The fragile peace on Prescott was cracking under the weight of growing tensions. The discovery of rare elements had drawn opportunists and corporate agents to the colony, each with their own agenda. What had once been a unified effort to rebuild after the war now threatened to unravel as disputes flared over who controlled the newly uncovered resources. In the town of Wexcombe, where miners had struck the richest vein yet, protestors clashed with security forces, and rumors swirled of corporate-backed agitators.

Kovacs stood in the cavernous workshop of Prescott’s main manufacturing hub, his hands smeared with grease as he worked alongside local engineers. The machinery here was decades out of date, but it was functional, and for Kovacs, it was enough to begin integrating the advanced schematics and tools he had brought back from the advanced world. He sketched on a battered datapad, outlining the design for a new mech prototype that could be produced with Prescott’s limited resources.

“This frame’s too heavy,” grumbled one of the engineers, an older man named Harlan. He pointed at the blueprint. “We don’t have the alloys to keep that weight down without sacrificing structural integrity.”

Kovacs nodded, adjusting the schematic with quick strokes. “We can adapt it. Substitute these joints with reinforced ceramics and balance the weight with internal supports. It won’t be perfect, but it’ll work.”

Harlan snorted but gave a begrudging nod. “It’s ambitious, I’ll give you that. You sure this’ll hold together in the field?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Kovacs replied, his tone lighter than the weight he felt. He glanced toward the corner of the workshop, where a partial frame of the prototype stood gleaming under the dim lights. It was smaller and leaner than the mechs he’d designed before, built for speed and adaptability. A mech meant for survival, not domination.

***

In the streets of Wexcombe, the air was heavy with unease. Jackie Stewart strode through the chaotic crowd, her peacekeeping unit flanking her. The civilians were a volatile mix of displaced families and embittered soldiers, many of whom had lost everything in the war. Tensions had boiled over after another shipment of supplies—including much-needed medical gear—was diverted to support the mining operations. The decision had been made by Prescott’s provisional council, but the people only saw betrayal.

“We need food and medicine, not another mine!” shouted a man near the front of the protest. His voice was hoarse, his face lined with desperation. Around him, others raised fists and makeshift signs, their anger palpable.

Jackie raised her voice to carry over the din. “I hear you, but this isn’t the way. Fighting each other won’t bring supplies faster. Let’s talk, find another solution—”

“Easy for you to say,” a woman snapped back. “You’ve got rations! You’re not the one burying your kids because there’s no medicine!”

The crowd surged forward, and Jackie’s unit tensed, their hands hovering near their weapons. She signaled them to hold. Her voice dropped, hardening. “You think I don’t know loss? You think any of us don’t? We’ve all lost something—someone. But if we tear each other apart, there won’t be anything left for the next generation. Now step back.”

The man who had first shouted hesitated, his defiance flickering. Jackie stepped forward, lowering her voice just enough to make it personal. “Help me make this right. Talk to the council with me. We’ll make them listen.”

It wasn’t a solution, not yet, but it was enough to diffuse the immediate danger. The crowd’s anger softened into a sullen murmur as Jackie’s team guided them back. She exhaled slowly, already thinking of the uphill battle ahead.

***

Later, at the makeshift barracks near the base, the dim glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows on the walls, reflecting the weight of unspoken burdens. Jackie sat on a crate near the workshop door, her posture rigid, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The sounds of machinery and muffled voices drifted from inside, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in the chaos of her personal life.

Kovacs emerged from the workshop, wiping his hands on a grease-streaked rag. He noticed her immediately—her usually confident demeanor now replaced by a vulnerability he rarely saw. He approached cautiously, sensing she was wrestling with something heavy.

“Jackie?” he called gently.

She looked up, her eyes glassy but sharp with unspoken emotion. “Kovacs,” she replied, her voice strained. “Got a minute?”

He nodded, pulling over a stool and sitting down beside her. “What’s on your mind?”

Jackie hesitated, staring at the floor as if the right words might hide there. Finally, she spoke, her voice low. “It’s my family. They’ve… they’ve been through hell. We all have, but it’s like they didn’t come back from it the same.”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Kovacs stayed quiet, letting her find her pace.

“My brother, David,” she continued, her tone growing heavier. “He was the strong one—the one we all leaned on. But after the war…” She swallowed hard. “He lost both his legs. They’ve got him in one of those medical pods, trying to stabilize him. Physically, he’s healing, but mentally? He’s gone. Bitter, angry, like the world owes him something.”

Kovacs frowned, his hands clasped in front of him. “That’s not uncommon after something like this,” he said gently. “Losing a part of yourself—literally or figuratively—changes people.”

Jackie nodded. “Yeah, but it’s more than that. He lashes out at everyone—my mom, my dad, me. And speaking of them…” Her voice cracked, and she paused to gather herself. “My dad’s turned into this angry, bitter man. He’s always yelling, blaming everyone for what happened. And my mom…” She exhaled shakily. “She used to be so strong, but now she’s just… fragile. She flinches every time someone raises their voice, like she’s waiting for the next explosion.”

