The night was colder than usual. A creeping wind slipped through the cracks of the outer balcony, pulling at Sirius Blake's hair and coat as he leaned against the railing. The stars, dulled by the faint smoke of war drifting even this far from the front, blinked like weary eyes.
He was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could cure. No—this was the exhaustion of carrying too much, too long.
His throat ached from words he hadn't spoken, from laughter he hadn't released. He used to be the noise that filled FAWS, the chaos that pulled everyone along with him whether they liked it or not. Now, silence was his only companion.
Until it wasn't.
A voice cut through the night.
"Sirius…"
He froze. Every nerve in his body went rigid.
It wasn't ARI—her voice had been gone for weeks. It wasn't his father—those recordings carried weight, but not presence. This voice was here. Now. Close.
He turned, slowly, heart hammering in his chest.
There—half-shrouded in shadow at the edge of the balcony—stood a figure.
"Who's there?" Sirius demanded, his voice cracking despite himself. His hand twitched toward his Carbine X but stilled. He wasn't sure if he wanted to fight or just… know.
The figure didn't move.
"Sirius," the voice repeated, softer this time. Familiar. Comforting. But warped by distance, by the veil of night.
He blinked hard, chest tightening. He knew that voice. He was sure of it. But his weary mind, fractured from weeks of silence and loss, couldn't pin it down. Shade? Whisper? Stone? Bear? Or someone else entirely?
The figure lingered, just watching.
Sirius swallowed hard, his throat dry. "If you're here to tell me I've lost it—get in line. Everyone's been whispering the same thing."
Silence. The figure didn't answer, didn't move. Just stood.
"Fine," Sirius muttered, dragging his hand down his face. "Don't talk. Just stare at me like the rest of them."
He turned back to the sky, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles whitened. His voice cracked as he spoke again, half to himself, half to the phantom behind him.
"They think I'm broken. That I burned out. Maybe they're right. I thought I was carrying them forward with my madness, my inventions. Turns out I was just running from myself."
The words spilled out, bitter and raw. He hadn't said them to anyone—not Stone, not Whisper, not even Loras. But here, with this silent watcher, the truth slipped free.
"I don't laugh anymore," he whispered. "And when I do… it's fake. Just noise. I didn't even notice at first. But now? Now I feel it. Every laugh is hollow. Every grin is a mask. And the worst part? They all miss it. They miss that version of me. The lunatic. The storm. The Renegade."
He bowed his head, shoulders trembling.
"But me? I just miss her. I miss my father. I miss the voices that actually gave a damn. Now it's just silence. And me."
Behind him, the figure shifted. A faint step forward. The scrape of a boot against metal.
Sirius didn't turn. He was afraid to.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The wind howled through the balcony, tugging at Sirius' coat. He closed his eyes.
"Do you know what the worst part is?" he said finally, voice thick. "I can build anything. Carbine X. Shatterstorm. Optic helmets. Auto-turrets. Things that keep men alive. But I can't build this." He tapped his temple. "I can't fix what's in here. Not with schematics. Not with blueprints. Not with all the genius in the world."
His laugh—dry, humorless—escaped in a single breath.
"Renegade Blake, the miracle worker of FAWS. Can make a gun that never jams, but can't make himself laugh."
The figure shifted again. Closer this time. Sirius' chest tightened. He swore he could almost feel warmth radiating from them, like a tether pulling him back from the abyss.
And then—finally—the voice again.
"Sirius… you're not alone."
Just that. Four words. Simple. Clear.
His eyes snapped open, stinging. His jaw clenched. He turned sharply, but the balcony was empty.
Gone.
Only the shadows remained.
Sirius staggered back a step, heart pounding. "Wait!" His voice cracked. "Don't—don't just disappear like that!"
Silence.
The night gave no answer.
He stood there for a long time, trembling, breath fogging in the cold air. His chest ached in a way it hadn't in weeks. Not from silence, not from grief—but from hope.
Someone had spoken to him. Someone had been there. Whether it was real or just his fractured mind conjuring ghosts, he didn't know. But it was something. And something was more than he'd had in weeks.
The next morning, FAWS noticed a change. Not a big one. But something.
The workshop always woke in fragments—one tech cursing as a boot caught a loose wire, another slapping a half-dead console awake, someone laughing at stale rations in the mess. It had been gray for weeks, voices subdued, sparks flying without cheer.
When Sirius walked in, Carbine X slung over his shoulder, datapad in hand, it was as if the noise sharpened. His grin was still gone, but his eyes—his eyes had focus again. Every tech who saw him paused, if only for a heartbeat. Tools clattered louder. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Then whispers rose like wind through dry leaves.
"Did you see him last night?"
"He was out on the balcony for hours."
"Maybe he finally cracked."
"No… maybe he found something. Or someone."
Whisper caught sight of him across the room. For a moment, she thought she saw a faint shimmer of moisture around his eyes—like he'd been crying. But when she blinked, it was gone.
Stone muttered under his breath to Bear, "Feels like he's carrying something different today."
Bear nodded. "A weight, yeah. But lighter. Like someone took the edge off his blade."
Shade, from the corner, simply said, "He's not done yet."
The day passed in quiet tension. Sirius buried himself in schematics, scribbling faster than he had in weeks. Sparks flew from his bench again—too bright, too reckless—but this time, no one complained. It felt familiar. It felt alive.
By nightfall, he was alone again. The workshop hummed around him, dim lights flickering over walls cluttered with graphs, burnt-out boards, and helmet frames cracked open like skulls. He sat hunched, pen hovering above the schematic of Carbine X. But his thoughts weren't on the rifle.
They were on the voice.
He muttered under his breath. "You're not alone."
The words echoed. Burned. Anchored.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, fingers running through his hair. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to demand answers. But instead, he whispered a quiet promise to himself.
"I'll find out who you are. And when I do… maybe I won't feel like I'm falling apart anymore."
The night stretched on. The machines hummed. The stars blinked.
And Sirius Blake, for the first time in weeks, didn't feel entirely alone.