Korda the unyielding
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
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