General Patton, often known behind closed doors as "Pogue One," stared intently at the map of the region, the holographic lines tracing out supply routes and defensive positions. His finger hovered over the factory site, a crucial point in his next operations phase. But for once, his mind wasn’t solely on strategy or logistics. He could hear the distant cries of civilians from his window—a haunting reminder of the cost of war.

Lieutenant Harper stood at attention beside him, waiting for his orders. Normally, Harper would see Patton sharp and focused, ready to talk about troop movements or supply chains. But today, there was a different tension in the air.

“We need those 3D printers, Lieutenant,” Patton said, his voice low and heavy. "Without them, this factory is nothing. We’ll be dead in the water before we can even get the mecha production started."

"Yes, sir," Harper responded cautiously, sensing there was more to come.

Patton sighed deeply, his hand running over his face as if to wipe away the weight of the day. “But that’s not what’s keeping me up at night, Harper.”

Harper frowned. "The civilians, sir?"

Patton nodded slowly, his eyes drifting away from the map. “We’re setting up factories in the middle of their towns, in their backyards. They’re caught in the crossfire. I’ve been hearing the reports—families displaced, homes destroyed, and what do we offer them in return? Empty promises of protection that we can barely uphold."

Harper shifted uneasily. “Sir, our first priority is winning this war. The civilians are secondary to that. We can’t save everyone.”

“I know that!” Patton snapped, but then immediately softened. “I know that, Harper. But... they’re not just numbers. These people... they're part of the world we’re supposed to protect. If we lose sight of that, what’s the point of any of this?”

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension thick.

Patton turned back to the map, pointing at the areas marked for factory installations. "This is all well and good for production, but what happens when we’re done? When the factories shut down and all that’s left is rubble? We need to make sure these people aren’t left behind. We can’t keep treating them as collateral."

Harper cleared his throat. “We’ve been able to secure Slippery Jim’s printers, sir. If we move forward, we’ll have what we need to start production by the end of the week. But you know what dealing with Jim means. The black market, the underhanded deals—it comes at a cost. And not just to our reputation.”

Patton grimaced at the mention of Slippery Jim. The thought of working with that slime made his stomach churn, but there wasn’t another option. They couldn’t source the equipment fast enough through legitimate channels, not with the war escalating and resources growing scarcer by the day.

“Jim’s a necessary evil,” Patton muttered. "He’s the only one who can get us the large-scale 3D printers we need. But if we’re going to work with him, we need to do this on our terms. No deals that throw civilians under the bus.”

Harper looked confused. “Sir, what do you mean?”

Patton tapped the map again, this time pointing to a small, unmarked section of the town near the factory site. “We’ll move the civilians. Quietly, without alerting the enemy. Find them new homes, better shelters, away from the fighting. The factories will still run, but they won’t be living in a war zone.”

“But General, that’s a massive undertaking. How do we justify diverting resources for civilian relocations when we’re struggling to keep up with military demands?”

Patton’s gaze hardened, but there was a hint of something more behind his eyes—a flicker of humanity that hadn’t been entirely snuffed out by the years of battle.

“Because we can’t win this war if we lose the people we’re fighting for. You think they’ll ever trust us again if we abandon them now? If we let them think they’re expendable? This isn’t just about victory on the battlefield, Lieutenant. It’s about what comes after. When the smoke clears, we’ll need more than just factories. We’ll need their trust.”

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Harper stood silent for a moment, processing the weight of his commander’s words. He had never seen this side of Patton before, the man who was dubbed “Pogue One” because of his cold, calculated moves. It was strange to see the general care so much about the collateral damage of war.

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Harper said finally. “We’ll begin the relocations. But sir, if Slippery Jim catches wind that we’re pulling resources for non-military purposes—”

“Let me worry about Jim,” Patton said, cutting him off. “I’ll handle him. Our priority is getting those printers and setting up the factory. But we’ll do it without crushing the people we’re meant to protect. Understood?”

Harper nodded, saluting. “Yes, sir.”