Kovacs leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “That’s a lot for anyone to carry,” he said. “But you’re not alone in this. What can I do to help?”

Jackie hesitated again, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “It’s David,” she said finally. “He’s stuck in that pod, and it’s like he’s giving up. He won’t even talk to the therapists. I’ve tried everything, but… you’re the only one who might be able to get through to him.”

Kovacs blinked, taken aback. “Me? Why me?”

“Because you’re not just anyone,” Jackie said, her voice firm despite the tremor underneath. “You’re the one who designed the machines that gave people hope when everything was falling apart. You’re the one who understands what it’s like to build something out of nothing. Maybe—just maybe—you can show him there’s still something worth fighting for.”

Kovacs set the rag down and looked at her intently. “That’s a lot to put on me, Jackie.”

“I know,” she admitted, her shoulders sagging. “But I don’t know what else to do. I can’t lose him, Kovacs. Not like this.”

The weight of her words settled between them. Kovacs looked away for a moment, his gaze falling on the half-finished prototype on his workbench. He thought about the harvester design, about the relentless need to rebuild from scraps, to find purpose in the discarded and broken. Maybe that wasn’t just about machines.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said finally, his voice steady. “Bring him here tomorrow.”

Jackie let out a shaky breath, the faintest flicker of hope breaking through her despair. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Kovacs stood, resting a hand briefly on her shoulder. “Get some rest, Jackie. You’ve been carrying this alone for too long.”

As he returned to the workshop, Kovacs’s mind was already racing with ideas—not just for David, but for how to extend the same hope to others like him. The fractures in Prescott’s peace ran deep, but perhaps, just perhaps, there was a way to mend them, one piece at a time.

***

Back at the workshop, Kovacs wiped his hands on a rag, the tang of machine oil and grease thick in the air. Around him, the engineers argued, their voices overlapping as they debated how to stretch their dwindling resources. The prototype’s design was progressing, but each step forward seemed to uncover two more obstacles.

“We’re running out of usable alloy for the chassis,” one engineer said, gesturing at the inventory list on her datapad. “And let’s not even talk about the wiring. Half of what we’ve got is corroded.”

“We can’t keep patching things together,” another replied. “This isn’t a solution—it’s delaying the inevitable.”

Kovacs stepped away from his station, his gaze drifting to the stockpile in the corner of the workshop. It was a mountain of broken dreams: twisted beams, shattered plating, and rusting machinery, all deemed too damaged or degraded to be of use. Yet, as he studied the pile, something sparked in his mind—a wild idea that refused to be ignored.

“What if we didn’t need outside materials?” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the noise.

The room fell silent as every head turned to him.

Harlan, arms crossed, arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got some magic solution for turning junk into gold?”

Kovacs grabbed his datapad, fingers already sketching as he spoke. “Not gold. But what if we built a mech that could recycle and harvest raw materials? Something that could break down scrap and process it into usable resources, then gather raw materials from the environment when needed.”

“A mobile recycling plant?” Mira asked, her skepticism evident.

“Not just recycling,” Kovacs clarified, his pen flying across the screen as lines and diagrams began to form. “A harvester. Imagine a mech equipped with tools to strip raw materials from the ground—ore, minerals, even metals from debris—and process it on the spot. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it could extend our resources enough to keep us going.”

Harlan snorted, shaking his head. “You’re talking about turning a war machine into a mining rig. Sounds like a waste of time and energy.”

“Not a mining rig,” Kovacs shot back, his voice firm. “A multi-role unit. It would still be combat-capable but equipped with specialized systems—an integrated smelter to process scrap, tools to extract raw materials, and modular storage for whatever we recover. It wouldn’t replace supply lines, but it could make us less dependent on them.”

Mira frowned, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the sketch. “How would you power it? Those systems are going to require serious energy.”

Kovacs nodded, already calculating. “A dedicated auxiliary reactor, compact but efficient. It won’t be able to run indefinitely, but in the field, it could process what we need to keep going. Armor plating, structural reinforcements, maybe even parts for ammunition casings or basic electronics.”

The workshop was quiet for a moment; the idea settling over them like a weight. Slowly, the skepticism in the room began to shift to curiosity.

“If it works,” Mira said cautiously, “it could give us an edge. Especially if we’re cut off from external supply lines.”

The foreman stepped forward, his face creased with thought. “It’ll be a hell of a challenge to build something like that. But if anyone’s stubborn enough to pull it off, it’s you.”

Kovacs returned to his workstation, the sound of tools and muttered conversations resuming behind him. He began drafting the first prototype for the harvester, his mind racing with possibilities. The fractures in Prescott’s peace were widening, and he couldn’t afford to wait for help that might never come.

As his pen moved across the screen, he murmured under his breath, “We’ll build our future from the ground up. If we can’t rely on others, we’ll make sure we don’t need to.”