The world had shifted. For the first time in thirty years, the Terran Defense Corps wasn't just holding the line—they were pushing it.
Outposts once written off as lost were being reclaimed. Hivebug burrows were burned out with coordinated strikes. Squads armed with Carbine X rifles, ammo displays, and turret support fought with confidence no soldier had felt in years. For the first time, the word victory was whispered across comms channels, not with sarcasm or bitterness, but with trembling hope.
But Sirius Blake sat in the corner of the FAWS training yard, staring at his calloused hands, restless. He had grease under his fingernails, bruises fading along his forearms, and dark circles beneath his eyes from nights spent on blueprints. He had changed the battlefield—but himself? He felt like the same fragile boy who couldn't hold a rifle steady.
Chief Loras' voice carried through the daily debrief, steady and certain. "Reports from the front confirm it. We are advancing. Slowly, but forward. Casualties are down, morale is up. And it's thanks in no small part to what's come out of FAWS."
The room buzzed with pride. Techs exchanged grins, some even raising cups of bitter synth-coffee in toast. Sparks shouted something about the "Renegade revolution," and the bay laughed. For once, FAWS felt like the heart of the war machine instead of its forgotten limbs.
But Sirius didn't smile.
When the others left, he lingered in the empty hall. The buzz of victory faded, replaced with the low hum of overhead lights. ARI's glow shimmered in his vision, her crystalline voice steady.
"Observation: Operator Sirius is… unsatisfied. Clarify."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Because while everyone's moving forward, I'm still… me. I can build, I can design, I can keep them alive—but if I was out there, rifle in hand, I'd be dead in minutes. I'm still the weakest part of my own equation."
"Analysis: Combat efficiency of Operator Sirius is 37% below average infantry rating. Survival probability in open combat: 12%."
"Yeah. Thanks for that." Sirius forced a laugh, but it was hollow, a rasp in his throat. "Maybe it's time I change that."
The next morning, Sirius didn't report to the workshop. He walked into the combat pit. The packed dirt floor was scorched from live drills, riddled with cracks from mech steps and heavy weapon tests. Stone Varga was already there, barking orders at a squad of heavies as they practiced shield-wall formations. Bear Ivanov supervised mech trainees at the far end, his booming laugh rolling over the yard as one cadet tripped over an exosuit harness.
Stone's gaze flicked to Sirius. "Renegade? What the hell are you doing down here? Lose a bet?"
Sirius shrugged, tugging on a worn flak vest. It didn't quite fit him—too loose at the shoulders, too snug at the ribs—but he wore it anyway. "Thought I'd try being less of a liability. Heard shooting bugs is more fun when you don't die in the first five seconds."
A ripple of laughter went through the heavies. Bear shook his head from across the yard, amusement in his eyes but also a hint of concern. "Try not to break him, Stone."
"Can't make promises."
Stone tossed Sirius a standard-issue rifle. The weapon landed in his arms with more weight than he expected, nearly dragging the barrel into the dirt. "Alright, genius. Let's see what the mind behind Carbine X can do without his toys."
The rifle was heavier than Sirius expected, unbalanced compared to the sleek prototypes he was used to handling in the lab. His hands fumbled at the grip, shoulders stiff. Stone barked at him like a drill sergeant.
"Feet apart. Shoulders loose. You're not building a turret, you're holding one. Treat it like a living thing, not a wrench."
Sirius adjusted, scowling. "I do treat weapons like living things."
"Then start listening to this one."
They ran basic drills: stance, aim, fire. Sirius' shots went wide, bullets sparking against reinforced targets. He cursed under his breath, muttering adjustments like he was back at the bench. His mind wanted to tweak the rifle, fix the recoil springs, adjust the balance. But Stone's voice cut him off every time.
"Stop thinking, Blake. Out there, thinking gets you killed. Muscle memory saves you. Instinct saves you. You'll build that by failing until your body learns."
By the end of the first hour, Sirius' arms trembled. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. His vest clung to him, soaked through. He had hit the target five times out of twenty, and three of those were by accident.
Stone finally lowered his own weapon, his broad shoulders glistening with exertion. "Not good. But not hopeless. You've got stubbornness. That counts for something."
That night, Sirius collapsed onto his bunk, muscles screaming in protest. He couldn't lift his arms without feeling the burn. But despite the ache, his grin surprised even him.
ARI's voice came softly, shimmering into his mind.
"Minor Mission: Operator Combat Proficiency. Objective: Improve baseline combat efficiency to 65% of infantry standard. Sub-Missions: Marksmanship drills, close-quarters defense, situational awareness training."
Sirius blinked at the holographic text shimmering across his vision. "You're… giving me a mission?"
"Correct. Weaponry is only half the war. Operator survivability must improve."
For the first time, a mission wasn't about building something new. It was about building himself.
"Alright then," Sirius whispered with a crooked smile. "Let's see if the Renegade can keep up."
Over the next weeks, Sirius trained whenever he could steal hours from the workshop. Stone drilled him mercilessly, breaking down his stance, forcing him to run reload cycles until his fingers bled. Whisper Kade patched his bruises when he overdid it, scolding him for his recklessness while hiding a smile at his persistence. Shade taught him to breathe steady, to line up shots with patience rather than panic, her calm presence cutting through his manic energy. Sparks laughed every time Sirius fumbled, shouting across the yard: "Guess even geniuses need a cooldown!"
Even Bear, between mech exercises, let Sirius clamber into a cockpit to practice coordination with heavy armor units. The first time Sirius nearly tripped the mech into a trench, Bear howled with laughter, then made him climb back in and try again.
Every failure stung. Every miss burned. But Sirius didn't stop.
And slowly—barely—he improved. His shots started grouping closer together. His stance no longer collapsed under recoil. His reloads grew smooth instead of frantic. He was still no soldier, but he was no longer helpless.
Meanwhile, the Terran advance grew louder every day. Command celebrated reclaimed territory, new supply lines, and dwindling Hivebug nests. For the first time in decades, soldiers sang as they marched. The sound carried into FAWS, lifting hearts that had forgotten the rhythm of victory.
But Sirius knew the war was far from over. Hivebugs adapted. Every step forward was met with resistance. Every victory bought time, not peace.
In the workshop, while the FAWS team mass-produced Carbine X units and ammo counters, he kept tinkering on side projects—heat dispersers, recoil compensators, targeting nodes. And at night, he returned to the combat pit, bruises fresh and determination sharper.
One evening, after Sirius finally landed a clean three-shot burst into a Hivebug weakpoint dummy, Stone clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth.
"Not bad, Renegade. Still wouldn't trust you to hold a line alone. But if the swarm breaks through to your bench, maybe you'll last more than five seconds now."
Sirius grinned, panting, chest heaving as sweat dripped down his brow. "I'll take it."
Later, lying in his bunk, Sirius whispered into the dark, the words barely audible over the distant rumble of artillery.
"Not just weapons anymore, ARI. Gotta make myself part of the fight too."
"Acknowledged. Mission progress: 18%."
He chuckled, closing his eyes despite the ache in his body. "Eighteen's better than zero."
Outside, the barracks echoed with distant cheers, voices lifted in triumph. The Terran army was moving forward. For the first time, humanity wasn't just surviving. They were striking back.
And Sirius Blake—eccentric, laughing, half-mad weapons genius—was learning to fight in his own way.
The Renegade was evolving.