The workshop was quiet that night—too quiet for FAWS. Normally the place pulsed with the rhythm of drills and welders, punctuated by shouted curses when something shorted or a barrel warped. Tonight, though, only Sirius Blake's mutters and bursts of manic laughter carried across the bays, setting teeth on edge.
He leaned over his bench, Carbine X schematics glowing faintly across his datapad. His fingers tapped furiously against the surface, jotting, redrafting, deleting, rewriting. The blueprints for his next upgrades spread like veins of light across the screen. Every time he added a node, his grin grew wider.
"Burst-limiter firmware… check," he murmured. "Ammo-switch… oh, that'll sing. Recoil dampener—hah! You'll dance smoother than a ballerina."
He chuckled low, shoulders twitching as if trying to contain it. A few FAWS techs passing by shared uneasy looks but kept moving. They'd learned long ago not to interrupt him when he was like this.
Then Sirius stopped. His fingers froze over the datapad. His grin softened into something sly, and he whispered, "What if… I don't build this myself?"
ARI's holographic shimmer appeared in the corner of his vision, pale blue and steady.
> "Clarification required. Repeat query."
"You heard me," Sirius said, still smirking. "What if I just make the schematics—beautiful, perfect schematics—and let the rest of FAWS do the dirty work? You said the mission was to make the upgrades. Well, what if I outsource? I'll supervise, point fingers, laugh when someone sparks their eyebrows off. That counts, right?"
A pause.
> "Correction: mission parameters specify prototype fabrication, bench testing, and validation by you, the operator. Delegation permissible for sub-steps, but mission completion requires personal oversight of the prototype. Reward cannot be granted otherwise."
Sirius groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "You're impossible, you know that? Impossible. Always rules, always neat little boxes." He leaned back in his chair, voice rising with frustration. "What's the point of having an entire department of grease monkeys if I can't make them earn their keep?"
His laughter spiked suddenly—loud, sharp, echoing across the bay. "One mission per cycle? Fine! That's okay. I'll just make more friends."
The grin he turned on the workshop was wide, too wide. His gaze swept across the FAWS crews—faces smeared with oil, hunched over rifles, tightening bolts. His eyes lingered, one by one, and his lips twitched into something between amusement and menace.
"More friends," he whispered. "Yeah… you'll all help me. You just don't know it yet."
---
The whispers started immediately.
"Why… why is he looking at us like that?" one junior tech murmured, clutching a coil of wiring like a lifeline.
"Renegade's plotting again," another whispered. "I can feel it in my teeth."
"Every time he laughs like that, something explodes," a third muttered. "Or catches fire. Or both."
Even Sparks, usually amused by his antics, kept her distance. Whisper scowled at him from across the room, muttering to a colleague, "That smile isn't a good sign. Not ever."
Chief Loras, standing on the upper catwalk, rubbed his temples. He'd seen Blake grin a hundred ways before—cocky, triumphant, even blood-soaked on the battlefield feed. But this grin, paired with that unsettling gaze? It made his stomach knot.
"Blake…" he muttered to himself. "Are you building weapons, or a cult?"
---
Inside Sirius' head, the argument hadn't stopped.
"C'mon, ARI. One mission at a time? That's a leash, not a rule," he said, pacing. His voice had taken on a jagged rhythm, like a saw blade scraping steel. "The Hive doesn't wait. They evolve every week. We need ten upgrades yesterday."
> "Correction: one mission per cycle ensures focus and validation. Attempting to force multiple projects simultaneously risks systemic collapse."
"Collapse? Or brilliance?" Sirius shot back, jabbing a finger at the hologram only he could see. "Every great breakthrough comes from chaos. From madness. Rules are just cages for cowards."
> "Counterpoint: rules prevent your recklessness from endangering others. Mission control ensures efficiency. Deviance risks not only your survival, but theirs."
Sirius froze, nostrils flaring. "You think I'd endanger them? These are my babies—my weapons, my friends. I bleed for them. I build so they don't die out there!"
