Korda the unyielding
The medical station never truly slept.
Even in the quieter cycles, there was always something moving behind the walls. The low, constant hum of life-support systems and atmospheric recyclers provided a mechanical heartbeat beneath everything else, occasionally interrupted by the distant hiss of pneumatic doors or the muffled footsteps of medical personnel passing through the corridor outside. Somewhere farther down the station, a droid announced the arrival of a patient in a perfectly calm synthetic voice before falling silent again.
The room Korda had been assigned was small, functional, and aggressively sterile.
White durasteel panels covered the walls, broken only by narrow strips of recessed lighting that cast an even, almost clinical glow across the room. The floor was made of some dull gray composite that had clearly been designed with practicality rather than aesthetics in mind. There wasn't much here that could be considered personal. A medical bed occupied one side of the room, its sheets folded neatly despite having gone largely unused. A small diagnostic terminal sat beside it, its blue display periodically flickering through the readings of the patient currently occupying the room.
Korda had decided that patient wasn't particularly interesting.
A chair had been placed near the center of the room, and that was where the Mandalorian sat.
The chair creaked faintly beneath his considerable weight.
His armor had been removed piece by piece after he arrived, leaving the normally imposing figure considerably less intimidating. The heavy beskar plates rested nearby, arranged in an untidy collection around the room rather than their usual position across his body. Several pieces carried fresh scratches and scoring from the job. One pauldron had a noticeable new mark across its surface, while the plating around his torso bore several shallow impacts that had thankfully stopped at the armor.
The beskar had done what it was supposed to do.
It had kept him alive.
Again.
Korda's helmet sat on a nearby table, its crimson krayt skull insignia catching the sterile overhead light. The visor remained dark and empty, giving the helmet an almost watchful appearance despite being completely inert.
His gauntlets sat beside it.
His weapons were secured elsewhere, according to station protocol.
Korda had found that particularly irritating.
Still, he had survived worse inconveniences.
His attention eventually returned to his left forearm.
The bandage wrapped around it was clean and professionally applied, stretching from just below his elbow toward his wrist. The medical staff had assured him that the injury wasn't particularly serious. A deep cut, certainly, but nothing that threatened the function of the arm. A few days of keeping it clean and avoiding unnecessary strain would be enough.
That didn't make it any less annoying.
Korda slowly flexed his fingers.
The movement produced a dull ache that traveled up his forearm.
His jaw tightened.
His gaze drifted toward the armor resting nearby.
The offending plates were obvious.
The attack had somehow slipped between them.
One narrow opening.
One lucky angle.
One opponent who had managed to put a weapon exactly where Korda had spent years making sure nobody could reach.
His expression darkened.
"Fuckers got lucky."
The words came out as a low mutter, barely loud enough to carry across the room.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling for several seconds.
The ceiling offered no sympathy.
It was, like most things on the station, completely white.
Korda exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Really damn lucky."
There was a faint rustle against his neck.
Korda glanced down.
Oro had apparently decided that the entire ordeal was beneath her concern.
The little hognose snake was comfortably draped around his neck, her body resting against the exposed skin where his armor normally covered him. She seemed completely at peace, utterly unconcerned with the medical station, the damaged armor, or the fact that her owner had recently been involved in a job that had gone considerably less smoothly than planned.
Her head rested against his shoulder.
Korda stared at her.
"You could've helped."
Oro remained perfectly still.
Korda narrowed his eyes.
"Could've warned me."
Nothing.
"You were there."
Still nothing.
He gave a quiet grunt.
"Useless."
Oro shifted slightly, settling herself more comfortably around his neck.
Korda stared at her for another moment before shaking his head.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
Outside the room, a pair of medical droids rolled past the doorway. Their repulsors emitted a soft mechanical whine as they moved down the corridor, carrying a sealed container between them. The automatic doors opened with a quiet pneumatic hiss and closed again, returning the room to its artificial silence.
Through the small transparisteel window beside the door, Korda could see part of the station's main corridor.
Doctors and technicians moved through it in hurried but practiced routines. Some carried datapads. Others spoke quietly to one another as they went. A pair of exhausted-looking beings sat against the opposite wall, waiting for treatment. A medical droid stopped beside one of them, its head tilting slightly as it began asking a series of questions.
Beyond all of that, another set of transparisteel windows revealed the station's exterior.