As the lieutenant turned to leave, Patton’s eyes drifted back to the map. He was a man of strategy, of plans and contingencies, but no plan accounted for the sheer chaos that war unleashed on those who had no part in it. The civilians weren’t soldiers, but they were in the thick of it, and that weighed heavier on him than he cared to admit.

“Harper,” Patton called out as the door was opening. The lieutenant stopped and turned. “One more thing—don’t let anyone else know we’re working with Slippery Jim. Not even the other officers. This stays between us.”

Harper gave a curt nod. “Understood, sir.”

As the door closed behind his aide, Patton leaned over the table, his hands gripping the edge. The war wasn’t going to be won by military strength alone—it would be won by ensuring there was still something left to protect when the fighting was done. Slippery Jim might get his printers, but the people? The people would be protected, no matter what.

"Where are we on locating designers and technicians?" Patton asked, his voice gruff with frustration.

Emil, his logistics chief, straightened up from his chair, holding a clipboard. "We’re finding technicians, sir. Hell, we even had a seventy-eight-year-old tap and die machinist volunteer. Came out of retirement, said he wanted to help any way he could. But the designers… that’s another story," he said, his voice dipping as he trailed off.

Patton stopped his pacing and turned to face Emil. "What's the problem?"

Emil sighed, flipping through the notes. "There were three top-tier mecha designers outside of the main college, all with active projects. Unfortunately, they were hunted down by enemy intelligence units before we could secure them. Killed or captured—we don’t know which. There’s one in custody we managed to get from the Kovacs affair, but his specialty is materials science, not the actual design of combat mechs."

Patton’s eyes narrowed. “Materials design? That’s not enough. We need battle-ready minds who can push our machines beyond the current gen. What about this Kovacs guy?”

Emil hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. "Last we heard, he was alive, sir, but that was a few days ago. He’s been slippery, avoiding direct contact ever since the ambush near the city center. His name keeps coming up in intelligence reports, though. Word is, he’s more than just a tech. He’s got talent, but…" Emil paused, glancing at the general’s tense expression.

"But what?" Patton snapped.

"But he’s not fully under our control. From what we can gather, Kovacs has been moving around, maybe trying to stay off the radar. He’s been working on mechs, for sure, but it’s unclear who he’s working with. There are rumors he’s got ties to some of the underground outfits—might even be playing both sides."

Patton frowned deeply, running his hand over his jaw as he processed this. Kovacs was a wildcard, and in a situation like theirs, wildcards could be dangerous—but they could also be the key to survival.

“And you’re certain his skills go beyond materials? He’s got the potential we need?” Patton asked, his voice lowering with a note of consideration.

"From everything we’ve heard, yes. He’s brilliant with advanced design systems and modifications. Some of the stuff he’s worked on is top-notch—could change the tide of this war. But like I said, sir, he’s not easy to pin down. And he’s got his own agenda."

Patton stared at the map, his mind turning over options. “We can’t afford to lose someone like that. Keep an eye on him. If we can’t bring him in willingly, we’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. If he’s really as good as they say, he might be the answer we need. What about his old professors? Anyone still around who could give us leverage?”

Emil shook his head. “Not many, sir. Most of the faculty have either fled or been eliminated. The military’s taken over most of the schools, and the ones who resisted… well, let’s just say they’re not teaching anymore.”

Patton grunted. “Of course. Well, find out where Kovacs is hiding, and bring him in. Make sure it’s clear—he’s either with us, or against us. We can’t let talent like that slip away.”

Emil nodded, scribbling down notes. “Understood, General. I’ll get our agents on it.”

Patton returned his gaze to the strategy board, staring at the array of unfulfilled objectives. The war was grinding on, and they were running out of time. Every delay, every lost opportunity, brought them closer to defeat. But if Kovacs really had the skills, if they could bring him in… then maybe, just maybe, they could turn things around.

“Keep me updated,” Patton ordered, his tone final. “And Emil—don’t let him slip away. Not this one.”

"Yes, sir." Emil saluted, then hurried out of the room, leaving Patton alone with the map, the sounds of the distant war echoing in the background.