The FAWS calibration bay pulsed with the constant rhythm of war industry. Sparks showered from cutting tools. Coils hissed as they cooled. The sharp staccato of wrenches echoed from every corner, a song of labor for a war that never paused. But at Sirius Blake's workstation, the noise felt distant, muted by the feverish hum of his own heartbeat.
For weeks he had bent over scraps of alloy and circuits, chasing an idea with reckless focus. Now, at last, the idea had taken shape in his hands. A micro-slug cartridge, smaller and denser than any standard infantry round. Balanced perfectly, its casing gleamed under the worklight like a silver promise.
Sirius held it up, grinning so wide it almost split his face. "You're beautiful," he whispered.
> "Micro-Slug project complete," ARI's crystalline voice announced in his mind. "Ballistics optimized. Compression standards matched. Mission status: success."
Sirius laughed—low, giddy, like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. "Finally. Finally! You're going to change everything." He spun the cartridge between his fingers before sliding it carefully into the waiting micro-mag.
The fit was perfect. Snug. Secure. His grin widened, boyish and wild.
Around him, other FAWS technicians looked up from their own stations. One shook his head. "There he goes again."
Another chuckled under his breath. "Better when he's laughing than cursing."
They turned back to their work, but Sirius kept giggling softly, a man on the edge of triumph.
---
Before he could test further, the intercom system shrieked to life, cutting through the workshop. Chief Engineer Loras' voice rolled like thunder across the bay.
> "Attention FAWS. New directive from Command. Infantry casualties are rising at unsustainable levels. Ammunition shortages. Reload inefficiency. Our men are dying in the trenches while we remain in safety here. That ends now. We have seventy-two hours to present a working solution. Prototypes, concepts, anything. This is not a request. This is survival."
The words slammed into the workshop. Tools stilled. Heads bowed. For a moment, the entire bay seemed to hold its breath.
One young technician murmured, "My brother's still out there…"
Another clenched his fists around a half-finished rifle. "We can't let them die like this."
But Sirius? Sirius didn't flinch. He didn't even look up. He was too focused on the little mag in his hand, the one that could—no, would—change the game.
"ARI," he whispered, ignoring Loras' speech, "let's try this baby out."
---
His hands moved quick, confident. He slid the newly finished slug into the micro-mag. Perfect. Then, with a theatrical flourish, he raised the mag toward the rifle's receiver.
"Time to shine," he muttered.
He aligned the edges, pushed the mag forward—
Clatter!
The mag slipped free, bounced once, and skittered across the floor.
The sound echoed louder than a gunshot. Every head in the bay turned. Sirius stared at the weapon in his hands, his grin frozen, his chest locked tight. His triumph had crumbled in an instant.
Slowly, he bent down, scooped up the fallen mag, and studied it. The flaw was obvious. The mag was too small. The rifle's well, designed for standard issue, couldn't lock it in place. His perfect creation… unusable.
"…my baby," he whispered, voice hollow.
Then he laughed. Quiet at first, then louder. Louder. Until it bounced off the steel walls and filled the bay with something manic and sharp.
"Ha… ha! One problem after another!" His shoulders shook. His eyes gleamed. "I fix one piece, another breaks! Oh, gods, it's perfect!"
Techs exchanged nervous glances.
"Renegade Blake," one muttered, half-amused, half-wary.
"Madman or genius," another sighed, "I can't tell anymore."
---
> "Observation: incompatibility detected. Standard infantry rifles cannot chamber micro-mag due to receiver dimensions," ARI reported calmly. "Probability of adoption in current state: zero."
Sirius wheezed through another laugh, pressing the mag against his forehead. "Yeah, thanks, I noticed."
> "Recommendation: Initiate new mission. Retrofit all infantry-class light weapons for compatibility. Exclusion criteria: heavy ordnance and single-use launchers."
He stopped laughing, breathing hard. Then the grin returned, steadier, sharper. "Retrofit everything. Every rifle, every sidearm. If the weapons can't fit my babies, we'll make them fit."
> "Mission generated," ARI replied. "Primary objective: retrofit all light weapons for micro-mag compatibility. Deadline: ninety-six hours for prototype delivery. Secondary objective: stabilize performance under Hivebug interference."
Sirius held the mag up again, giggling softer now. "Round two. This time, we make them dance."
---
Far from the safety of FAWS, the battlefield on Vetra-9 raged like hellfire. Hivebugs poured from fissures in the earth, their claws scraping metal, their shrieks piercing the air. Infantry squads huddled behind shattered barriers, rifles blazing until empty clicks replaced gunfire.
"Reloading!" Jinx Alvarez shouted, fumbling with his rifle. His hands were quick, reckless as always, but even he couldn't outpace the swarm. A Hivebug lunged toward him before Stone Varga's heavy cannon thundered, blasting the creature apart.
"Too damn slow!" Stone barked. His own weapon hissed, heat building as he jammed another mag into place.
Nearby, Bear Ivanov heaved a damaged turret into position, sweat pouring down his brow. "I can't keep feeding these things fast enough!"
Whisper Kade was already on her knees beside a wounded soldier, blood pooling across the dirt. Her med-kit rattled as she tore open a cauterizer, her voice shaking. "I'm running out of supplies—too many coming in, too many down—"
Above them, Sparks Novik cursed as her weapon fizzled, interference crackling through her optics. "Jammed again! These rifles can't handle this!"
Shade, silent and focused, lined up a shot with his sniper, his calm the only anchor in the chaos. But even he muttered, "Ammo count low. One clip left."
Everywhere, the same problem repeated. Empty magazines. Sluggish reloads. Soldiers fumbling for spare rounds while Hivebugs closed in.
By nightfall, the casualty lines stretched longer than the barricades.
---
The medbay overflowed. Stretchers lined the halls. The air reeked of antiseptic, sweat, and blood. Exhausted medics moved like ghosts, their hands trembling from fatigue as they patched wound after wound.
Whisper stumbled in with another soldier, her face pale. "Another abdomen tear! Hivebug claw—get me a clean surface!"
Doctors exchanged grim looks. Supplies dwindled. The wounded kept coming.
"This is unsustainable," one medic whispered, sinking against the wall. "They're dying faster than we can save them."
---
In the upper levels of HQ, the commanders gathered around their glowing war table. Reports scrolled faster than they could read. Casualty counts climbed with every hour.
"The ammo problem is killing us," one colonel snapped. "Our soldiers spend more time reloading than firing."
"We need a fix, now," another said. "Call FAWS. Ask if they've got anything."
Chief Engineer Loras' voice came over the secure channel, strained but steady. "We've identified the issue. My team is working around the clock. We will find a solution."
The colonel's reply was cold. "You have seventy-two hours. After that, we may not have soldiers left to save."
---
While the commanders argued and soldiers bled, Sirius Blake was still at his bench, humming to himself. He slid the micro-slug into the mag again, tilted it against the rifle, and chuckled softly.
It didn't fit. Yet.
"ARI," he whispered, grin returning, "let's retrofit every damn gun in this army."
> "Acknowledged. Retrofit mission active. Beginning calculations."
Around him, FAWS techs shook their heads as he laughed to himself, but none could deny—when Renegade Blake laughed, miracles usually followed.