The smoke of the last assault still clung to the air like a second skin. Vetra-9's frontline was nothing but scarred earth, craters, and the chittering echoes of Hivebugs testing the perimeter. Even in retreat, they never gave silence.
Sirius Blake stood ankle-deep in spent casings outside FAWS HQ, toolkit strapped to his hip, ARI's interface glowing across his vision. Every turret, rifle, and exo-armor pod in the bay had been recalibrated once already, but now — under another surge of Hivebug neural static — tiny malfunctions were cropping up again.
> "Neural interference spikes rising. Probability of weapon misfire across multiple squads: sixty-four percent," ARI reported.
Sirius' jaw tightened. "Then we fix it again. Nobody dies because of a bad coil or a dirty optic."
Unlike his first frontline mission, this wasn't measured in hours. This was a siege measured in days. Hivebugs probed the defenses at irregular intervals, forcing every soldier into a cycle of exhaustion: fight, rest in seconds, fight again.
And with every wave, the interference worsened. Rifles skipped charges. Turrets fired off-beat. Armor servos locked at the worst moments.
Sirius worked through it all.
Diagnostics streamed into his HUD, ARI layering schematics over each weapon shoved into his hands.
Drones zipped to downed turrets, their manipulators replacing scorched circuits.
His own hands blurred over barrels, optics, and recoil dampeners until weapons hummed steady again.
He became the quiet pivot in the chaos. While others shouted, fired, or bled, Sirius kept everything working.
> "Mark Turret Seven," he muttered, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Probability of failure next wave?"
> "Critical. Initiating remote micro-adjustment," ARI replied.
The turret hummed back online, its barrel pivoting smoothly again.
During a rare lull, Sirius ducked back into the calibration bay. Soldiers were stacked wall-to-wall waiting for their weapons, the hum of diagnostics machines filling the air. But Sirius set his toolkit down in a corner and started working on something else.
Two stubby turrets lay across the floor, little more than jury-rigged frames bolted together from spare parts and gutted drones. He wired them into the bay's power grid, positioning one on each side of the entrance.
"Call it insurance," he murmured.
> "Turret prototypes efficiency: seventy-one percent compared to standard models. Ammunition capacity: limited. But probability of delaying Hivebug breach: significant," ARI noted.
"That's all we need. Delay buys time."
The door hissed open behind him. Commander Varek stepped in, eyes narrowing.
"Blake," he said slowly, "what in God's name are you building?"
Sirius snapped to attention, grease on his hands, grin unshaken. "Defensive cover, sir. If Hivebugs breach this room, at least FAWS won't be slaughtered before their weapons are in hand."
Varek arched a brow. "You think Hivebugs will crawl all the way into HQ?"
"Probability is low," Sirius admitted, "but if it happens — at least we're ready."
The commander studied him for a long beat. Suspicion flickered behind the eyes, then softened into reluctant approval. "Fine. Approved. Just… don't let those things start firing on their own."
Sirius saluted. "Understood, sir."
Hours later, the ground shuddered. A tremor split the calibration bay. Crates toppled. Technicians screamed.
Then the floor cracked open. Hivebugs surged upward, mandibles clicking, their screeches rattling the walls.
Infantry waiting for weapons stumbled into a ragged firing line. FAWS personnel dove for cover. The Hivebugs were inside HQ.
Sirius' eyes snapped to his prototypes. "Now."
The turrets activated with a satisfying whirr. Twin barrels spun and spat streams of lead into the swarm. The recoil kicked them slightly off-center, but they corrected themselves, hammering the Hivebugs with brutal efficiency.
"Go on, boys," Sirius muttered. "Earn your keep."
> "Turret prototypes operating at eighty-one percent efficiency. Ammunition depletion in three minutes," ARI calculated.
"That's all I need."
The room dissolved into controlled chaos. Hivebugs crashed against crates, claws skittering across metal. Infantry shouted, their half-calibrated rifles misfiring or locking. Sparks flew as Sirius dove into the pile of waiting weapons, ARI streaming diagnostics faster than he could blink.
"Rifles and sidearms first," Sirius barked. "Turrets hold the line!"
Sparks Novik appeared at his elbow, hair matted with sweat, shoving a carbine into his hands. "Blake, this one's dead! Move!"
"On it." His hands blurred, swapping a burned coil, resetting optics. He slapped it back into her hands. Sparks fired point-blank into a Hivebug's open maw.
"Nice work, Renegade," she muttered, already grabbing the next rifle.
Across the bay, Whisper crouched over a technician with a shredded leg. Her calm voice cut through the storm. "Blake! I need a turret alive on my side or we'll lose med cover!"
"Copy!" Sirius yelled. He rerouted power to the left prototype, its barrels roaring back to life just as Hivebugs closed on her position. Whisper didn't flinch, stitching wounds while ichor splattered the floor around her.
And high above, through the cracked ceiling, Sirius caught a flicker of movement. Shade — perched on the rubble, his rifle whispering death. Each shot dropped a Hivebug before it breached deeper into the bay. Once, his scope lingered on Sirius. Then it shifted back to the swarm.
A shiver slid down Sirius' spine.
> "Calibration progress: eighty-seven percent. Infantry operational: sixty-four percent," ARI reported.
"Not good enough!" Sirius growled, his hands moving faster. ARI pushed data into his vision, highlighting flaws in each weapon. His enhancements blurred the world, letting him work with almost inhuman precision.
Carbine after carbine roared back to life. Sidearms hummed. Turrets spat until their ammo ran dry — but by then, infantry rifles were firing true, cutting the swarm down.
Minutes dragged like hours. Then, silence.
The Hivebugs lay in smoking heaps, their ichor searing the floor. The bay was battered, smoke curling from vents, but still intact.
Dawn filtered pale through cracks in the roof. Soldiers slumped against crates, armor scorched, but alive. FAWS personnel shakily returned to their terminals.
Sirius leaned against one of his jury-rigged turrets, chest heaving.
> "Mission status: calibration bay secured. Weapons recalibrated. Minor enhancement applied: neural reflex and optimization plus one percent," ARI reported.
"Not bad for scrap metal and guesswork," Sirius muttered.
Sparks wiped grime from her cheek and smirked faintly. "Your toys saved our asses, Blake. I'll give you that."
Whisper passed by, a bloodied stretcher at her side. "Don't get used to the praise," she said softly, but her eyes carried quiet gratitude.
Across the room, Commander Varek entered, boots crunching over Hivebug carcasses. He stared at the jury-rigged turrets, then at Sirius.
"Blake," he said, voice low. "Next time, tell me when you're building your own defenses."
Sirius saluted, grin still in place. "With respect, sir… would you have approved?"
Varek's silence was answer enough. He walked on, but his gaze lingered longer than comfort allowed.
> "Observation: suspicion reinforced. Probability of discovery increasing," ARI warned in Sirius' skull.
"Yeah," Sirius whispered. "Figured as much."
The war outside still raged. Hivebugs would evolve, and weapons would fail again. But Sirius knew this much: as long as he was here, soldiers wouldn't be left holding broken rifles.
And maybe — just maybe — the name Renegade's Circus would mean something more than a joke Jinx once made.
Because when the Hivebugs clawed at humanity's doors, it was the circus — and its tinkerer at the center — that kept them shut.