Kovacs and Prentis trudged through the dense underbrush, their bodies worn down by days of travel on foot. The terrain was unforgiving—thick foliage, uneven ground, and the constant threat of enemy patrols made every step a calculated risk. Without vehicles or mechs, they were nothing but vulnerable prey in hostile territory.

Prentis, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a perpetual scowl, wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced at Kovacs. “We need food and shelter soon. We can’t keep moving like this much longer,” he muttered, his voice low but urgent. “I’ve been on the run before, but this—this is madness.”

Kovacs nodded silently, his mind racing. The two of them had been evading enemy patrols and drone swarms for days, forced into the wilderness with nothing but their packs and a handful of supplies. They’d barely slept, barely eaten, and both knew they couldn’t last much longer without some sort of reprieve.

Ahead, the trees thinned, revealing a rough clearing. Kovacs narrowed his eyes, spotting movement—a group of people clustered around old, battered shelters and rusted equipment. His heart sank when he saw the makeshift barricades and worn-out uniforms. Militia.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones out here,” Prentis muttered, stopping beside him. “This could be bad.”

Kovacs assessed the situation. The militia’s equipment was outdated—two generations behind the current tech at least. Their gear was worn, mechs long since rusted out, and half-functional at best. But that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. Desperation made people unpredictable.

“They’re not the enemy,” Kovacs said cautiously. “But we can’t trust them either.”

As they approached, the militia fighters stiffened, eyes narrowing as they noticed the newcomers. A few reached for their weapons, but none raised them—yet. Kovacs and Prentis kept their hands visible, showing they weren’t a threat.

A grizzled man stepped forward from the group, his uniform a patchwork of different pieces, held together with worn straps and faded insignia. He was tall, with a hardened expression and eyes that missed nothing. His nametag read **Williams**.

“Who are you two?” Williams asked, his tone wary but measured. “You don’t look like the regulars, and you sure as hell don’t look like civvies.”

“Kovacs,” he replied, his voice calm but firm. “This is Prentis. We’ve been on the run for days, avoiding enemy patrols. We’re not here to cause trouble—just passing through.”

Williams eyed them for a long moment, then looked back at his men. “Passing through, huh? In the middle of a warzone? You must be desperate or stupid.”

Prentis tensed beside Kovacs, clearly ready to shoot back with a retort, but Kovacs raised a hand, stopping him. “We’re low on supplies,” Kovacs said. “Food, water. We need somewhere to rest. We can make it worth your while.”

Williams crossed his arms, his gaze flicking between the two of them. “Worth my while? And what exactly are you offering, because we don’t have much to spare either.”

Kovacs glanced around, taking in the state of the militia camp. The mechs they had were relics, barely operational from the looks of it. If they got into a serious fight, they’d be crushed. But Kovacs had an edge—his skills.

“I’m a,” Kovacs said. “A mechanic. I can fix those mechs for you. Get them running better than they have in years. In exchange, all we need are supplies and a place to rest for a night.”

Prentis shot him a glance, his face tightening. “Kovacs,” he muttered under his breath, “what are you doing? These people might try to conscript you. You can’t just offer them everything.”

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Kovacs gave him a brief look, understanding the concern but knowing they didn’t have many choices. “We’ll deal with that if it happens,” he whispered back. “But we need their help, and this is our best shot.”

Williams was silent for a long moment, his gaze hard as he considered the offer. Finally, he sighed. “You fix our mechs, and we’ll see about the supplies. But don’t think we’re idiots. If you try anything funny, we’ll put you down like dogs.”

Kovacs nodded, trying to keep the relief from showing on his face. “Fair enough. Just point me to the tools.”

Williams gestured toward a rusted-out garage on the far side of the camp. “You’ll find what little we’ve got over there. Tools, spare parts—most of it’s junk, but you’re welcome to try your luck. Get to work, and we’ll talk once you’ve made some progress.”

As they moved toward the garage, Prentis leaned in closer to Kovacs, his voice tense and low. “This is a bad idea. I’ve seen militias like this before—they’re going to try and keep you once they realize how valuable you are.”

Kovacs didn’t meet his gaze, instead focusing on the path ahead. “We don’t have much choice, Prentis. We’re out of options.”

Prentis sighed, clearly frustrated. “Just don’t let them rope you in. I can fight my way out of here if I have to, but I can’t drag you along too.”

Kovacs gave him a faint smile, though inside, he felt the same unease gnawing at him. This was a risk—a big one—but it was the only play they had left.

Kovacs groaned audibly when he saw the state of the mechs. They were in even worse shape than he’d imagined—chronically under-serviced for years, with rusted joints, leaking hydraulics, and wiring that looked like it had been chewed by rats.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. "These things are barely held together. They’ll break apart if someone sneezes on them."

With a deep sigh, he grabbed a worn-out tool kit from a nearby bench and got to work. There wasn’t much he could do without proper parts, but he could at least patch up some of the worst problems. He started by pulling apart the joints of the closest mech, an old Roundhead model, using a crowbar to pry away the rusted sections.

As he worked, a voice suddenly rang out from behind him. "Hey! What do you think you’re doing?"

Kovacs looked up from his work, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. Standing a few feet away was an older man, gray-haired and grizzled, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a patched-up uniform and had a glare that could cut steel.

"I’m fixing these mechs as best I can," Kovacs replied, turning back to the exposed mechanics. "They won’t hold up long in a fight, but I can at least get them operational."

The older man frowned, stepping closer. "You ain’t one of us. Who permitted you to mess with our machines?"

"Sergeant Williams," Kovacs said, tightening a bolt on the mech’s knee joint. "I told him I could help. These mechs are in rough shape—you’re lucky they haven’t fallen apart in the field."

The man eyed Kovacs suspiciously, then glanced over the mech he was working on. "You got some nerve, kid. These machines kept us alive. And now you’re saying they’re junk?"

Kovacs stood up and met the man’s gaze. "I’m not saying they’re junk. I’m saying they need serious work, and if you want them to keep you alive, you need to let me do what I can. Otherwise, you’re going to lose more people than you can afford."

The man grunted, scratching his chin. "You talk like you know a thing or two. You a tech?"

"Something like that," Kovacs said, already going back to work. He wasn’t about to explain his entire background. "I know enough to make these old models a little more reliable. But I’m going to need better parts if you want them to last."

The older man snorted. "Good luck with that. We barely got enough supplies to keep the lights on, let alone spare parts for these relics. Do what you can with what we’ve got."

Kovacs paused for a moment, glancing back at him. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Name’s Harris," the man said, a hint of pride in his voice. "I’ve been keeping these mechs running for years now. You’re not the first young buck to come along thinking you can fix everything with a wrench."

Kovacs raised an eyebrow. "No offense, but I’m guessing you haven’t had much to work with."

Harris chuckled dryly. "None taken. We make do with what we can out here. But if you’ve got any magic tricks, be my guest."

Kovacs nodded and returned to the mess of wires and actuators. "No magic, just a lot of elbow grease."

Prentis, who had been standing off to the side, finally spoke up, his voice low but tense. "How long is this going to take, Kovacs? We don’t have all day."

"Depends on how bad the damage is," Kovacs replied, not looking up. "These things have been neglected for years. I’m doing what I can, but it’s not going to be perfect."

Prentis shifted uneasily, his eyes scanning the camp. "Just be careful. They’re watching us."

Kovacs nodded, already aware of the militia fighters keeping a close eye on them. "I know," he muttered under his breath. "But we need them just as much as they need me."