Space stretched endlessly beyond them.
Stars burned against the blackness, impossibly distant and completely indifferent to whatever was happening inside the station. A freighter drifted slowly past the station's outer docking ring, its running lights blinking rhythmically against the darkness. Farther away, the faint glow of a planet's atmosphere illuminated part of the void, casting a muted blue reflection across the station's exterior structures.
It was peaceful.
Almost unnervingly so.
Korda had spent the last several hours surrounded by blaster fire, shouting, engines, and the metallic shriek of weapons striking beskar.
Now there was only the hum of machinery.
The quiet beep of medical equipment.
The faint movement of Oro against his neck.
And the lingering soreness in his arm.
His eyes closed for a moment.
The job replayed itself in fragments.
The package.
The client.
The ambush.
The sudden chaos.
Blasterfire flashing through the darkness.
The brief metallic impact against his armor.
And then that one strike.
The one that had slipped through.
Korda opened his eyes again.
His gaze settled on the armor.
A humorless smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
"One damn gap."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees.
"One."
His injured arm throbbed.
Korda looked down at it again.
Then toward Oro.
"You know what's worse?"
Oro lifted her head slightly.
Korda nodded toward the bandage.
"I'll never hear the end of this."
The little snake simply stared at him.
Korda sighed.
"Exactly."
He leaned back again, letting his head rest against the wall behind him.
For the first time since arriving, the tension began to leave his shoulders.
The job was finished.
The package had reached its destination.
The client was alive.
He was alive.
That was what mattered.
Everything else could be repaired.
The armor could be polished.
The weapons could be cleaned.
The credits would eventually find their way into his account.
And the bastard responsible for the cut was, hopefully, somewhere far away and unaware that Korda Veydran was already planning how to make sure nobody ever got that lucky twice.
For now, though, there was nothing left to do.
So Korda sat quietly in the sterile little room of the medical station, surrounded by scattered pieces of beskar and the distant sounds of strangers being patched back together.
Oro remained comfortably curled around his neck.
And Korda Veydran, the Unyielding, sat there nursing the one wound he was far more offended by than he was concerned about.
Tags:
Zandra Ruus
Even in the quieter cycles, there was always something moving behind the walls. The low, constant hum of life-support systems and atmospheric recyclers provided a mechanical heartbeat beneath everything else, occasionally interrupted by the distant hiss of pneumatic doors or the muffled footsteps of medical personnel passing through the corridor outside. Somewhere farther down the station, a droid announced the arrival of a patient in a perfectly calm synthetic voice before falling silent again.
The room Korda had been assigned was small, functional, and aggressively sterile.
White durasteel panels covered the walls, broken only by narrow strips of recessed lighting that cast an even, almost clinical glow across the room. The floor was made of some dull gray composite that had clearly been designed with practicality rather than aesthetics in mind. There wasn't much here that could be considered personal. A medical bed occupied one side of the room, its sheets folded neatly despite having gone largely unused. A small diagnostic terminal sat beside it, its blue display periodically flickering through the readings of the patient currently occupying the room.
Korda had decided that patient wasn't particularly interesting.
A chair had been placed near the center of the room, and that was where the Mandalorian sat.
The chair creaked faintly beneath his considerable weight.
His armor had been removed piece by piece after he arrived, leaving the normally imposing figure considerably less intimidating. The heavy beskar plates rested nearby, arranged in an untidy collection around the room rather than their usual position across his body. Several pieces carried fresh scratches and scoring from the job. One pauldron had a noticeable new mark across its surface, while the plating around his torso bore several shallow impacts that had thankfully stopped at the armor.
The beskar had done what it was supposed to do.
It had kept him alive.
Again.
Korda's helmet sat on a nearby table, its crimson krayt skull insignia catching the sterile overhead light. The visor remained dark and empty, giving the helmet an almost watchful appearance despite being completely inert.
His gauntlets sat beside it.
His weapons were secured elsewhere, according to station protocol.
Korda had found that particularly irritating.
Still, he had survived worse inconveniences.
His attention eventually returned to his left forearm.
The bandage wrapped around it was clean and professionally applied, stretching from just below his elbow toward his wrist. The medical staff had assured him that the injury wasn't particularly serious. A deep cut, certainly, but nothing that threatened the function of the arm. A few days of keeping it clean and avoiding unnecessary strain would be enough.
