The Cut of Renewal

[Valah Hagen]

The mirror in her quarters was cracked — a jagged line splitting her reflection into two halves. Fitting. One side still clung to who she had been. The other side waited for who she was becoming.

Valah exhaled slowly, raising the vibro-scissors. Strands of hair, darkened by soot and war, slid from her fingers. The floor became littered with her past — all the long, tangled weight of Eyok, of battles fought and survived.

The woman who stared back at her when she was finished was someone different.
Short, sharp, spiked. Blonde.
Elegant, yet fierce — hair that didn’t just sit. It spoke.

She smirked, tugging the collar of her undersuit tighter.

On the workbench lay the pieces of her new armor, polished and waiting.
Obsidian plates interlaced with steel ridges. Crimson accents biting like scars.
Each section was alive with hidden systems: micro-servos, thermal dispersers, upgraded HUD. The mark of Andrew Lonek’s meddling genius ran through every seam.

One by one, she assembled them. Chestplate sliding into place with a reassuring click. Gauntlets locking tight around her wrists. Greaves snapping with magnetic seals. The helmet last — still resting on the bench, for now.

The comm link chirped. Andrew’s ID flashed across her HUD.

She tapped it on.
“Lonek.”

 

[Andrew Lonek]

His voice came filtered, but alive with its usual mix of charm and smugness.

“So… the prodigal Mandalorian finally calls. Lemme guess — trying on the new toys?”

 

[Valah Hagen]

Valah flexed her left gauntlet, igniting a short pulse from the mounted repulsor node. It shimmered like bottled lightning before fizzling out.
"Testing," she corrected.

 

[Andrew Lonek]

"Testing, she says. Look, you don't just test Lonek tech, you savor it. That repulsor's got a 0.5 second delay before firing — use it as a feint, then close distance. Trust me, bad guys hate it when you punch them with physics."

 

[Valah Hagen]

Valah allowed herself a dry chuckle.
"You remember Korl Vesh. I'll take every edge I can get."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's tone shifted, just slightly.

"Yeah… but now you're not just fighting. You're leading. Armor's not just for protection anymore. It's the banner people see when they follow you. Don't forget that."

 

[Valah Hagen]

The comm went quiet for a beat, his words lingering heavier than she expected. Finally, she cut the channel with a nod.

Valah leaned back against the edge of her bunk, arms crossed as she stared at the comm unit. Andrew's words replayed in her mind—steady, almost too steady. Armor's not just for protection anymore. It's the banner people see when they follow you. That tone of his, the kind of certainty forged in fire, rang like iron. But she caught something beneath it. A weight.

She thumbed the comm again, opening the line. "Andrew," she said softly, "that was… a hell of a thing to say. But I want to ask you straight—are you holding up? You've been through more than most people could bear. I need the truth, not the soldier's answer."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

There was a pause, long enough for static to fill the silence. Then Andrew's voice came, lighter than she expected.

"Valah, if I told you every scar, every ghost, you'd start wearing two sets of armor just to keep up with me." A dry chuckle followed. "But I'm fine. Really. After everything I've seen? Everything I've survived? I can handle anything."

 

[Valah Hagen]

Valah frowned, fingers drumming the arm of her chair. She knew that tone—confidence wrapped tight around old wounds. "That's what worries me. You say you can handle anything, but no one should have to handle everything. Not alone."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's reply was softer, though no less certain. "You underestimate me. I've been tempered by worse fires than this. Whatever comes next, I'll meet it standing. That's not deflection, Valah—it's who I am."

 

[Valah Hagen]

For a moment, she let the silence sit between them, her mind weighing the truth against the armor he wore in his words. Then she exhaled, conceding for now. "Alright. But you'd better remember—you don't have to carry it all by yourself. Not while I'm around."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

His laugh was low, almost fond. "Noted, Commander."

Andrew watched the cleaning bots like a man watching old soldiers march—efficient, annoying, oddly comforting. They scuttled across the dining room in neat arcs, collecting crumbs and a scattering of spent cocktail glass fragments from some later-than-it-should-have-been night. Sunlight slid through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his Malibu-style home and painted the chrome of the bots in lazy gold. He sat in a robe that had once been important, now just another soft thing to hide inside of, and he let himself be a voyeur to his own life.


