The sound of grinding metal echoed through the hangar as Kovacs stood by a row of partially disassembled mechs. The sharp tang of oil and coolant filled the air, mixing with the distant hum of welding torches. Mechanics and engineers moved purposefully around him, their voices muffled by the oppressive weight of their tasks. Everywhere he looked, pieces of his designs lay exposed—damaged torsos, severed arms, and shattered leg actuators.

Kovacs adjusted his tablet, scrolling through diagnostic reports. Each line of data felt like an accusation: Hydraulic failure. Joint fatigue. Armor breach. Every fault was a stark reminder of the lives tied to his work.

“This one’s scrap,” a voice called, pulling him from his thoughts. Marcus, the grizzled senior engineer, gestured toward the twisted frame of a Goblin. Its cockpit hatch hung open, stained with soot and something darker. “Took a direct hit to the reactor housing. The pilot didn’t make it.”

Kovacs swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “Was it a design flaw?”

Marius gave him a measured look, his expression unreadable. “Not exactly. The pilot pushed the reactor past its limits, trying to cover their squad. The overload protection kicked in too late.” He gestured to a cracked section of the mech’s torso. “But the armor around the housing? Too thin. A heavier plate might’ve saved them.”

Kovacs stared at the Goblin, his mind racing. He’d designed the Goblin as a lightweight, fast unit—a scout and skirmisher, not a frontline brawler. But in the chaos of battle, intent didn’t matter. The machine had been pushed beyond its limits, and someone had died because of it.

“That’s on me,” Kovacs said quietly. His voice barely carried over the clamor of the hangar, but Marius heard him.

“Don’t do that,” Marcus replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “Machines break. People make mistakes. War doesn’t care about either.”

“It should,” Kovacs muttered, gripping the tablet's edge so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I designed these machines to give people a fighting chance. If they’re failing—if people are dying because of them—what’s the point?”

Marcus sighed, stepping closer. “Look, I’ve been in this game long enough to know one thing: no design is perfect. You can build the toughest mech in the galaxy, and someone will still find a way to break it. Or get themselves killed using it. Do you think the Goblin’s a bad design? It’s not. Hell, it’s saved more lives than it’s cost. But you don’t get to choose how your work is used—not in war.”

Kovacs nodded reluctantly, but the weight in his chest didn’t lift. “I just… I thought it would feel different. Better. Knowing I was helping.”

Marius clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It never feels better, kid. You learn to carry it.”

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***

The field test was supposed to be routine—a stress test for the Goblins in urban terrain. Kovacs stood in the observation tower, watching through the reinforced glass as three mechs maneuvered through a simulated battlefield below. Pilots called out movements over the comms, their voices steady but tinged with the adrenaline of live exercises.

“Goblin Two, adjust your vector. You’re pulling left,” Kovacs said into the mic, his eyes fixed on the display. The pilot complied, and the mech corrected smoothly, weaving between mock buildings.

Everything seemed to be going well—until it wasn’t.

An alarm blared, sharp and jarring. One of the Goblins stumbled, its right leg actuator seizing mid-step. The mech crashed into a nearby structure, the impact sending a plume of dust and debris into the air. The other two mechs halted, their pilots shouting in confusion.

“Status report!” Kovacs barked, his heart pounding.

“Goblin Three’s leg failed!” a voice yelled over the comms. “Pilot’s stuck—the reactor’s overheating!”

“Shut it down!” Kovacs said, his voice rising. “Manually disengage the reactor!”

“I’m trying—” The pilot’s words cut off as another alarm screamed louder and more urgent. The reactor core breached, sending a shockwave through the simulation area. Kovacs flinched as the observation tower rattled, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios.

Minutes felt like hours as emergency crews scrambled to the scene. When the dust settled, the Goblin was little more than a smoldering wreck; its pilot was dragged from the cockpit with burns and a broken leg. Alive, but barely.

Kovacs stood in the debriefing room, his hands trembling as he gripped a cup of cold coffee. The test failure replayed in his mind on an endless loop: the leg actuator seizing, the reactor breaching, and the near-death of the pilot. Every detail felt like a knife twisting deeper into his gut.

The door opened, and Marius entered, his expression grim. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You want to talk about it, or should I start guessing?”

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Kovacs said, his voice hollow. “The actuators passed every stress test. The reactor safeguards—”

“Stop,” Marcus interrupted. “You’re not going to fix this by blaming yourself. We’ll figure out what went wrong like we always do.”

“What if it’s me?” Kovacs said, finally meeting Marius’ gaze. “What if I’m the reason these machines keep failing?”

Marius snorted. “You’re not that powerful, kid. Machines fail because they’re machines. And because people push them harder than they’re meant to go.”

Kovacs set the coffee down, his hands still unsteady. “I just… I thought if I worked hard enough if I got better, I could build something perfect. Something that wouldn’t fail.”

“That’s not how it works,” Marius said, his voice softening. “You’re not building perfection. You’re building tools. And tools are only as good as the people using them—and the circumstances they’re used in.”

Later that night, Kovacs sat in his quarters, staring at the holographic interface hovering in front of him. The system’s voice chimed softly, breaking the silence.

System Update: Apprentice-Level Access Available. Advancement requires external mentorship or qualifying independent discoveries.

Kovacs leaned back, the words washing over him. Apprentice level. The next step forward. A chance to grow, to get better. But the weight of the day lingered, its echoes refusing to fade.

“You’re telling me I need to grow,” he murmured to the interface. “But how do I do that when I can barely handle what I’ve already done?”

The system didn’t respond; it silent hum offered no guidance. Kovacs stared at the words for a long moment before shutting the display. Sleep didn’t come easily, but as he finally drifted off, one thought clung to his mind: if he was going to carry the burden of creation, he needed to become strong enough to bear it.