The workshop hadn't been this alive in years. Sparks flew from welding rigs, voices barked orders and jokes, and the whir of machinery blended into a symphony of creation. The Carbine X upgrades had taken root. FAWS personnel were no longer just engineers—they were becoming part of the war effort in a way they could feel in their bones.
Sirius watched it all from his bench, arms folded, that familiar grin tugging at his mouth. For the first time in weeks, he laughed—not manic, not forced, but a low, genuine chuckle. It rolled out of him like tension bleeding away.
But the sound was different. Controlled. Balanced.
He pushed off the bench and stretched, rolling his shoulders. The workshop would manage without him for a while. His "baby makers," as he so gleefully called them, were buzzing with purpose. And Sirius? Sirius had another itch gnawing at him.
He needed to fight.
---
Outside, the training grounds were thick with dust and sweat. Soldiers ran through obstacle courses, squads drilled fire-and-maneuver, and recruits gasped under the weight of their packs.
At the edge of the yard stood Stone Varga, arms folded across his massive chest, watching a group of heavies practice shield formations. Nearby, Bear Ivanov climbed down from his mech, helmet tucked under one arm, grease streaked across his jaw. Shade was perched on a half-collapsed wall, rifle across his lap, eyes scanning drills with hawk-like precision. Whisper moved between wounded trainees, correcting their bandages and shaking her head in exasperation.
Sirius stepped onto the yard, boots crunching against gravel. His friends noticed immediately.
"Well, well," Stone rumbled, his deep voice carrying. "Look who finally crawled out from behind his desk."
Bear smirked, slapping grease from his hands. "I thought you'd fused to that workbench by now."
Whisper's gaze softened, though her tone stayed sharp. "If you're here to spectate, Renegade, don't get in the way."
Sirius flashed a grin, raising his hands. "Spectate? Please. I'm here to remind you clowns who taught the bugs how to scream."
Shade's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You'll last ten minutes."
"Ten?" Sirius cocked his head. "I'm insulted. I'll last at least fifteen."
Stone barked a laugh. "Then prove it."
---
The squad set up a mock drill. Obstacles loomed: barricades, trenches, pop-up drone targets that spat paint rounds. It wasn't the frontline, but it was close enough to bite.
Sirius slung his Carbine X across his chest, the weapon warm and familiar in his grip. "Alright, rules?"
"Rules are simple," Stone said. "Stay alive, cover your squad, hit your targets. Don't embarrass yourself."
Bear grinned. "That last one's impossible."
"Shut it, grease monkey." Sirius checked his mag, grinning wider. "Let's dance."
---
The whistle blew.
Chaos erupted. Paint rounds whizzed. Drones sprang from the dirt, spitting pellets like angry hornets.
Stone advanced like a wall, shield braced, barking orders. "Left flank! Cover fire!"
Bear's mech stomped forward, a cannon spitting compressed-air bursts at drone targets. Shade moved like a shadow, rifle cracking, each shot splitting a drone's painted eye. Whisper ducked behind cover, dragging a "wounded" recruit to safety, her voice sharp and commanding.
And Sirius?
Sirius sprinted. Carbine X rattled in his hands, paint bursts peppering drones into streaks of neon across steel. The auto-eject snapped empty mags free; his reloads were flawless, muscle memory carrying him through.
But it wasn't easy.
His lungs burned. His shoulders strained under the rifle's weight. Sweat stung his eyes. His shots weren't Shade-perfect, nor his shield as unbreakable as Stone's, nor his control as steady as Bear's mech. But he was there—in the dust, in the noise, shoulder to shoulder with them.
---
Halfway through, Stone bellowed. "Renegade, right flank!"
A cluster of drones erupted from the trench line, pelting paint in vicious arcs. Sirius dove, rolled, slammed a mag in, and fired blind bursts. Paint splattered across his chest plate, stinging, but he laughed through it.
"HA! Missed my face, you cheap tin cans!"
Whisper's voice cracked from cover. "You're insane!"
Sirius grinned through the sting. "That's the idea!"
---
By the end, his chest heaved like a bellows. His armor was streaked in every color, his body sore in ways he hadn't felt in months. But when the whistle blew and the last drone clattered still, Sirius was still standing.
Barely. But standing.
Stone stomped over, shield slung across his back. He eyed Sirius critically, then nodded once. "Didn't think you'd last half that long."
Bear chuckled, wiping his brow. "You looked like you were dying the whole time. But you didn't."
Shade tilted his head. "Sloppy. But not bad."
Whisper approached last, handing him a rag to wipe paint from his face. Her eyes were softer than her words. "Don't kill yourself trying to prove something. Just… keep showing up."
Sirius wiped his face, panting, then grinned. "So what you're saying is… I'm still the best."
Stone groaned. Bear laughed. Whisper smacked him lightly with the rag. Shade just rolled his eyes.
But beneath the banter, something shifted. They'd all seen it—the effort, the grit. Sirius wasn't just a genius behind a bench anymore. He was fighting to be one of them.
---
That night, Sirius sat outside the barracks, Carbine X across his knees. The stars burned faintly through the haze of war. His muscles ached, his ribs were bruised, and his pride was dented—but for the first time, he felt whole.
He wasn't just the Renegade with machines. He was Sirius Blake, soldier.
And though the war stretched endlessly ahead, for once, he didn't feel like he was walking it alone.