The blueprint pinned to the wall had become Sirius' altar. Every line, every scribbled number, every jagged circle of his pen was burned into his brain. The Shatterstorm Mk I wasn't just an idea anymore. It was hungry. And Sirius Blake was going to feed it.
He started the next morning before anyone else stirred. The bay was silent save for the hum of overhead lights and the faint whirr of a recycler in the corner. The shadows still clung to the rafters, dust motes hanging in the glow like ash. Sirius prowled the storerooms like a scavenger, tearing into crates of old heavy rifles, cracked autocannon frames, even the rusting joint of a mech arm that hadn't been touched in years.
"Too light," he muttered, tossing aside a half-cracked barrel sleeve that clanged uselessly against the floor. His fingers brushed across warped steel, half-melted plating, weapon husks that had failed before they ever saw battle. Nothing sang to him. Nothing fit. Then his hand landed on the cold flank of a decommissioned turret barrel—scarred, heavy, brutal.
His grin spread like fire. "Perfect. You'll do nicely."
One by one, he hauled his prizes back to his corner: twin barrels, mech plating braces, oversized housings scavenged from forgotten prototypes. His workstation no longer resembled a bench. It looked like the dismembered carcass of some industrial beast, waiting to be stitched together.
> "Inventory mismatch detected," ARI said coolly in his skull. "Selected components exceed design tolerances. Efficiency reduced by thirty-one percent."
Sirius barked out a laugh, already dragging the welding torch free. Sparks leapt as he fused steel to steel. "Paper tolerances don't win wars. This isn't math on a page—it's blood and teeth."
By mid-morning, the bay was alive with the stench of ozone and burning alloy. The clang of his hammer and the shriek of grinding steel cut across the usual rhythm of FAWS work. Technicians pretended not to notice, but eyes drifted toward him all the same.
Sparks Novik finally gave up pretending. He slowed as he passed, pausing at the sight of the monster frame rising on Sirius' bench. "Blake… what in the hell is that supposed to be?"
Sirius didn't look up, sweat dripping from his brow, eyes locked on the skeletal brace curling into shape. His grin was fever-bright. "A storm. You'll see."
Sparks stared a second longer, then shook his head and muttered as he walked away, "Renegade's gonna kill us all one day."
Piece by piece, the beast grew. The dual barrels welded into a cradle. The skeletal brace wrapped around its spine, ugly but functional. Three sockets for drums jutted from the undercarriage like the fangs of a predator. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't balanced. But it looked alive.
When Sirius finally stepped back, arms trembling from the strain, he exhaled with something close to reverence. "There you are," he whispered. "The Shatterstorm's heart."
---
The first feed test was chaos. Sirius jammed three oversized micro-drums into the sockets, hammering them until they locked. He cranked the indexer by hand, gears catching, the mechanism clattering like teeth. For a moment, it worked. Then the second drum jammed. The third slipped, cartridges rattling loose and skittering across the floor like a metallic hailstorm.
The bay froze at the noise. Technicians looked up, their tools suspended in mid-air.
Sirius didn't curse. He didn't scowl. He doubled over, clutching his sides, his laughter manic and sharp. "YES! You choke, you resist—but I'll MAKE you sing!"
One technician whispered nervously, "He's lost it."
Another just sighed. "He lost it a long time ago."
But none of them looked away as Sirius ripped the drums free, shaved teeth with a file until sparks flew, then jammed them back with bloody knuckles. Grease and sweat smeared across his face. His eyes gleamed with feverish joy.
> "Jam frequency: sixty-one percent at current alignment," ARI reported.
"Then we cut it to zero," Sirius growled, filing harder, sparks snapping into his hair. "We don't stop until it feeds like it's starving."
---
By nightfall, the beast was ready for its first roar. Sirius scavenged a power cell from a broken mech knee joint, spliced wires with shaking hands, and bolted cooling fins around each barrel until the sleeves rattled with weight.
He hefted the Shatterstorm for the first time. It was monstrously heavy, dragging at his shoulders like a coffin. The stabilizer gyros hummed, whining against the load, trying to keep the beast steady. Sirius' grin widened.
"Hello, baby," he whispered, stroking the twin barrels like they were alive.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The bay shook with thunder. The barrels spat fire in alternating rhythm, each detonation a hammer-blow that rattled every bench. Shells screamed across the floor, clattering like rain. The roar of the Shatterstorm filled the air, drowning out the shouts of startled technicians. For three glorious seconds, it worked.
Then the upper barrel overheated. Steam hissed from the sleeve, venting with a shriek. The stabilizer buckled, throwing sparks. The third drum jammed with a grinding crunch. Silence crashed over the bay. Smoke rose from the barrels, acrid and thick.
Sirius froze, staring at the weapon as if daring it to move. His grin twitched. Then the laughter came again—high, jagged, unstoppable. "YES! You burn, you fight, you're alive! You're mine, Shatterstorm. We'll fix you. We'll make you perfect."
The technicians said nothing. Fear and awe churned in their faces. Upstairs, Loras stood at the glass of his office, rubbing his chin as the echoes of Sirius' laughter rolled across the bay.
"He's frightening them," the chief murmured to himself. "But maybe fear is the right response. If he's building something that can scare even us… maybe it can scare the bugs, too."
---
When the bay finally emptied, Sirius sat alone with the smoking prototype propped against the bench. His hands trembled, but he ran his fingers across the barrels like a priest blessing an idol.
"You'll eat the swarm," he whispered. "You'll chew them to pieces."
> "Mission progress: forty-one percent," ARI said, voice clean and surgical. "Feed system partially functional. Heat management insufficient. Stabilizer underpowered."
Sirius pressed his forehead to the cold steel. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "So we keep going."
> "Next sub-mission: High-Rate Feed Integration—anti-jam cycle."
He chuckled softly, exhaustion cracking at the edges of his voice. "You and me, ARI. We'll make the storm sing."
The bay was silent but for the creak of cooling metal. The Shatterstorm loomed against the wall, hulking and still, like a beast not yet born but already dreaming of slaughter.
And Sirius, grease-streaked and half-mad, leaned beside it with laughter still echoing in his chest.
Not a weapon yet—just a storm waiting for breath.