The Hivebug Tank's shadow hadn't yet lifted from the minds of the FAWS personnel. Even though the beast had fallen under a storm of fire, its memory lingered in every quiet glance, every twitch in the hands of a technician tightening a bolt. They all knew another variant was coming. It always came.
But for Sirius Blake, the Tank wasn't a nightmare. It was a challenge.
ARI's voice hummed into his skull one evening as he wiped grease from his fingers. The bay was nearly empty; only the faint buzz of power tools and the clank of half-assembled rigs echoed across the floor.
> "New mission initiated: Shatterstorm Mk I — Dual-Barrel Heavy Autocannon (3× Micro-Drum). Objective: sustained swarm suppression."
The words unfolded in his vision like scripture. Technical outlines scrolled in faint blue: dual-barrel layout, three micro-drum magazines, auto-rotation when overheated, unified drum ejection only after depletion. Sub-missions neatly stacked beneath like stepping stones across a river.
Sirius froze for a moment, blinking at the hologram in his head. Then the grin spread across his face, wide and reckless.
"Shatterstorm," he said aloud, tasting the word. "Oh, you're going to be beautiful."
A chuckle slipped out, sharp and sudden. It startled the two nearby technicians. They glanced over, then quickly turned back to their own work. Everyone in FAWS had learned the signs. When Blake grinned like that, when he started talking to empty air, something was coming. Something big. Something terrifying.
---
He cleared his bench with one violent sweep, scattering scraps of circuitry and empty ration wrappers onto the floor. Papers followed, lines scrawled in charcoal and pen as his hand flew across them. Two barrels at the core, not side by side but staggered for efficiency. Three drums mounted in a triangular cradle beneath, like the legs of a predator ready to pounce.
"Feed layout first," Sirius muttered. "Everything else hangs off the heart."
> "Confirmed. Dual-barrel feed latency must remain under 0.23 seconds or indexing failure risk increases by 41%," ARI intoned.
Sirius waved a hand dismissively. "Then we make it faster. Simple."
The pencil screeched across the paper, outlining indexer arms like skeletal fingers reaching for each drum. He adjusted angles, drew and redrew the teeth of the feed system, cursed when the geometry failed, then laughed when it finally clicked.
That laugh — manic, jagged — echoed through the bay. A group of junior techs at the far bench froze mid-task. One whispered, "He's at it again," and another sighed.
"Lost cause," muttered a third.
But no one stopped him. No one ever did.
---
By midnight, Sirius had covered three sheets in overlapping designs. He pinned them to the wall with shaky hands, stepping back, pupils wide and unblinking.
"Three drums, triple feed," he whispered. "Endurance without pause. But too much complexity means jam risk."
> "Risk is 73% without corrective servos. Recommend micro-wipers for residue clearance," ARI suggested.
"Yes, yes, wipers. Beautiful." He scribbled them in, adding small sweeping arms that would brush grit clear before each cartridge seated.
Then came the thermal problem. A dual-barrel meant twice the heat, twice the failure. He needed a system to keep the beast from melting itself in the first minute. He sketched vent channels across the housing, then struck them out. Too inefficient. He drew again, this time with automatic shutters that opened under pressure, closing when cool.
ARI overlaid the data, red heat curves climbing across his vision. "Thermal buildup will exceed safety thresholds after 140 continuous rounds."
Sirius slammed the paper with his palm and laughed — wild, incredulous. "Then we build it to breathe!" He sketched rotating barrels, the top sliding down to cool while the bottom rose to fire.
When the drawing finally made sense, when the lines aligned with ARI's numbers, Sirius leaned back in his chair. His chest heaved. His face split in a grin that bordered on feverish. He started chuckling, the sound growing until it filled the empty bay.
The last few techs still working exchanged wary glances. One muttered, "By the Core, he's scaring me." Another just shook his head. "Yeah, but he's the reason we're alive. Let him scare us."
---
Hours blurred. Sirius tore into spare parts like a starving animal. He ripped the casing from an old plasma coil, harvested cooling fins, hammered them flat, then bolted them into a mock barrel sleeve. His hands shook, knuckles bleeding from careless slips.
Every failure made him laugh harder. When a drum gear shattered under torque, he doubled over, clutching his stomach, roaring with unhinged amusement. When a feed ramp jammed, he howled and scribbled notes across the wall.
"Sing for me, damn you!" he shouted at the half-built contraption.
One technician paused in the doorway, eyes wide, then slowly backed out without saying a word.
Only ARI stayed calm.
> "Stabilizer calculations pending. Recoil magnitude projected at 6.2 kilonewtons. Human operator survivability without assist: 19%."
Sirius froze, then giggled softly. "Guess I'll need a stabilizer then. Wouldn't want my toy tearing arms off."
His pen scratched again, lines forming a gyroscopic brace that would absorb kickback. The solution was crude, heavy, but workable. He cackled again, muttering, "You're mine. You're all mine."
---
By the time dawn crept through the high windows, Sirius' bench was a graveyard of broken parts, scattered sketches, and empty coffee tins. But the wall above his desk bore something new: a complete blueprint, rough but whole.
The Shatterstorm Mk I — Dual-Barrel Heavy Autocannon.
Three drums feeding into twin barrels. Automatic rotation to bleed heat. A stabilizer brace drawn like a skeletal exosuit around the operator.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't even possible yet. But it was real.
Sirius leaned back, hair disheveled, grease streaking his cheeks. His laugh came quieter this time, softer, almost tender.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Tomorrow we wake the heart."
ARI's voice hummed softly in his skull.
> "Mission progress logged: 14%. Sub-mission one — feed layout design: preliminary draft complete."
Sirius grinned, teeth flashing in the pale light. "See? Told you it'd sing."
Around him, FAWS technicians walked in for their morning shifts. They glanced at the mess, the pinned papers, and the wild smile on Blake's face. Most sighed. Some shook their heads.
"Lost cause," one muttered again.
But Chief Engineer Loras, watching from his office window, said something different under his breath:
"Not lost. Just different."
And with that, the storm in Sirius Blake's mind gathered strength.