On the coffee table, a holodisplay hovered in a slow loop: Sommer Dai laughing, hair tossed by a breeze he could almost feel through the projector. The moment was private and impossible and entirely his—two people caught between ruin and something like grace. He watched the way her mouth softened when she looked at him, the tilt of her chin when she trusted him. His chest tightened in a way he hadn't budgeted for. He missed her. He always missed her.

 

[C.E.R.A.]

Before nostalgia could become a trap, the house announced the first wrong note. A crisp, clinical ping—C.E.R.A.

"Alert: Perimeter breach protocol engaged. Unknown thermal signatures detected: none visible. Recommend visual sweep."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

C.E.R.A.'s voice was iceberg-cool, every syllable measured. He liked that about her. Liked that she didn't try to make him feel better about things that were not betterable.

He planted his bare feet on the cold tile and stood. The robe fell open as he pivoted toward the entrance hall. Habit sharpened into habitus: he tapped his holo-watch, palms barely moving. Rings of translucent interface spun up, painting heat maps and service logs in the air.

Empty. The thermal overlay showed a calm, indifferent sweep—no human-sized heat blobs. He frowned. The house's gardens, the gutter, the shore—nothing. Clean. Wrongly clean.

A muffled, heavy thud answered him from below—subfloor. Not the hollow sound of settling timber. Something alive, or at least something newly violent, shifting metal.

Andrew had three reflexes in situations like this: call his armor, call his friends, or call for a dozen small, complicated distractions and then call a lawyer. He weighed them like a man browsing desserts. Valah had just checked on his mental state; she had his back now. Calling her would be the decent, human thing. Calling in Omega1 would be the efficient, metal thing.

He did both in the same breath, because he was Andrew Lonek and because decency could wait three minutes.

"C.E.R.A.," he said, voice steady, a thread of amusement woven through the tension. "Prep Omega1 for retrieval. Lightweight loadout. Keep the flight stabilization tight. Silent approach until I give you the green."

 

[C.E.R.A.]

"Affirmative. Omega1 allocation in progress. Pre-flight checks at 92%. Recommend intercept in ninety-two seconds."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

He flicked his wrist and spoke the old, childish-sweet command developers loved: "Come on home, baby."


Outside, a soft harmonic pulsed as the courtyard vault opened. Inside the vault, assembled like a sleeping predator, Omega1 began its choreography. Plates lifted in sequence, limbs extending. Chrome-blue and silver panels folded like a metallic bloom; servos whispered into life. The suit's silhouette grew—sleek, human-shaped, a fusion of grace and punching power. Even at a distance, the missile pods at the shoulders looked like a promise and a threat all at once.

 

[C.E.R.A.]

C.E.R.A. supplied a calm, steady stream of telemetry. "Armor systems nominal. Flex controls are fully responsive. Missiles armed at minimal load for the moment—two ready, two on standby."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew let the robe fall fully open and did what he did best: he smiled, not because anything was funny but because he preferred the illusion that he was untroubled. He moved to the vault door, palms against the railing as Omega1 unfolded the last of its joints and rolled toward the ramp on silent mag-rails, chrome catching light like a blade.

 

[C.E.R.A.]

"Remember," C.E.R.A. added, almost conversationally, "you do have the option to call Valah."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

He glanced up at the holodisplay once more—Sommer's laugh still looping—and then back to the ramp where Omega1's helmet-level optics came alive, a single lens like an eye opening. He felt the familiar, ridiculous surge of sibling pride for something he made that could hurt people and save them in the same heartbeat.

"Not yet," he said to the empty room, to the bots, to the humming house and to C.E.R.A. "Not yet. Let's see what the house wants to offer us."

The suit clicked the final lock, flexed, and obeyed. Omega1 glided down the ramp and let its systems warm into him like a second heartbeat. Outside, the ocean kept its patient rhythm; inside, the house held its breath.