The FAWS workshop was quieter than usual, and that alone was enough to make people uneasy.
It wasn't the quiet of exhaustion, or the quiet after a long day's work. No, this silence was heavier, like the air itself held its breath.
Because for the first time in months, Sirius Blake wasn't laughing.
The benches around him clattered with tools and murmurs as personnel tried to focus on their assignments, but every so often someone's gaze would slide to the corner where Renegade Blake worked. Normally, that corner was chaos incarnate—sparks flying, wires spilling, Sirius giggling or cackling at some half-finished weapon as though it were telling him jokes only he could hear. Today, though, the corner was… flat.
Sirius hunched over a dismantled Carbine X, his eyes hollow, fingers moving with mechanical precision. He wasn't muttering to himself, wasn't taunting the machine to "sing" for him, wasn't barking laughter when parts didn't fit. He just worked. Methodical. Joyless.
The technicians around him exchanged glances.
"Did you notice? He hasn't said a word since morning."
"Yeah. Not even a joke."
"Creepy, isn't it? I never thought I'd miss his crazy laugh, but…"
The speaker trailed off when Sirius turned his head ever so slightly. He didn't glare, didn't even frown—just looked. A flat, weighty look. Enough to shut everyone up.
---
It had begun days ago, after the argument.
Sirius had shouted at empty air in the workshop, arguing with ARI, calling out his father's name as though he might answer back. Then, silence. The next day, he'd still laughed—but not the same way. The laughter was too sharp, too forced, coming at strange times. It didn't ring with the wild spark that used to ignite the room; it rattled instead, brittle, like glass about to shatter.
By now, even that had stopped.
Sirius dropped a rifle spring into its groove, eyes narrowing, and leaned back on the stool. His reflection shimmered faintly in the metal, and for a moment he didn't see himself at all. He saw his father. The old recordings he used to play back. His father's voice telling ARI to punish him if he ever got too proud. The betrayal that still burned like acid in his chest.
He muttered under his breath, voice hoarse. "You left me this cage, old man. You and her both."
The words were quiet, but they were venom. A junior tech sitting at the next bench shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to hear.
---
At lunch, the murmurs grew.
"Something's wrong with him."
"Yeah, no kidding. He hasn't scared the crap out of us all day."
"No, I mean really wrong. You saw his face? He looks like he's carrying a mountain."
"…I liked him better when he was nuts. At least then we knew what to expect."
Sparks Novik slammed her tray down at their table, glaring. "He's not broken. He's just… thinking."
"Thinking? He's a ghost. He didn't even flinch when that plasma coil overloaded this morning."
Sparks clenched her jaw, stabbing her fork into the grey mess on her plate. "Then leave him alone. You'll be grateful when he comes back with another miracle."
But none of them looked convinced.
---
By evening, Sirius' absence was louder than his laughter had ever been.
He stayed behind in the workshop long after the others left, staring at schematics glowing across the holo-display. Burst-limiter firmware. Ammo-type switching. Recoil dampeners. Words and diagrams filled the air, scrolling endlessly as he tweaked and erased, tweaked and erased again.
Normally, he'd cackle at the absurdity of what he was trying to pull off. Normally, he'd shout across the workshop about his "babies" and demand everyone look at them. Tonight, he just worked in silence.
Once, his hand slipped, slicing a shallow cut across his knuckle. He barely reacted, just stared at the blood dripping onto the datapad.
"…ARI would've scolded me for that," he whispered. "Would've told me to stop being reckless. Would've patched me with a reminder of medical safety protocols."
He squeezed his fist, smearing the blood across the edge of the bench, and for the first time that day a sound slipped out of him—half laugh, half sob. It didn't last long.
---
The following morning, his friends dropped by.
Stone Varga was the first, his heavy boots thudding across the floor. He crossed his arms and scowled down at Sirius. "You're too quiet. It's creeping me out."
Sirius smirked faintly, not looking up from his schematic. "What, you prefer the madness?"
"Damn right I do. At least when you're laughing like a lunatic, I know you're alive. Right now, you look like a corpse that won't lie down."
Sirius chuckled under his breath, but there was no joy in it. "Don't worry, Stone. Still alive. Just… busy."
Stone narrowed his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but didn't press.
Later, Whisper Kade arrived, carrying a small medkit out of habit. She crouched beside his bench, studying him with those sharp medic's eyes. "You're running yourself thin," she said softly.
"Story of my life." Sirius' lips twitched, but his eyes stayed fixed on the glowing lines of code.
"You're not laughing anymore," she said. "Not really."
He froze for a fraction of a second, then forced a grin. "Guess I ran out of jokes."
Whisper didn't believe him. She touched his hand lightly, the one gripping a screwdriver too tightly, and whispered, "You don't have to carry it all alone."
But Sirius didn't answer. He pulled his hand away gently and went back to work.
---
By the end of the week, even Bear and Shade had noticed.
Bear caught him in the mess and tried to crack a joke about his "baby-making schemes," but Sirius only gave a small, polite chuckle and returned to his food. Shade, watching from the shadows, muttered to himself: "That's not him. That's a mask."
The rumors in FAWS shifted again.
"He's broken."
"No, he's plotting something even worse."
"Did you see the way he smiled yesterday? It was empty."
"Renegade Blake without his laugh? That's not Renegade anymore. That's just… Blake."
Even Loras couldn't deny it. Standing in his office, he looked down at the workshop where Sirius hunched over his bench, motionless except for the flick of his tools. The chief engineer rubbed his temple and muttered, "The boy's fire kept this place burning. If it dies out… what happens to us?"
---
That night, Sirius lay on his bunk staring at the ceiling. The workshop was silent, the barracks quieter still.
He remembered the sound of ARI's voice, crisp and calm in his mind.
He remembered his father's laugh, deep and warm, so different from his own ragged madness.
And for the first time, Sirius felt the absence of both like a weight pressing down on his chest.
His lips curled into a faint smile, but no sound came out. No laugh. No cackle. Nothing. Just silence.
And for Renegade Blake, silence was the most terrifying thing of all.