The Council chambers had never felt welcoming. The walls were too smooth, the lights too clinical, the air too sterile—as if the very space was designed to scrub out any trace of humanity. Chief Loras had walked this hall many times in his career, but today his stomach turned with unease. He wasn't bringing one of his own designs to defend. He was bringing something far more dangerous: Sirius Blake's madness.
The reinforced doors hissed open with a heavy clang. Two guards, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors, scanned him with neural tags before stepping aside. Loras marched into the chamber, boots striking the polished floor like hammer blows.
The Council sat in a half-circle of high-backed steel chairs, looming like executioners waiting for the condemned. Above them hung banners of the Terran Defense Corps, their once-proud fabric dulled by years of war. Holo-screens flickered with maps, casualty charts, and weapon requisition tallies, casting the chamber in cold blue light.
"Chief Engineer Loras," the presiding general said, his voice sharp as a blade. "You requested audience. You bring a proposal."
Loras stopped in the center of the room. His throat was dry, but his voice was steady. "I do." He set a datapad onto the holo-dais. With a flicker, the schematics of the Carbine X upgrade burst into the air—blue lines and glowing annotations spinning in perfect clarity.
The chamber went quiet. Councilors leaned forward, squinting at the floating diagrams. Barrel modifications. Burst-limiter firmware. Dual-feed ammo paths. A new dampener module braced into the stock. The weapon shimmered like a ghost of what it could become.
Finally, one officer spoke, his tone sour. "This is Blake's work, isn't it? Renegade Blake."
Loras' jaw tightened. "Yes. Carbine X upgrades. They will double efficiency in swarm engagements. Burst-limiter firmware to control fire discipline. Ammo-type switching to adapt against armor. Dampeners to cut recoil."
Another officer sneered, throwing a hand toward the projection. "You admit it openly? That boy is already a disruption to command. A reckless tinkerer. You're letting him dictate policy now?"
Loras' patience cracked. His voice thundered across the chamber. "He saves lives. You can curse his methods, but you can't argue with results. The Carbine X is rewriting infantry survival rates. The Shatterstorm turned a slaughter into a victory. His ammo displays already changed how we train. Blake's madness buys us time—and time is the one thing we're always running out of."
The chamber murmured with dissent. Officers exchanged glances, their pride warring with practicality.
One colonel leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "And now he wants FAWS as his—what did he call them?" His lip curled. "Baby makers?"
The word hung like a curse. A few officers snorted. Others grimaced.
Loras closed his eyes for a heartbeat, then nodded once. "Yes. He… has a way with words. But what he means is that he wants every FAWS hand working together on the upgrades. Collective fabrication. Unified production. It will push development forward faster than anything we've attempted."
"And you think that's wise?" the presiding general asked, his face like granite. "Giving him more influence? More freedom?"
"I think it doesn't matter what I think," Loras shot back. "What matters is this: if we don't take these upgrades, more soldiers die. If we do, they live. I've seen the numbers. You've seen them too. What's your choice? Pride, or survival?"
The silence that followed was heavy as stone. For long moments, no one moved.
Finally, the general sighed, the weight of decades of war dragging his shoulders down. "Very well. Proposal approved. Not because we trust Blake—but because his madness works."
Another officer muttered, "A curse and a miracle in one."
"Then may this curse save us again," Loras said, bowing stiffly.
As he turned to leave, he caught a final whisper from the chamber.
"Pray the boy doesn't burn us all with his genius."
---
Back at FAWS, the workshop was alive in a way Loras had never seen.
Where once the benches had been islands of scattered projects and muttered complaints, now they were battlegrounds of industry. Schematics glowed from every projector. Racks clattered as prototypes were assembled and disassembled. Sparks of welding light cut across the dim air. The sound of drills, hammers, and shouted instructions filled the bay until it almost resembled the chaos of the front lines.
At the center of it all stood Sirius Blake.
He didn't touch a tool. Not once. He leaned against a support column, arms folded, eyes gleaming, a grin carved across his face like he was watching a performance crafted just for him. His voice carried above the din, sharp and cocky.
"Good, good! Sparks, you're aligning it wrong—the feed's got to angle three degrees, or it'll jam under recoil. There, that's it. Perfect."
Another team cursed as their firmware glitched, resetting the burst-limiter. Sirius chuckled, wagging a finger. "Patience, my friends. Firmware's like a child—you yell at it, it yells back. Guide it gently. Talk to it sweetly. Then slap it when it acts up. Works every time."
Groans and laughter rippled through the bay, but the work didn't stop. If anything, they moved faster.
Sirius tapped his temple, muttering, "Yes, yes, my baby makers… build them for me. Build them all." He chuckled again, the sound half-mad, half-musical.
Technicians exchanged uneasy looks.
"He's not even touching the tools."
"Doesn't need to. He's orchestrating us."
"Feels like… possession."
Even Chief Loras, standing on the catwalk above, rubbed his temple. He'd seen Blake's mania before, but this was different. Sirius wasn't just working. He was leading—and leading through sheer, unhinged charisma.
---
Inside Sirius' mind, ARI's voice pulsed softly.
> "Observation: operator is not directly assembling. This deviates from mission rules."
Sirius' grin widened. "Rules, rules, rules. Always with the rules. Look at them, ARI. My baby makers are sweating, bleeding, cursing—and the rifles are taking shape. Why should I dirty my hands when I have an army to do it for me?"
> "Clarification: mission completion requires operator to fabricate, test, and validate prototypes directly. Delegation permissible for sub-steps only. Mission integrity tied to operator. Rules absolute."
Sirius rolled his eyes, muttering just loud enough for nearby techs to hear. "Rules absolute, huh? Well, rules are meant to bend. Or break." He chuckled, and the sound made two younger personnel flinch.
Someone whispered, "Why do I feel like we're cursed?"
Another answered, "Because we are. He's cursed us into building his madness."
And yet, no one stopped. The schematics were too brilliant. The vision too sharp. They hated him, feared him—but they couldn't deny him.
Sirius whispered to himself, watching Sparks test a recoil damper. "Yes… make more friends, Blake. More hands. More baby makers. Then when the time comes, I'll claim it all as mine."
His chuckle built into laughter—low, ragged, infectious. A few FAWS personnel started laughing too, nervously at first, then louder, until the workshop rang with manic humor. It was as if Sirius had passed them a curse through his grin, and they couldn't help but share it.
From above, Loras pressed his palm to his forehead. "This is going to be more trouble," he muttered.
---
By evening, the first half-finished prototypes clattered onto racks. Burst-limiters flickered uncertainly. Ammo-switch systems jammed half the time. Dampeners vibrated too much.
But they were real. They were happening.
Loras descended into the bay, his eyes sweeping across exhausted, grease-stained workers. He stopped by Sirius.
"You've turned them into zealots," Loras said.
Sirius only smirked. "Not zealots. Parents. Every one of them is a proud baby maker now." He spread his arms theatrically, his laughter echoing through the bay. "Rejoice, my friends! My new babies are being born by your hands!"
The FAWS personnel, drained and delirious, broke into laughter again—half genuine, half the hysteria of exhaustion.
Loras only shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Savior or curse, Blake… I still don't know which."
But deep down, even Loras knew: it didn't matter. The upgrades would save lives. And Sirius Blake's curse was one the Terrans couldn't afford to refuse.