The morning after the FAWS celebration crawled in sluggishly. The calibration bay, normally a sharp chorus of clattering tools and shouted adjustments, was instead a haze of yawns, groans, and sluggish footsteps. Someone had left an overturned ammo crate as a makeshift table, still littered with cups from the night before. Scraps of packaging paper—ripped into makeshift confetti during the festivities—clung stubbornly to the grated floor.
The smell of stale alcohol lingered faintly, mixed with the usual tang of machine oil. A few technicians had collapsed in corners, heads pillowed on folded jackets, tools forgotten mid-repair. One drone sat half-dismantled on a bench, its inner circuits exposed like a carcass under dissection.
Despite the hangovers, the air felt different. Lighter. Even with the distant thump of artillery rolling across Vetra-9's horizon, there was an undercurrent of warmth. For once, the FAWS workshop felt human instead of mechanical.
Sirius Blake strolled in with his usual swagger, though a dull headache pulsed at the base of his skull. He stretched his arms wide, grinned, and called out:
"Morning, sunshine!"
The tech slumped over a desk groaned into his folded arms. "You're too loud, Blake."
"I'm just right," Sirius shot back with a wink. "Means you're still alive."
That earned him a few tired chuckles. A wrench clattered as someone fumbled it with shaky hands. Another groaned theatrically from under a half-finished exosuit. But smiles crept through the fatigue, small sparks of humor burning against the gray haze of war.
By midday, infantry squads began filtering in, armor clattering as they picked up freshly calibrated rifles and sidearms. Their presence jolted the FAWS techs into sharper motion, but the atmosphere never lost its undercurrent of warmth. Soldiers left not only with weapons in hand, but stories on their lips.
"They threw a party in the middle of a war?" one corporal scoffed, though a grin tugged at his mouth.
"Not a party," another corrected. "One of the techs said it was a reminder. A reminder we're still human."
And always, the name was spoken with the tale: Renegade Blake.
It had started as a muttered joke during the Hivebug ambush, but now it caught fire.
By the next rotation, the story reached the medics. One wounded soldier, grinning through cracked ribs, told it proudly: "That weapons tech—Blake—he didn't just keep our guns firing. Word is, he got the whole damn FAWS singing victory songs."
In the comms division, operators chuckled over the static between transmissions.
"Renegade Blake. Sounds like a holovid character."
"Yeah, but apparently he's real. Held off bugs with homemade turrets, then turned the bay into a dance hall."
Even the armored mechanics laughed while leaning on fuel tanks.
"A tech with guts. Maybe we need one of those for our tanks."
"Careful," another snorted. "He'll probably paint flames on the side just for fun."
The story twisted with each retelling. In one version, Sirius stood on a turret, rallying soldiers with speeches while its barrels blazed. In another, he'd jury-rigged an entire ammo factory out of scrap during the ambush. Some swore the FAWS had turned their calibration bay into a festival complete with music, food, and dancing.
None of it was accurate. But rumors never needed to be.
When Jinx heard the tale, he laughed until his pistols rattled. Stone's brow twitched in what might have been a smile. Bear boomed with pride across the hangar. Whisper's voice softened as she admitted to a patient, "That's him." Sparks rolled her eyes so hard they nearly got stuck—though later, her smirk betrayed pride she'd never voice. Shade, asked directly, gave only one word:
"Yes."
---
Even High Command noticed. Reports landed on polished desks with notes about a "morale spike," attributed to one Corporal Sirius Blake. Some officers frowned at his unorthodox methods. Others leaned back, fingers steepled, murmuring that soldiers fought harder when they had legends to believe in.
Far from the command centers, the rumor reached the trenches. On the blasted outskirts of Vetra-9's city ruins, squads huddled in rain-soaked bunkers whispered it between watch shifts.
"They say he built turrets out of junk and scrap. Turned the tide himself."
"Bull. Nobody does that."
"Maybe. But the FAWS swears it's true. And they said he got them all singing, like the war wasn't even touching them."
In the mud and the cold, soldiers grinned through cracked lips, and for the first time in weeks, they laughed without bitterness.
---
Back in FAWS, Sirius hummed as he worked at his bench, unaware of how far his nickname had traveled. ARI flickered softly in his vision.
> "You're humming again," she observed.
"I work better with music," Sirius replied, tightening a bolt.
> "You call that music?"
"Better than Hivebug screeches."
The nearby techs snorted with laughter, shaking their heads. Somehow, even routine work felt lighter when Sirius was in the room.
Later that evening, Chief Engineer Loras gathered the department. His gaze was stern, arms clasped behind his back.
"Last night was irregular," he began. "Against regulations. Unprofessional."
Uneasy silence rippled through the bay. A few techs dropped their eyes, bracing for reprimand.
"But…" Loras let the word hang, heavy in the air. "…it was also necessary. Our spirits matter as much as our skills. For that, I will not condemn it. Instead—" His eyes sought Sirius among the crowd. "—I thank Blake for reminding us why we fight."
The bay erupted into applause. Exhausted hands clapped, voices cheered.
Sirius raised both palms with a grin. "Hey, I only asked if we could drink!"
The bay roared with laughter.
---
That night, lying on his bunk, Sirius twirled a screwdriver in his fingers, staring at the ceiling as if the steel plates above could answer him. ARI's voice broke the silence, calm and almost warm.
> "You've lifted their morale significantly. This is as vital as any turret you've built. Legends inspire as much as defenses."
Sirius smirked faintly. "Maybe so. But don't tell anyone I'm soft. Let's keep the myth that I only care about weapons."
> "Understood. Secret preserved."
He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of exhaustion sink into his bones.
"Tomorrow's another day," he murmured. "More guns to fix, more armor to polish. Let's keep everyone alive."
And somewhere across Vetra-9, in whispers and rumors carried from trench to trench, Renegade Blake was no longer just Sirius. He was becoming a story. A story soldiers clung to in the dark, between battles, when hope felt like the rarest ammunition of all.