Private Measured Handshakes, Heavy Metal

[Korda Veydran]

The shuttle didn't power down.
That was the first thing Korda noted as the rented transport settled into the docking cradle of the Artemis Mobile Shipyard. Engines stayed warm. Pilot stayed strapped in. Professional. Or nervous.

Korda stepped down the ramp without looking back.
"Pleasure doing business," he muttered, voice filtered through the vocoder of his helmet.
The pilot didn't respond. The ramp sealed the second Korda cleared it, and within moments the shuttle lifted off again, banking away from the docking arm like it had somewhere urgently better to be.

Korda watched it go for half a second.
"Hm. Should've charged him extra for the dramatic exit."

His boots rang against the deck plating as he turned, visor sweeping across the sprawling interior of the shipyard. Massive gantries crawled over half-assembled hulls. Welding arcs flared like captive lightning. Cargo haulers drifted past in slow, deliberate paths. It was organized chaos. The kind built on credits and ambition.

He liked it already.
A subtle ping flickered inside his HUD. Funds secured. Transfer authorization primed. The sum waiting to move was not small.
"Easy," he murmured to himself. "Inspection first. Then we start throwing money."

Somewhere in this mechanical jungle sat the prize: the HA-3 Hutthound Assault Craft. Compact. Aggressive. Built for problems that required heavy responses. He'd contacted Mig Gred ahead of time, made it clear he was serious.

Serious didn't mean reckless.
His gauntlet flicked, bringing up a rotating schematic of the HA-3 Hutthound Assault Craft. Weapon hardpoints. Reinforced hull sections. Assault configuration. On paper, it was exactly what he wanted.

On paper, a lot of things behaved.
Korda began walking, unhurried, the faint hydraulic hiss of his armor punctuating each step.
"If you're going to cost me that many credits," he mused under his breath, "you'd better purr when I touch the controls."
A crane swung overhead carrying a stripped-down gunship chassis. To his left, a rack of modular weapon systems gleamed beneath inspection lights. His visor lingered a fraction longer than necessary.

"Browsing never hurt anyone," he added. "Much."
If Mig thought this was going to be a quick handshake and transfer, he was mistaken. Korda wanted to see the weld seams. The weapon mounts. The internal layout. He wanted to feel whether the ship had bite or just good marketing.

His HUD pinged again, marking the designated hangar.
He adjusted course.
"Let's see what you're selling me, Mig," he said quietly, voice calm, almost amused beneath the helmet. "And whether I leave with just one toy."
Then he stepped into the marked bay, ready to judge

Mig Gred

 

[Mig Gred]

Mig was standing by the Hutthound, taking see a custom livery on one for a change. Next to him was a Mandalorian engineer with a cybornetic left arm. One of the AI aboard the ship yard, Quiver, flickered in, looking my like a scrapper than anything.

“Just sent the hanger location to Mr. Veydran.” She before noticing he was practically already in the hanger. “Or maybe he didn’t need the help.”

Mig shook his head, then started walking up to the man. “Hope the ride in wasn’t too eventful, vod. New ships right here. Pretty standard set up so far.”

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

The rhythmic thud of armored boots carried through the hangar before Korda said a word.
"The ride?" His voice filtered through the helmet as he approached. "Quiet. Pilot seemed eager to leave."
His visor tilted slightly toward the docking corridor where the shuttle had already vanished.
"Can't imagine why."

He came to a stop a few paces from the HA-3 Hutthound Assault Craft, gaze lifting slowly along the hull. The custom livery caught the light in a way that made the ship look less like factory output and more like a predator waiting for a command.

For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then his hands rose to the seals of his helmet. With a soft hiss, the locks disengaged. He lifted it free, tucking it under his arm as he stepped closer.
Korda wanted to see it without the visor's filter. Wanted the raw lines, the weld seams, the way the plating sat along the frame.

A slow smile curved across his face.
"She's a beauty," he said quietly, genuine appreciation in his voice. "Clean lines. Aggressive stance. Whoever tuned this frame knew what they were doing."
His eyes traced the hardpoints, the reinforced sections, the cockpit canopy.

He turned back toward Mig Gred.
Without hesitation, Korda clasped Mig's forearm in a firm Mandalorian grip, then slammed a fist against his own chestplate in salute.
"Good to see you, vod."
His expression shifted, warmth giving way to sharp focus in an instant.

"Let's see the manifest. Full specs. Power distribution, shield rating, weapon capacity, internal layout. I want to know what she can take, what she can dish out, and where I can improve her."

His gaze flicked briefly toward the engineer's cybernetic arm, then up toward the flickering form of Quiver.
"And if there are upgrade paths already in mind," he added, tone almost amused, "I'm listening."
He looked back to the Hutthound, eyes lingering over the hull again.
"Credits are ready. Just need a reason to move them."

Mig Gred