It’s about Thornton."

The investigator had taken the bait.

Kovacs arranged a clandestine meeting in a dimly lit alleys near campus. When the investigator finally arrived, he looked cautious, but Kovacs could see the curiosity in his eyes. The man wanted something—evidence, proof, anything that could crack the case wide open. And Kovacs was more than willing to provide it... just not in the way the investigator expected.

“You’ve been digging,” Kovacs said, stepping out from the shadows. “Looking into Professor Thornton, right?”

The investigator nodded, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard things. About a student—about you—and some industrial espionage. I don’t like where this is going, kid.”

“Neither do I,” Kovacs said, keeping his voice low. “That’s why I need your help.”

The investigator crossed his arms, clearly skeptical. “Help? What kind of help?”

“I know Thornton is working with some bad people. He’s not just trying to steal my armor formula—he’s planning to sell it, I don’t know who to though. I have proof but can’t take them both on alone.”

“And what do you expect me to do?”

“There's a meeting in two nights,” Kovacs said. “If we could record it and get them on tape or video.” The young man said.

“I like your style, kid!” The man thought for a bit. “ I think I know the right people.” Kovacs handed the man a memory stick.

“That's everything I have.” He said the meetup, the information.”

-—

Kovacs returned to his flat, the dim lighting casting long shadows over the scattered parts and half-finished projects. He didn’t bother turning on the main lights, relying instead on the soft glow from the CAD screens, which still displayed the skeletal frame of a new design—one he’d been working on intermittently between the chaos of classwork and the looming threat of Professor Thornton’s treachery. This time, he focused on a striker mecha—a sleek, agile model designed for rapid strikes and quick evasion. The striker was smaller than the other mecha he’d worked on, but every inch of it was optimized for speed, precision, and power.

He sat at the workbench, his hands automatically adjusting the virtual design. The striker needed to be more than just another blueprint. It had to be a masterpiece that would prove, beyond a doubt, that Kovacs was a force to be reckoned with. But as he tweaked the placement of a missile pod along the shoulder mount, his mind drifted back to Pitt’s words. The bluntness of her advice still rattled him, but the cold logic was undeniable: in this world, people took what they wanted, and if you weren’t careful, you’d end up bleeding out on the floor.

Kovacs’ fingers paused over the controls, a sudden wave of frustration hitting him. Every moment he spent here, perfecting this design, was a moment Professor Thornton could be planning his next move. Pitt’s strategy might not have been his first instinct, but maybe he’d been too soft, too passive. He glanced at the schematics, a reflection of his systematic approach, but now he needed something more—decisive action, just like Pitt had suggested.

The striker was meant to be his ace, a fast, deadly machine that could outmaneuver any enemy. Maybe he could use this design as leverage or bait in the growing web of lies surrounding him. If he could finish it in time and have it ready for deployment, it might give him the edge he needed.

His mind snapped back to the CAD interface, and Kovacs began furiously working through the remaining specifications. The striker would need compressed armor—something lightweight, durable, but easily customizable. He could adapt one of the expired formulas he’d snagged from class, fine-tuning it for maximum mobility. The more he worked, the more the tension in his chest eased. For the first time that day, Kovacs felt in control again, like the world outside could wait.

He knew the striker wasn’t just another design. It was his way forward—a way to make his mark and protect what was his.