The Cut of Renewal

[Andrew Lonek]

The ramp hummed under Omega1's mag-rails as Andrew slid into the belly of the house. Shadows swallowed chrome until only HUD readouts cut the dark: coolant temps, servos nominal, external feed clean. He hit the trap door release; the panel swung inward with a whisper and the suit dropped through, landing with a muted metallic thud on the sublevel.

Something was off. Ambient scanners threw odd micro-signatures across the displays — displaced coolant, a faint magnetic trace where none should be, a streak of oil that didn't match any of his routines. C.E.R.A. was oddly quiet for half a beat, like an animal listening for a reason the house could not supply.

He moved through the lab, repulsor arm raised, finger resting over the firing prompt. The lights bloomed on, revealing arc-furnaces, prototype chassis, soldering rigs with names eaten into their rims, and a scatter of parts that belonged to machines he once called children. And improbably, a man lounged in his lab chair with boots propped on Andrew's primary bench.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Markus Chorvus looked like survival carved into flesh. Bald enough to show the angles of his skull, he wore a close-cropped shadow of hair at the crown and a stubble that caught the lab light like steel wool. His skin was weathered, his jaw a wire of muscle, and the most unsettling thing were his eyes — pale, hard, an almost animal reflective quality that pinned Andrew the way a predator pins a curiosity. He sat like a man who had earned the right to take other people's chairs and enjoyed the trespass.

"Nice place," Markus said, voice low and dry with that predatory calm. He tipped an invisible hat and let his gaze roam the lab as if appraising meat. "Lovely cleaners. Shame about the blind spot over the subfloor vents. Cheap trick to stagger thermal scans. You sleep with your shoes on, Lonek."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's repulsor hummed in response. Markus carried no visible weapon; the open posture and the boots-up casualness argued for confidence, not threat. Still, threat level remained ambiguous. He didn't lower the weapon. "You're trespassing," Andrew said. The helmet's speakers flattened his tone. "You tell me why you're here or I teach you how my repulsor feels from the inside out."

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Markus made a small, humorless sound — half laugh, half sigh. "That escalated quickly. For a second I thought you might offer me a drink. But you're right — I'm in your home. I'm also the reason your cleaners look exhausted." He flicked a finger toward a nearby bot; it twitched and then resumed its sweep, almost sheepish. "Perimeter's sloppy, friend. You rely on a single mind — lovely AI — and that makes one tidy failure point. You've got bleed through old ductwork, cadence leaks on vessel approach, and your decoys betray the real signatures by being—" he snapped his fingers — "too loud."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

C.E.R.A.'s feed overlaid Markus's critique with corroborating telemetry. It stung because it was true. A small, professional part of Andrew — the part that loved building foolproof things — nodded at the accuracy. The rest of him kept the repulsor aimed.

"So fix it," Andrew said. "And leave."

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Markus smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes. "It's not about fixing. It's about who fixes with you." He rolled his boots on the bench as if testing the leather. "There are hands that work in the dark—clean, efficient, and unlisted. They take jobs governments can't sign off on and do things corporations would deny. They need architects. They need makers. They need men who can construct apocalypse and sell it back as insurance."

The words landed as precisely as a blade. Recruiter's cadence — danger wrapped like a present. Markus watched Andrew, reading the micro-expressions the HUD could not hide. He wasn't waving a corporate logo or a Senate seal; he was offering a ledger and an invitation.

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's index finger drifted a fraction from the firing prompt. "You're a recruiter now?" he asked, sarcasm tight. Flattery had gotten him into worse situations than this; he smelled the old bait.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

"No." Markus tipped his head. "I'm the messenger. Someone with pockets and patience thinks you belong on their roster. They think you can build things only you can build. They think you owe them favors by virtue of talent." He shrugged, as if the idea were as natural as the lab's hum. "You can refuse. You can shoot me. Both clean options."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew let the silence live for a long beat. Omega1's servos whispered; C.E.R.A. annotated traces in the corner of his HUD. Markus's sponsor left no obvious public signature — the work was masked in professional ways. The man in the chair wasn't a gun in human form, not yet. He was a temptation with a ledger.

"Who sent you?" Andrew asked, keeping the repulsor level but not locked. Curiosity had always opened doors for him — sometimes to new empires, sometimes to funerals.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Markus's pale eyes flashed, pleased. "No name you can thank over a conference. Not yet. Think of it like a sculptor with a blank wall and a chisel. They want someone who can make the wall sing. You make walls sing, Lonek. They'll give you the chisel. The question is—what will you carve?"

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew studied him — the way he told truths and lies in the same breath, the ease with which he took up space. Markus wasn't a direct threat, but neither was he an ally. He was the wrong sort of choice: a ledger that came with footnotes.

"Not interested in signing up for someone else's war," Andrew said, muscles taut inside the suit. "I pick my battles."

 

[Markus Chorvus]

"Most do at first," Markus said, unsurprised. He tapped the bench where Andrew's hands might have been; it was a casual, almost indifferent gesture. "Pro tip — those who don't pick tend to get picked." He stood, stretching like a predator preparing to leave. "If you change your mind, there's an encrypted frequency. If you don't, I'll still report you tidy, efficient, and visually interesting when you panic."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew's thumb hovered over the safe-release and then eased back. The repulsor stayed trained but deliberate. "Get out," he said flat.

 

[Markus Chorvus]

Markus slid one foot off the table, rising like a man who leaves on purpose. At the threshold he paused and looked back, that predator's patience in his gaze. "Consider it an offer, not an ultimatum."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew watched the door seal and the visitor's signature fade into background processes. Markus was gone, but his presence — the ledger he carried — settled into the lab like a half-charged battery: not a threat, not a friend, just another variable to account for??

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew let out a noise that was half laugh, half mortified groan and slapped a palm against Omega1's forearm as if the suit itself had betrayed him. "Of all the things to be outwitted by," he muttered, voice muffled by the helmet speaker, "it had to be a guy who makes his living lounging in other people's labs."

 

[C.E.R.A.]

"Assessment: emotional response registered. Embarrassment level: moderate-to-high," C.E.R.A. replied in that implacable calm that always made Andrew feel like a child being lectured by a librarian with laser eyes. "Shall I file notes in your ego's recovery folder?"

 

[Andrew Lonek]

"Very funny," Andrew snapped. "List off the problems again. Slow, for my fragile, colossal pride."

 

[C.E.R.A.]

"Perimeter weaknesses identified," C.E.R.A. recited. "Thermal blind spot over the subfloor vents. Cadence leakage in vessel approach signatures. Decoys producing excessive harmonic noise that correlates with expected diversion patterns. Reliance on a single AI as a central decision node increases single-point-of-failure risk. And an unsecured wineglass under the third floor drapes, which you ignored last Tuesday."

 

[Andrew Lonek]

Andrew winced at the last one like she'd struck a nerve. "Okay, the wineglass was decorative, and it had sentimental value. Also — dramatic flourish." He shoved his hands into the suit's gauntlets. "But the main thing is — that creeper exploited a duct and not my meteor-proof dome, so that's … stylistic. Tactical. Intentional."