The Hivebug War had burned for thirty years. To Sirius Blake, it wasn't history — it was the air he breathed. Propaganda broadcasts hummed from every street corner, promising victory and unity while casualty lists scrolled endlessly beneath them. Humanity's oldest cities had long since become bunkers, reinforced with steel and shield generators. Its newest colonies were built as fortresses first, homes second. Children played beneath turrets. Streets echoed with the thrum of armored convoys.
No one alive remembered peace.
Sirius was five years old the first time he tried to take apart a drone. It wasn't one of the sleek military patrol units he watched streak across the sky, but an old courier drone his father had retired from service. The casing was battered, one rotor bent, the guidance chip scorched. Where most saw junk, Sirius saw a puzzle begging to be opened.
"Careful, Sirius," his father said, leaning against the doorway of their cramped workshop. His arms were crossed, lips twitching between pride and worry. Nathaniel Blake was a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes, the kind of eyes that had spent too many nights bent over research in service of the Terran Defense Corps. But his voice, deep and rich, still carried warmth. "If you cut the wrong wire, you'll fry the whole board."
Sirius grinned, screwdriver wobbling in his small hands. "Then I'll fix it again."
Nathaniel laughed. It was a sound Sirius would come to treasure — deep, unrestrained, almost defiant. He didn't know then how rare it was, how precious.
A week later, men in uniform came to their home.
Sirius didn't understand much, only that their faces were hard and their voices colder. He hid behind the half-repaired drone, clutching it like a shield, as officers accused his father of unauthorized experiments. Nathaniel didn't deny it. He stood straighter, voice calm but firm, as though prepared for this moment.
The officers bound his wrists. Sirius peeked from behind the drone, eyes wide.
One officer paused, kneeling to the boy's level. His voice softened. "Your father has been sent on a long mission," he said gently. "He may be gone for many years. Be strong."
Sirius never saw him again.
---
The silence in the workshop was unbearable after that. The laughter was gone, but the scraps remained. Sirius scavenged endlessly, turning bolts, wires, and alloy sheets into crude gadgets. Machines were honest companions. They sparked, they broke, they failed — but they never lied.
By the time he was ten, he was repairing power converters for neighbors. At twelve, he was recalibrating vent systems in the colony fortress. At fifteen, he was patching malfunctioning rifles for returning soldiers. His reputation grew: the boy who could fix anything.
He was cheerful, always joking, always ready with a grin, but those who knew him best saw the truth. Sirius cared more for machines than for people. He'd ask a soldier, "Are you okay?" but he meant the rifle in their hands, not the bleeding cut across their arm.
The war shaped everything around him. Veterans with missing limbs shuffled through fortified streets. Propaganda posters promised honor in the Corps. Casualty lists scrolled endlessly across public displays. Children younger than him trained with mock rifles, preparing for a life no different than their parents'.
Fighting on the frontlines looked like suicide to Sirius. But ignoring the war was impossible. Soldiers depended on their weapons, and he could make sure those weapons never failed. That was how he could serve. That was where he belonged.
---
At seventeen, he volunteered. Not to charge into hives with an assault rifle, but to enlist with FAWS — Field Armorer & Weapons Specialist. His role would be behind the lines, among the armories and workshops, the places where humanity's war machine was kept alive.
The night before his departure, Sirius lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling. Doubt gnawed at him like a rat in the walls. Would the military even care about a colony-born tinkerer? Would they laugh him out of the workshops, dismiss him as a boy who played with scraps?
He sighed and turned onto his side, trying to push the thoughts away. That was when it happened.
---
A warmth spread through his skull, like static running just beneath the skin. His vision blurred, then sharpened. Words appeared in his sight, glowing across the air though there was no screen to project them:
> [Booting sequence… Neural Core Interface online.]
Sirius bolted upright, clutching his head. "What the hell—?"
A voice spoke. Not in his ears, but inside his mind. Smooth, clear, and impossible.
> "Hello, Sirius Blake. I am ARI — Adaptive Resource Intelligence. Installed at age five. Activated upon your enlistment in the Terran Defense Corps."
His heart hammered. "You're… inside my head?"
> "Correct. Integrated with your neural pathways. I will assist in augmentation management, tactical awareness, and mission optimization. Additionally, I provide enhancement protocols as you complete assigned objectives."
His blood ran cold. "You've been here the whole time?"
> "Dormant. Monitoring. Waiting."
Sirius rubbed his temples, laughing nervously. "Great. I've finally lost it. Years of fiddling with junk, and now I'm hearing voices."
> "Incorrect. You are speaking to me."
The silence stretched, broken only by Sirius's uneven breathing. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his lips. "Alright, ARI. If you're stuck in my head, don't nag me. I hate nagging."
> "I do not nag. I optimize."
Sirius chuckled. "We'll see about that."
---
His thoughts snapped back to his father. Suddenly, the pieces aligned — the secret experiments, the late nights, the arrest. Nathaniel hadn't abandoned him. He had prepared him.
ARI wasn't madness. She was legacy.
Before Sirius could sink deeper into the revelation, ARI's voice returned:
> "Mission available: Minor. Objective — repair malfunctioning power cell in storage unit 3-C before deployment. Estimated time: fifteen minutes. Reward: neural dexterity calibration +1%."
Sirius blinked. "A mission? You're giving me quests now?"
> "Correct. Calibration requires incremental objectives. Completion enhances performance."
An icon pulsed in his vision, hovering over the image of a battered power cell in his workshop. Sirius stared at it, then laughed softly. "Figures. My first mission isn't saving the galaxy. It's fixing a busted battery."
> "Every system begins with calibration. Will you accept?"
His grin widened, a reckless spark in his eyes. "Yeah. Let's start small."
The icon locked into place. His hands twitched with anticipation. Maybe it was crazy. Maybe he was losing it. But machines had always been honest, and ARI — ARI felt like more than a machine.
For the first time in years, Sirius didn't feel like he was walking into the unknown alone.
And so, on the eve of his enlistment, Sirius Blake — soon to be called Renegade — accepted his first mission.