The war never stopped. Even in the quiet of FAWS headquarters, the thrum of distant artillery and the low rumble of transport convoys made sure no one forgot the front was bleeding.
But for Sirius Blake, today wasn't about survival. Today was about revelation.
Chief Engineer Loras stood before a holographic roundtable deep in Command's upper tier. Senior officers filled the room, their uniforms sharp, their expressions grimmer than carved stone. The air hummed with the tension of old war rooms, where victories were rare and losses were counted in thousands.
The holo-display flickered to life. Weapon schematics rotated in the air: first the monstrous profile of the Shatterstorm Mk I, then the slimmer, more elegant design of the ammo counter system.
"This," Loras said, his voice steady, "is the work of Corporal Sirius Blake. He calls the cannon the Shatterstorm. Dual-barrel autocannon, triple micro-drum feed, self-venting barrel rotation. Tested in live combat alongside Stone Varga's heavy infantry and Bear Ivanov's mechanized unit. Result: a swarm crushed and a Tank-class Hivebug neutralized."
Gasps rippled through the officers. One general leaned forward, squinting at the data. "Impossible. No single heavy weapon should sustain that rate of fire. And yet… the metrics…"
Loras shifted the projection to the second file. "And this—an ammo counter display. Works across all light and heavy platforms. Syncs with helmets and back panels. Tracks each round in real time. He designed it months ago."
A colonel slammed his hand on the table. "Months ago? And he withheld it?"
Loras met his eyes calmly. "On purpose. His reasoning: soldiers needed to train their instincts first. Counting every shot, learning to hit weaknesses, making the ammo counter a tool to enhance discipline—not replace it."
Silence fell. Even the skeptics had no rebuttal. They all knew how wasteful the infantry had been, spraying rounds at armored Hivebug carapaces instead of weak joints. Blake's thinking, unorthodox as it was, made brutal sense.
A general finally spoke, voice low with grudging respect. "Renegade Blake. The name isn't just a rumor anymore. It's a problem—and a solution we cannot ignore."
Loras gave a faint smirk. "With respect, sirs, it's not a problem. It's our edge."
The holo-display dimmed, leaving the officers deep in thought. Orders were already forming. Mass production of the ammo counters. Prototype Shatterstorms for each mechanized battalion. And at the center of it all—a boy barely twenty years old.
When Loras returned to FAWS, he carried the weight of Command's decision. The techs all looked up as he entered the bay, Sirius leaning lazily against a bench with his usual crooked grin.
"Well?" Sirius asked. "They throw me out, or do I finally get a thank you?"
Loras stopped in front of him, gaze sharp but softened by something rare—pride. "Blake. By order of High Command, you're promoted to Sergeant. Effective immediately."
The bay erupted in murmurs. Some of the techs gawked, others smirked knowingly.
"Sergeant Renegade…" one whispered.
"Gods help us," another muttered.
Sirius blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. "HAHA! Sergeant Blake. Sounds almost respectable. Almost."
Loras handed him the insignia. "Don't get comfortable. They've ordered immediate production of your ammo counters. And the Shatterstorm will move into extended trials. Command has recognized your work as decisive in the last engagement."
Sirius pinned the insignia on, still grinning like a child with a stolen sweet. "Guess I'm not such a lost cause after all."
The first rollout came two weeks later. Crates of rifles fitted with ammo counters were delivered to frontline squads. The Carbine X, retrofitted with the system, stood out among the shipments.
On the parade ground, infantry squads gathered to receive their weapons.
"Load up, grunts!" barked a sergeant. "No more excuses—every shot you fire, you'll see it. Waste a bullet, and it's on you."
Soldiers marveled as glowing counters blinked alive on their rifles. 50/50. 100/100. For the first time, they could see their lifelines ticking down.
Some were unsettled, muttering under their breath. Others smiled grimly, knowing this tool would mean the difference between life and death.
And in the hangar bay, Stone Varga and Bear Ivanov stood before the second monster: the polished Shatterstorm Mk I, ready for extended deployment.
"Feels heavier just looking at it," Stone grunted.
Bear smirked. "Then it's perfect for us."
Sirius didn't march with them. He stood behind the glass of the FAWS observation deck, arms folded, eyes fixed on the live feeds streaming across his console.
"ARI, record everything," he said softly.
> "Recording. Tracking telemetry. Monitoring ammo expenditure in real time."
The screens lit up as soldiers engaged Hivebugs across multiple sectors. Ammo counters flashed with every shot. No more panicked reloads. No more wasted bursts into armored shells. Soldiers aimed for joints, eyes, and wings, conserving rounds.
Stone's heavies laid down cover fire while Bear's mech advanced with the Shatterstorm, its roar tearing swathes through the swarm. Soldiers cheered even as they fought, their confidence renewed.
From his vantage point, Sirius allowed himself a faint smile. "Dance, you bastards. Dance with thunder and precision."
Reports flowed back within hours.
"Ammo conservation up 37%."
"Reload times reduced across all squads."
"Casualties minimal."
"Hivebug swarms broken in multiple sectors."
Stone's voice came through a comm-link, ragged but triumphant. "The Shatterstorm sings, Blake. Loud and furious. We'll keep it until it dies—or we do."
Bear's deeper tone followed. "She's not just a cannon. She's a wall. Renegade—you've given us thunder in our hands."
In the medbay, Whisper Kade overheard wounded infantry marveling at the counters. "Didn't even realize I was down to five rounds until the display warned me. Would've died without it."
Even Sparks and Shade reported improved coordination from their units. The name "Renegade Blake" spread further, whispered with respect instead of just amusement.
That night, Sirius sat alone in the workshop, staring at the empty frame of a rifle. His grin had faded to something quieter, steadier.
"Sergeant Blake," he muttered, testing the words. "Guess that means I can't get away with slacking anymore."
ARI's voice hummed in his mind.
> "Observation: recognition has elevated your status. Risk: increased visibility may draw scrutiny. Recommendation: proceed with caution."
Sirius smirked faintly. "Caution's never been my thing. But… thanks. For everything."
> "Correction: survival is not my doing. It is yours."
He chuckled softly. "Nah. It's ours. Always ours."
As the lights dimmed, the bay quieted. The war was far from over—but for the first time in thirty years, humanity's soldiers fought with confidence instead of despair.
And at the heart of it all, a young man with grease-stained hands and a wild laugh had given them something no one else could: hope forged in steel, fire, and madness.