That didn't make it any less annoying.
Korda slowly flexed his fingers.
The movement produced a dull ache that traveled up his forearm.
His jaw tightened.
His gaze drifted toward the armor resting nearby.
The offending plates were obvious.
The attack had somehow slipped between them.
One narrow opening.
One lucky angle.
One opponent who had managed to put a weapon exactly where Korda had spent years making sure nobody could reach.
His expression darkened.
"Fuckers got lucky."
The words came out as a low mutter, barely loud enough to carry across the room.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the ceiling for several seconds.
The ceiling offered no sympathy.
It was, like most things on the station, completely white.
Korda exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Really damn lucky."
There was a faint rustle against his neck.
Korda glanced down.
Oro had apparently decided that the entire ordeal was beneath her concern.
The little hognose snake was comfortably draped around his neck, her body resting against the exposed skin where his armor normally covered him. She seemed completely at peace, utterly unconcerned with the medical station, the damaged armor, or the fact that her owner had recently been involved in a job that had gone considerably less smoothly than planned.
Her head rested against his shoulder.
Korda stared at her.
"You could've helped."
Oro remained perfectly still.
Korda narrowed his eyes.
"Could've warned me."
Nothing.
"You were there."
Still nothing.
He gave a quiet grunt.
"Useless."
Oro shifted slightly, settling herself more comfortably around his neck.
Korda stared at her for another moment before shaking his head.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
Outside the room, a pair of medical droids rolled past the doorway. Their repulsors emitted a soft mechanical whine as they moved down the corridor, carrying a sealed container between them. The automatic doors opened with a quiet pneumatic hiss and closed again, returning the room to its artificial silence.
Through the small transparisteel window beside the door, Korda could see part of the station's main corridor.
Doctors and technicians moved through it in hurried but practiced routines. Some carried datapads. Others spoke quietly to one another as they went. A pair of exhausted-looking beings sat against the opposite wall, waiting for treatment. A medical droid stopped beside one of them, its head tilting slightly as it began asking a series of questions.
Beyond all of that, another set of transparisteel windows revealed the station's exterior.
Space stretched endlessly beyond them.
Stars burned against the blackness, impossibly distant and completely indifferent to whatever was happening inside the station. A freighter drifted slowly past the station's outer docking ring, its running lights blinking rhythmically against the darkness. Farther away, the faint glow of a planet's atmosphere illuminated part of the void, casting a muted blue reflection across the station's exterior structures.
It was peaceful.
Almost unnervingly so.
Korda had spent the last several hours surrounded by blaster fire, shouting, engines, and the metallic shriek of weapons striking beskar.
Now there was only the hum of machinery.
The quiet beep of medical equipment.
The faint movement of Oro against his neck.
And the lingering soreness in his arm.
His eyes closed for a moment.
The job replayed itself in fragments.
The package.
The client.
The ambush.
The sudden chaos.
Blasterfire flashing through the darkness.
The brief metallic impact against his armor.
And then that one strike.
The one that had slipped through.
Korda opened his eyes again.
His gaze settled on the armor.
A humorless smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth.
"One damn gap."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees.
"One."
His injured arm throbbed.
Korda looked down at it again.
Then toward Oro.
"You know what's worse?"
Oro lifted her head slightly.
Korda nodded toward the bandage.
"I'll never hear the end of this."
The little snake simply stared at him.
Korda sighed.
"Exactly."
He leaned back again, letting his head rest against the wall behind him.
For the first time since arriving, the tension began to leave his shoulders.
The job was finished.
The package had reached its destination.
The client was alive.
He was alive.
That was what mattered.
Everything else could be repaired.
The armor could be polished.
The weapons could be cleaned.
The credits would eventually find their way into his account.
And the bastard responsible for the cut was, hopefully, somewhere far away and unaware that Korda Veydran was already planning how to make sure nobody ever got that lucky twice.
For now, though, there was nothing left to do.
So Korda sat quietly in the sterile little room of the medical station, surrounded by scattered pieces of beskar and the distant sounds of strangers being patched back together.
Oro remained comfortably curled around his neck.
And Korda Veydran, the Unyielding, sat there nursing the one wound he was far more offended by than he was concerned about.
Tags:
Zandra Ruus