The smoke of the foundries clung heavy over the FAWS district, a dull haze that made the sunlight sluggish. Machines screamed in the background, sparks snapping like tiny fireworks across the workshop floors.
To anyone else, it was just another day. Tools grinding, engineers cursing at stubborn alloys, datapads pinging with endless adjustments. But to Sirius Blake, every sound felt muffled, far away.
Because all he could hear was the voice.
You're not alone.
It had been two nights now, and still the words echoed, repeating like a stuck broadcast inside his head. He hadn't told anyone—not Loras, not Stone, not even Whisper. They'd think he'd finally lost it. Maybe he had.
But damn it, it felt real.
He rubbed his temples, trying to chase the memory away, but it clung to him tighter than his own shadow.
---
FAWS personnel had begun noticing.
"He's quieter than usual," one muttered as Sirius walked past with his datapad.
"Quieter? That's an understatement. He hasn't blown up once all week."
"Something's wrong. When Blake isn't laughing, it feels like the walls are closing in."
The whispers followed him everywhere now, like smoke curling through the halls. Sirius pretended not to notice. He kept his head down, scribbled notes on schematics, and offered the occasional pointer on the Carbine X upgrades. But when they weren't looking, his eyes would drift toward the door. Toward the sky.
Like he was waiting for something.
---
Training drills ran late that evening. The clang of rifles, the roar of the Shatterstorm, the rhythm of boots striking dirt filled the yard. Sirius stood apart, leaning against a scaffold as his friends ran through live-fire exercises.
Stone barked orders, his autocannon hammering as squads rotated in and out. Whisper sprinted between groups, correcting posture and stance, forcing rookies to fire on weak points instead of wasting mags on armored plates. Shade perched on the high ridge, spotting and sniping at dummy targets. Bear, in his patched-up mech, loomed over it all, sensors sweeping the field.
They were efficient. Coordinated. Alive.
Sirius should have been proud. Instead, a heaviness pressed down on him. He watched them move like a machine, and all he could think was how close he'd come to losing them at the Queen's assault.
His grip on the datapad tightened until his knuckles whitened.
You're not alone.
The voice again. Sirius flinched.
"You okay, Blake?" Stone's voice cut through the haze. The big man squinted at him between bursts.
Sirius blinked rapidly, forcing a crooked smile. "Yeah. Just… watching you lot waste ammo."
"Funny," Stone grunted, turning back to his squad.
But his eyes lingered a moment too long. He wasn't convinced.
---
Later that night, Sirius sat hunched over his bench, notes scattered in messy stacks. He hadn't touched his tools in hours. He just sat, tapping a stylus against the datapad, lost in thought.
That's when he noticed it.
The ammo display prototype—resting on the corner of the table—blinked on. Just once. A faint pulse of blue across the screen.
He frowned, leaning closer. The device was unplugged, no power routed to it. Yet for a second, it had glowed like it was alive.
He reached out, pressing a finger against the glass. Nothing. Just silence.
His lips tightened.
"You again?" he whispered under his breath.
The room gave no answer. Only the hum of the lights above.
But he swore—he swore—he could feel something. A presence. Watching. Listening.
---
The whispers about Sirius grew louder across FAWS.
"Blake hasn't been himself."
"Think he's broken?"
"Or planning something insane again?"
"Don't joke. Every time he gets that look, someone ends up bleeding."
One technician leaned in close to his group, lowering his voice. "I saw him talking to nobody last night. Just pacing, mumbling. Like he was arguing with a ghost."
Another scoffed nervously. "What's new? He's always been cracked."
"Not like this. This is… different. He doesn't laugh anymore. And when he does—it's not him. It's hollow."
The group went quiet, each of them uncomfortable. They didn't hate Sirius—most even respected him—but now, watching his silence, his mutters, the haunted look in his eyes… it unnerved them.
Loras heard the whispers too. He brushed them off publicly, but in private, his jaw set tighter each day. He knew something was wrong, but Sirius wasn't letting him in.
---
Three nights later, Sirius found himself back at the balcony. The same spot. The same shadows.
The stars glimmered faintly, veiled by haze. He leaned forward, elbows on the railing, eyes half-lidded from exhaustion.
"Are you there?" he whispered into the dark. "Or was it just me losing it?"
Silence.
He closed his eyes. His chest ached.
"I don't care if you're real. Just… don't vanish again. Don't leave me like she did. Like he did." His throat tightened. "I can't keep holding this on my own."
The wind stirred, cold and sharp.
And then—soft, almost imperceptible—the voice again.
"Sirius…"
His eyes snapped open, tears blurring the stars.
He turned—but again, the balcony was empty. Only shadows. Only silence.
But the word lingered. Clear. Real.
---
The next day, training was interrupted when Sirius appeared unannounced on the firing line. He barked at a squad of rookies wasting mags on armor plates.
"Joints, idiots! Always the joints! Count your damn shots or you'll be dry before the second wave even hits!"
His tone was sharp, harsher than usual. The rookies scrambled, muttering apologies.
Whisper stepped up, frowning. "Easy, Sirius. They're learning."
He glared at her, eyes bloodshot. "Learning doesn't mean dying in the field. They need to feel the weight of every bullet."
She studied him carefully. Something in his voice was off—too tight, too strained. Not his usual manic fire, but something heavier.
"You look like hell," she said quietly.
Sirius smirked faintly. "Thanks. Just what I needed to hear."
But the smirk didn't reach his eyes.
---
Shade's Observation
That evening, as the squads filed out of the yard, Shade lingered on the ridge. He'd been watching Sirius all day, silently, like a sniper waiting for a pattern.
When Whisper passed below, Shade spoke, his voice low but carrying.
"He's talking to someone."
Whisper paused, looking up. "What?"
"Last night. And the night before. Out on the balcony. He's not alone. But no one's there."
Whisper frowned, unease creeping in. "So what—you think he's hearing things?"
Shade shrugged. His face gave nothing away. "Or someone's hearing him."
---
Back at his bench, Sirius stared at the Carbine X schematics without seeing them. His hand hovered above the paper, unmoving.
He wasn't thinking about burst-limiters or ammo switches. He was thinking about the voice. About the shadow. About the words that wouldn't leave him.
"You're not alone."
His lips curved faintly, almost involuntarily. For the first time in weeks, it wasn't a mask.
And that terrified him more than the silence ever had.
Because if the voice was real—then who was it?
And why did it feel like it was waiting for him?