His voice cracked into a shout that echoed through the workshop. FAWS personnel froze mid-task, pretending to focus but listening intently. Whispers spread again. He's shouting at nothing. Who's he talking to?
---
The holo in Sirius' vision dimmed. For a long moment, silence hung between them.
Then, without warning, ARI's voice softened.
> "Memory retrieval initiated. Playback: archived directive from Elias Blake."
Sirius blinked. "What? My father?"
The blue haze flickered. Static hissed. Then an old, grainy image filled his vision—a man at a desk, weary-eyed, shoulders slumped, recording himself into a battered terminal. His father. Elias Blake.
His voice was tired, but steady. "If you're hearing this, ARI… it means my boy's hit the same wall I knew he would."
Sirius froze, lips parting. His chest tightened.
Elias continued. "Sirius has my fire, my obsession. Maybe too much of it. He'll want to push past your rules, cheat the system, outpace the war. He'll think the limits are chains, not safeguards. And if he does…"
The old man leaned forward, voice dropping. "…I need you to stop him. Not with force. With punishment. Make him feel the sting of loss before he learns it the hard way on the battlefield."
Sirius' breath caught. "Dad…"
"If he tries to cheat missions, deny him the reward. Let him have the blueprints, sure, but no satisfaction of completion. Let him think he's failed. Scare him. Remind him that all his miracles come through you, ARI—not his ego. And if he keeps pushing?" Elias sighed, shaking his head. "Then I authorize you to upgrade yourself. Counter his tricks. Split his cycle—two missions max, no more. Make him work for every step."
He looked directly into the recorder, eyes raw with something Sirius hadn't seen in years. Love, fear, desperation. "He's brilliant. Too brilliant. But brilliance without humility is a weapon that turns on its own. Keep him alive, ARI. Even if he hates you for it. Especially then."
The screen flickered, and the message ended.
---
Sirius staggered back, his chair screeching across the floor. "What the hell was that…?!" His voice cracked between rage and disbelief. "That—no, that's not fair! That was years ago! He doesn't get to—"
> "Directive confirmed," ARI cut in, voice sharp. "Updating system protocols. Reward locks enabled. Additional mission slot authorized. Update commencing."
Her hologram shimmered… then vanished.
Silence. Cold, suffocating silence.
"ARI?" Sirius whispered. "Hey—ARI!" He slapped the side of his helmet as if that would fix it. "Don't you shut me out now! Dammit—ARI!"
Nothing.
Only the quiet hum of machines and the faint murmur of FAWS techs across the room, whispering about his outburst.
---
Sirius dropped heavily into his chair, the datapad still glowing with his schematics. He pulled up the mission log—and his stomach dropped.
MISSION STATUS: IN PROGRESS.
REWARD: LOCKED.
TIME REMAINING: 29 DAYS, 23 HOURS.
The text glared in red across his vision. He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles popped.
"It's like cutting my hands off," he muttered. His laugh was hollow this time, broken. "Dad, you bastard… you're still grounding me from the grave."
For a long moment, he just sat there, shoulders slumped, staring at the glowing pad. Around him, FAWS crews whispered, stealing glances. Renegade's broken. Look at him. He's muttering again.
But then, slowly, his lips curled again. Not wide this time. Not manic. Just a thin, dangerous smile.
"Fine," he whispered. "You want me humbled? I'll play your game. Lock me out, punish me, scare me all you want."
He lifted the datapad, staring into the glowing web of blueprints. "But when that month's up… I'll show you. I'll show all of you what a Renegade builds."
His laughter returned—low, ragged, and unsettling. The kind of laugh that made even seasoned FAWS veterans shift uncomfortably.
---
In the far corner of the workshop, a tech muttered, "He's lost it. Really lost it this time."
Another shook their head. "No. Worse. He's planning something."
And up on the catwalk, Chief Loras rubbed his brow, sighing deeply. "God help us all."
Because when Sirius Blake smiled like that, it meant trouble. And everyone in FAWS knew: trouble was coming.