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

 

[Mig Gred]

Mig chuckled. "Makes me a little curious. Folks know we ain't exactly friends with any slaver force. Maybe a bad past?" He suggested as he took the handshake. I was nice to not be discussing some attack plans or something like that with his own people. He then turned to look at the Hutthound. "Interior and layout are where things get interesting. I'm sure you know she's a dropship, but Hutthounds can be a lot of things. Anywhere from cargo to missile and bomb bays. Transport and droppod modules too. Typical armament right now, so twin particle cannons and two gatling laser turrets. Heavy shields plus a reinforced hull so she can take a beating, and 2.0 hyperdrive."

He then opened the side hatch, stepping intside. She was definitely military equimpent. No nonsense interior, and a rear hatched with a red warning light over it. "Set up a jumpseat/cot combo under the cockpit for now since we don't know fully what you want out of the underslug module. That hatch there will go to any module with an interior you mount to it, but if the light's red, it shouldn't let you open it." He then lead Korda to a short ladder.

"You can reach some of the more key systems through wall hatches here, and that ladder leads up to the cockpit. Pilot and copilot/gunner seats. Refitted her a little to let you linkfire the gatlings turrets ahead with the particle cannons."

He then thought about upgrades. What would be good for Korda? He had a few basic ideas, but knowing his needs would be a good start. "What do you think Fredrick?" The Mandalorian cyborg looked over.

"Well if you're running solo a class 1.0 hyperdrive would be good. Maybe some better scanners. Could upgrade the particle cannons to Uurs. Maybe so flextubes. Anything else sorta depends on your business." He said, looking over as a V-2 rolled up by him, letting out a few trills. "And droids and AI really depend on if you're good them being premade to be more independent" Mig nodded, and looked at Korda.

"Guess that leaves details on what you need then."

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda listened without interrupting, eyes moving over bulkheads, hatch seams, access panels. He ran a gloved hand along the interior plating as Mig spoke, absorbing layout and intent.

The rear hatch with the red warning light earned a small nod.
"Clean," he murmured. "I like clean."
The sudden trill of the small V-2 astromech broke the rhythm.
Korda stepped back half a pace.
Not much. Just enough.

His eyes narrowed at the droid.
"…Didn't see you there."
He studied it for a second longer than necessary, then glanced at Mig.

"I've had experiences," he said evenly. "Droids and I don't part on good terms."
A faint exhale.
"AI might interest me more. Something that understands loyalty. Or at least consequence."
He turned his attention back to the ship.

"You want details?" he continued. "I take contracts. But when Mandalore the Iron calls me, it isn't negotiation."
His expression hardened, not angry. Devout.
"When he sends me, it's to erase something from this mortal plane. No warning. No second chances."
He rested a hand against the inner hull.

"I serve the Destroyer. The Majestic Flame of Manda. My work is final."
The intensity softened just a fraction.
"That means I may deploy alone. Or I may need to break fortified ground. Siege work. Shock insertion. Precision demolition."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"My clan specialized in explosives and siege warfare. I favored the explosives."
He tapped the plating lightly.
"The Uurs interest me. If I'm committing to forward aggression, I want decisive results."

His gaze lifted to the underslung hatch.
"Let me see the modules. Bomb bay especially."
He looked back to Mig, eyes sharp.
"When I drop fire, I prefer it to mean something."

Mig Gred

 

[Mig Gred]

Mig nodded, but chuckled a little at the notes of the AI. "I should probably warn you, CST AI aren't exactly like the old Rebellion ones. A lot more independent, and a mind of their own, similar to our droids. Not a choice I'd take lightly, cause the personality isn't quite something we chose." He explained honestly before taking in the rest.

Siege and explosives. And answering the Mand'alor's call no matter what. Mig couldn't quite hide the look on his face. A hint of skeptisism. Still, he'd start to lead the way, looking back at the tech. "Get those Uur's swapped in, Fredrick. I'll show hime the modules." He said before leading the way towards a nearby storage hanger, filled with various modules that would seem to slot into the Hutthound nicely. It wasn't really a showroom, space was a premium in a space-borne yard afterall, but it was the closest they had.

"Alright, we've got every module stored here. All your options, not including any custom work." He said, taking in the modules that were being prepped to ship out.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Mig's skepticism didn't go unnoticed.
Korda saw it. Filed it away. Didn't rise to it.
When Mig mentioned the AI personalities, Korda gave a small nod.
"I wouldn't mind that," he said evenly. "A mind of its own isn't a flaw. It's… honest."
His gaze drifted briefly, distant for half a second.

"Predictable obedience has failed me before. Something that can think, argue even… that's almost comforting."
He let that sit. No elaboration.
Then he followed Mig into the storage hangar.

The place wasn't elegant. It was efficient. Modules lined in disciplined rows, prepped, tagged, waiting to become part of something lethal. Korda slowed as they entered, instinctively adjusting his path so he didn't interfere with workers moving crates and calibrating mounts.

He respected functioning machinery. Organic or otherwise.
His eyes moved across the options.
Heavy cargo module. Practical. Profitable.
Transport module for thirty troops. A tool for commanders.

Drop pod configuration. Aggressive. Direct.
Medical evac. Necessary. Not his lane.
Standard launcher module. Heavy launcher module.
Then he stopped in front of the bomb bay module.
Forty bomb capacity.

He exhaled slowly through his nose.
Before committing, he stepped briefly toward the heavy cargo module, running a hand along its reinforced frame.
"Flexible," he murmured. "Could fund future campaigns."
But it didn't hold his attention long.

He moved back to the bomb bay, studying the reinforced housing and release systems. His mind was already mapping trajectories. Entry vectors. Atmospheric burn patterns. Shockwave radius.

He didn't smile this time.
When he turned back to Mig, his decision was already made.

"I'll take the bomb bay module."
No hesitation.
"Forty payload capacity gives me options. Precision when required. Saturation when necessary."
His head tilted slightly.
"What ordnance can it handle out of the gate? Proton? Concussion? Variable yield? I'd want compatibility flexibility."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just slightly.
"My clan taught me that siege is an art. I prefer my canvas large."
A faint pause.
Then, almost casually:

"You sell weapons or modifications here as well?"
His gaze flicked toward a rack of modular components stacked along the far wall.
"Handheld. Launchers. Custom work. I prefer my tools to complement each other."

He folded his arms loosely.
"Bomb bay's my choice. The rest," he said, eyes steady on Mig, "depends on how dangerous you're willing to let me become."
There it was again. Calm. Professional.
And entirely sincere.

Mig Gred