Korda the unyielding
The facility never truly rested.
Even in its quietest hours, the walls carried a living hum, power conduits thrumming behind armored plating, shield generators idling, projector arrays calibrating themselves for battles that did not yet exist. The air smelled faintly of ionization and machine oil. Clean. Controlled.
Korda Veydrian sat just outside the simulator chamber like he owned the place.
A low crate served as his seat. One boot planted flat, the other resting on its heel, knee angled up. The Ashen Maw lay across his lap in partial disassembly, components arranged with deliberate care along the crate beside him. He cleaned it the way some men prayed, slow, attentive, reverent.
A cigar burned between his fingers, ember glowing steady as he drew from it. Smoke coiled upward in lazy spirals, twisting toward the ventilation system that absolutely did not approve.
His helmet hung from his belt. Four tally marks cut into the right temple. Not decorative. Not dramatic. Just clean lines etched into beskar, deep enough to outlast him.
He tilted the Maw toward the overhead light, checking the chamber.
"Still hits harder than you did, Tor," he muttered.
Tor's ghost leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, visor cracked but posture relaxed. Fenn perched on the edge of the crate opposite Korda, smirking, while Rex lounged cross-legged, watching like he expected a show. Joric drifted just behind, hands on his hips, the ever-patient shadow of someone who had learned to wait.
Korda smiled softly.
"Don't start," he said, voice low. "I know exactly what you're thinking."
Tor tilted his head, exaggerating skepticism.
"Yes, I invited him," Korda continued. "No, it's not a trap. Probably."
He took another pull from the cigar, exhaling slowly as the smoke curled around his unseen company.
"You see the way he looks at her?" Korda asked. "Like she's a target he hasn't decided how to approach yet."
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Man's cleared war zones with less hesitation."
Fenn leaned forward, elbows on knees, silently egging him on.
Korda glanced down the corridor again. Still empty.
"Bet you credits he hasn't proposed because he's trying to time it perfectly," he went on. "Waiting for the right moment. The right sky. The right words."
He snorted softly.
"War doesn't wait for perfect. Neither should he."
Rex's ghost tilted back, silent judgment in the curve of his posture.
Korda adjusted one of the Maw's internal components with a precise click and began reassembling it.
"You'd like him," Korda said quietly to Joric. "Steady. Loyal. The kind who stands when others don't."
He paused, thumb brushing absentmindedly over one of the tally marks on his helmet.
"I think he'd have fit."
Another glance down the corridor. Still empty.
"C'mon, little brother," Korda muttered under his breath, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't make me start giving you pointers before you even step in here. You know how much fun that is."
The hum of the facility deepened as the simulator behind him cycled through readiness checks. Holographic shadows flickered beneath the sealed door, deserts forming, cities collapsing, starships tearing apart in silent rehearsal.
Korda stood, stretching through the shoulders. Armor plates shifted with that familiar, grounding weight. He holstered the Ashen Maw, settling it into place like it belonged nowhere else.
When he looked back, the corridor was empty.
No Tor. No Fenn. No Rex. No Joric.
Just light reflecting off polished durasteel.
He smiled anyway.
"Alright," he murmured to the absence. "Little brother better not be running late. Or he's getting the full combat sim experience early."
The humming returned, low and steady.
Korda waited.
Sergeant Omen
Even in its quietest hours, the walls carried a living hum, power conduits thrumming behind armored plating, shield generators idling, projector arrays calibrating themselves for battles that did not yet exist. The air smelled faintly of ionization and machine oil. Clean. Controlled.
Korda Veydrian sat just outside the simulator chamber like he owned the place.
A low crate served as his seat. One boot planted flat, the other resting on its heel, knee angled up. The Ashen Maw lay across his lap in partial disassembly, components arranged with deliberate care along the crate beside him. He cleaned it the way some men prayed, slow, attentive, reverent.
A cigar burned between his fingers, ember glowing steady as he drew from it. Smoke coiled upward in lazy spirals, twisting toward the ventilation system that absolutely did not approve.
His helmet hung from his belt. Four tally marks cut into the right temple. Not decorative. Not dramatic. Just clean lines etched into beskar, deep enough to outlast him.
He tilted the Maw toward the overhead light, checking the chamber.
"Still hits harder than you did, Tor," he muttered.
Tor's ghost leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, visor cracked but posture relaxed. Fenn perched on the edge of the crate opposite Korda, smirking, while Rex lounged cross-legged, watching like he expected a show. Joric drifted just behind, hands on his hips, the ever-patient shadow of someone who had learned to wait.
Korda smiled softly.
"Don't start," he said, voice low. "I know exactly what you're thinking."
Tor tilted his head, exaggerating skepticism.
"Yes, I invited him," Korda continued. "No, it's not a trap. Probably."
He took another pull from the cigar, exhaling slowly as the smoke curled around his unseen company.
"You see the way he looks at her?" Korda asked. "Like she's a target he hasn't decided how to approach yet."
A low chuckle escaped him.
"Man's cleared war zones with less hesitation."
Fenn leaned forward, elbows on knees, silently egging him on.
Korda glanced down the corridor again. Still empty.
"Bet you credits he hasn't proposed because he's trying to time it perfectly," he went on. "Waiting for the right moment. The right sky. The right words."
He snorted softly.
"War doesn't wait for perfect. Neither should he."
Rex's ghost tilted back, silent judgment in the curve of his posture.
Korda adjusted one of the Maw's internal components with a precise click and began reassembling it.
"You'd like him," Korda said quietly to Joric. "Steady. Loyal. The kind who stands when others don't."
He paused, thumb brushing absentmindedly over one of the tally marks on his helmet.
"I think he'd have fit."
Another glance down the corridor. Still empty.
"C'mon, little brother," Korda muttered under his breath, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Don't make me start giving you pointers before you even step in here. You know how much fun that is."
The hum of the facility deepened as the simulator behind him cycled through readiness checks. Holographic shadows flickered beneath the sealed door, deserts forming, cities collapsing, starships tearing apart in silent rehearsal.
Korda stood, stretching through the shoulders. Armor plates shifted with that familiar, grounding weight. He holstered the Ashen Maw, settling it into place like it belonged nowhere else.
When he looked back, the corridor was empty.
No Tor. No Fenn. No Rex. No Joric.
Just light reflecting off polished durasteel.
He smiled anyway.
"Alright," he murmured to the absence. "Little brother better not be running late. Or he's getting the full combat sim experience early."
The humming returned, low and steady.
Korda waited.
Sergeant Omen