The firing range thundered with the sound of rifles. Brass casings clattered against the steel floor, bouncing into the grated trenches designed to collect them. Sparks danced across the reinforced target walls where heavy rounds struck metal plates, while Hivebug-shaped drones whirred to life, simulating the enemy with unsettling precision.
Sirius Blake stood near the middle of the line, rifle in hand, sweat already forming on his brow though he had barely fired a single shot. His comfort zone was the workshop, the glow of schematics projected by ARI in his mind, the sound of tools clattering against his bench. Out here, with a rifle braced against his shoulder, it felt wrong—like stepping onto a stage when you had written the play but never rehearsed a single line.
"Renegade," Stone Varga's voice rumbled beside him. The heavy infantryman stood with his arms folded, watching Sirius with the patient irritation of a teacher forced to repeat the same lesson. "You've made weapons that can fight entire swarms. But you? You shoot like a recruit who hasn't touched a rifle since basic."
Sirius grimaced. "Stone, my genius shines brightest behind the trigger, not on it."
Shade, leaning against a barricade with her long sniper rifle slung casually across her shoulder, tilted her head. Her single visible eye studied him the way a hawk might study a mouse. "Doesn't matter. You don't need to be a sniper, Sirius, but you can't be a liability. Breathe. Aim for the joints. Count every shot."
Stone slapped Sirius' shoulder hard enough to rattle his bones. "And stop trying to charm your way out of this. Bugs won't laugh at your jokes."
Sirius sighed, raising the rifle. The Hivebug drones downrange clicked and shifted, their segmented limbs gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He exhaled, squeezed the trigger, and fired three quick shots. The bullets chewed dirt around the drone's feet, one ricocheted off its plated carapace, and not a single one hit the glowing joint markers.
Stone groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "You aiming at the bug, or warning the air above it?"
Sirius grinned weakly. "Maybe I was trying to scare it into surrender."
Shade's lips twitched, though her voice stayed cool and precise. "Again. And this time, don't think. Just breathe. Feel the rhythm. Aim where it matters."
Sirius swallowed and adjusted his stance. He inhaled, held it, and pulled the trigger. The rifle barked again. Two bullets struck the drone's leg joints with dull clangs, sparks scattering across the floor. The third round pinged against its armor. Not perfect, but closer.
"Better," Shade murmured.
Stone gave Sirius another firm slap, almost knocking him off balance. "Still terrible. But at least you're hitting something."
For the next hour, the range became a cacophony of gunfire, Stone's constant bellowing, and Shade's cold corrections. Every burst was met with a growled critique from one side and a quiet pointer from the other. Stone barked at him to plant his feet, to keep his center of gravity, to count his shots instead of spraying wildly. Shade told him to listen to the rhythm of the trigger, to see the weak points glowing in his mind before he fired.
At first Sirius tried to grin through it, tossing back little quips. But as the drills dragged on, his grin faded. His breathing steadied. His fingers stopped trembling on the trigger. He fired, adjusted, fired again. Slowly, his bullets crept closer and closer to the drones' weak spots until nearly every round found its mark.
By the end of the session, his arms ached and his ears rang. He lowered the rifle, chest heaving, and blinked through the haze of smoke and sweat. The ammo counter on the rifle's side display flashed zero.
Shade nodded once, the faintest approval in her voice. "Seventy-one percent hit rate."
Stone grunted, unimpressed. "Barely passable. But at least you won't shoot your own boots anymore."
Sirius laughed raggedly and sat down hard on the range floor. "Hah… seventy-one, huh? Guess that's a win. ARI, log that for me."
Her voice was soft, crystalline in his mind. "Sub-Mission: Marksmanship Drills—Complete. Hit rate exceeds 70%. Progress recorded."
Sirius tucked his rifle against his knees, breathing hard but smiling faintly. He'd never be Stone, who looked like he could kill Hivebugs with a glare, or Shade, who never missed a shot. But he wasn't useless out here anymore.
After the session, he stayed on the sidelines as other squads rotated in. He watched Jinx Alvarez sprint drills with the Rapid Assault Unit, rifles clattering as they weaved through obstacles with relentless energy. Bear Ivanov lumbered past in his mech, the servos groaning under patched armor as he tested its repaired hydraulics. Sparks Novik ran diagnostics on a weapons system while shouting corrections at junior operators. Whisper Kade quietly tended to cuts and bruises, her calm presence somehow louder than the chaos around her.
They were all fighters in their own way. And Sirius—Renegade Blake—was finally starting to catch up, even if just a little.
Later that night, when the range fell silent and the barracks buzzed with tired chatter, Sirius sat alone on his bunk. He turned an empty brass casing over and over in his fingers, staring at it as though it held the secrets of the universe. He thought of Stone's constant bellowing, Shade's cold precision, and the way his shots had finally landed where they needed to.
He wasn't a soldier at heart. He wasn't born for the battlefield. But maybe, just maybe, he could train himself enough to stand beside them, not just behind them.
ARI spoke softly in his mind. "Combat efficiency increased. Current rating: fifty-two percent of standard infantry. Additional sub-missions required to reach sixty-five percent threshold."
Sirius chuckled, tucking the casing into his pocket like a keepsake. "One step at a time, ARI. Guess even Renegades need target practice."
The war outside raged on. The Hivebugs evolved every month, every week. Somewhere beyond the walls, tanks slumbered in their burrows, swarms clicked and hissed in the dark, and soldiers prepared for another long night.
But inside the Terran Defense Corps' firing range, Sirius Blake had made a tiny step forward. Not in schematics, not in prototypes, not in blueprints—but in himself.
And for a boy who had spent his life tinkering with weapons, that step felt like the start of something new.