The days after the FAWS celebration settled back into routine. The humming, clanking, and steady rhythm of the calibration bay filled the corridors once more. The faint tang of oil and scorched metal clung to the air, mixed with the hum of diagnostic scanners. To anyone passing by, it looked like any other department grinding through endless shifts to keep the war machine alive.
But to those inside, something had changed. The laughter from the night of celebration lingered like an echo. Tension hadn't vanished—stress never truly left this place—but a weight had lifted. For once, FAWS technicians weren't dragging themselves from bench to bench. Their movements carried a little more pride, a little more confidence.
And at the center of it all was Sirius Blake.
"Alright, my pretty," Sirius said cheerfully, patting the side of a pulse rifle laid out on his workbench. "You had a nasty cough yesterday. Let's get you breathing right again."
One of the younger techs nearby snorted, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "You're talking to it like it's a person again."
"Correction," Sirius replied with mock seriousness, holding up a screwdriver like a pointer. "I'm talking to her. She saved a grunt's life yesterday. Don't tell me she doesn't deserve some respect."
The other FAWS chuckled, shaking their heads. Somehow, Blake's odd habit of treating weapons like comrades made the heavy atmosphere lighter. Even the most exhausted technicians cracked a smile when he murmured encouragements to an overheating plasma pistol or scolded a stubborn coil like a disobedient recruit.
Inside his mind, ARI's cool voice chimed.
> "You do realize this behavior increases your colleagues' perception of eccentricity?"
"Yeah," Sirius muttered under his breath, lips barely moving, "but it makes them laugh. And laughter's better than half the medicine we've got."
> "…Logical in its own illogical way," ARI replied.
By mid-week, Sirius' name had traveled further than he realized. Infantry soldiers who stopped by to collect weapons carried more than rifles back to their units—they carried stories.
"They threw a party in the calibration bay," one corporal said, almost laughing. "After an ambush. Like the bugs weren't chewing on the walls a week ago."
Another soldier shook his head, though his tone was more reverent. "Not just that. That tech—Blake—kept the whole damn place alive. They call him Renegade. Scrap turrets, jokes in the middle of hell—guy's insane, but it worked."
The name spread like wildfire. Renegade Blake.
In the barracks, in the mess halls, even in the trenches, the nickname traveled. Some dismissed it as exaggeration. Others swore by it. But no matter how it was told, the story stuck.
Sirius' friends caught wind of the name too.
Jinx Alvarez, sharpening his knives before a raid, grinned when a squadmate muttered the rumor. "Renegade Blake, huh? Yeah… that tracks."
Stone Varga, helping reinforce a barricade, overheard grunts arguing about whether Renegade was real. He just smirked. "Real enough."
Bear Ivanov, in his mech bay, barked a laugh when he heard it over comms. "That's him. Never met a machine he couldn't turn into a weapon."
Whisper Kade, cleaning her medkit, patched up a soldier still shaken from the ambush. He swore "Renegade" had saved them. Whisper smiled faintly. "Of course he did."
Sparks Novik, elbow-deep in weapon systems, rolled her eyes when colleagues debated if Blake was just lucky. "Not luck. That's just Sirius."
Shade, perched with his rifle on overwatch, heard it over comms chatter. He said nothing, but the sharp flicker of recognition in his eyes said enough.
Their paths had diverged, their duties pulling them apart, but none were surprised that Sirius—of all of them—was becoming a legend.
Far above, high command debated in a dim briefing room.
"Renegade Blake," one colonel said. "His actions raised morale across the Corps. Half the infantry are talking about him."
"Too much," another warned. "He's only a corporal. Folk heroes disrupt the chain of command."
Commander Varek folded his arms. "And yet his results are undeniable. HQ stood because of his improvisation. His department works harder because of his spirit. If the troops want to call him Renegade, let them. We'll watch. But for now—he stays."
The room fell silent. The name, the story, had reached all the way to the top.
Far from HQ, on a rocky ridge battered by acid rain, three soldiers fought for their lives.
Private Moreno jammed a new clip into his rifle, fingers shaking. "Two left! That's it!"
Corporal Shin crouched low, blood dripping from his scalp. "They're coming again!"
Sergeant Rylen steadied his voice, firing short bursts. "Hold the line! Evac's inbound—just hold!"
The Hivebugs poured over the rocks, mandibles clicking, claws sparking against stone. Each reload took too long. Each second meant death was closer.
Moreno muttered through clenched teeth. "We're not getting out of this. Not unless we've got a miracle."
Shin's laugh was ragged, broken, but real. "Heard a story. About some lunatic tech back at HQ. Built turrets from junk, kept everyone alive. They call him Renegade Blake."
Rylen barked a laugh of his own, even as he squeezed the trigger. "Renegade Blake, huh? Well, if he can build turrets out of trash, then we can hold a ridge with two clips."
The three of them fought on, desperate, clinging to the rumor like a shield.
Back in FAWS, Sirius wiped grease from his hands and leaned back in his chair. Tools clattered. Rifles gleamed under the harsh lights. Around him, the technicians laughed at some half-baked joke he'd made about bugs hating his voice.
He had no idea his name was racing across the Corps. No idea his friends were hearing it whispered in the field. No idea the higher-ups were debating whether he was a problem or a blessing.
And no idea that far from the safety of HQ, a squad on a ridge fought with the last of their clips—living, dying, between the lines.
ARI's soft voice flickered in his mind.
> "The storm is coming."
Sirius smiled faintly, turning back to his tools. "Then we'll be ready. We always are."