Private Target Practice & Brotherly Advice

[Korda Veydran]

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

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen wasn't as far as Korda thought. As he walked around the corner of the building, he spied Korda talking to his "friends". To say he raised an eyebrow would be an understatement but he took the scene in stride. Who knew how many concussions the big man had during his combat record. Talking to people was probably the least of his symptoms going on up there. But he also knew Korda was proud and wouldn't want to talk about it even if he pressed. So he went inside, hoping that the ghosts wouldn't be following them into the simulator.

Omen raised a hand, waving hello with a slight smile, putting a hand up in hello in his tradition . "Well, you wanted me to see this new combat sim so here I am Korda. And I hope you are paying for lunch because I didn't get the chance to eat anything on the flight over." Why he didn't invite Aren and Jett too, he didn't know. Maybe this was brother bonding day? Or Korda just wanted to beat him up.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't turn immediately when Omen stepped into view.
For a brief moment longer, his attention lingered where Tor had been leaning, where Fenn had been perched, where Rex and Joric had filled the quiet with their presence. Then, like a switch flipping, it was gone.

Just a corridor again.
Just the hum.
Just reality.

A small smile remained, though, softer now, but no less real.
He turned.
"Omen."

There it was. That easy, familiar recognition. No surprise, no tension. Just a quiet satisfaction, like something had clicked into place exactly when it was supposed to.
"Took you long enough," Korda added, pushing himself off the crate. The tone wasn't sharp, it carried that dry, older-brother edge that never quite crossed into annoyance.
He closed the distance without hesitation and brought a gauntleted hand down against Omen's shoulder in a firm, grounding pat.

"Was starting to think I'd have to come drag you out of whatever hole you got lost in."
There was a faint smirk there as he pulled back, eyes flicking over Omen like he was doing a quick, instinctive check. All there. No new damage. Good.
At the mention of food, Korda huffed a quiet laugh.
"Relax. You'll survive," he said, already reaching down to one of the compartments on his belt. "I've seen you go longer on worse."

He pulled free a compact ration cylinder and pressed it into Omen's hand without ceremony.
"Hold you over."
A beat.
"After the sim, I know a cantina nearby. Good drinks. Better food. Won't poison you unless you ask nicely."

He stepped back, giving Omen space as he reached up to pull the cigar from his mouth. The ember still glowed faintly as he studied it for a second, then crushed it out against the edge of his gauntlet with practiced ease before tucking the remainder into a pouch.

Waste not.
At Omen's unspoken question, Korda's gaze drifted briefly toward the simulator door behind him.
"Heard the girls were taking a day for themselves," he said. "Figured we'd do the same."
His eyes flicked back, a hint of something more deliberate settling in.

"Been a while since we've had time like that."
A pause. Not awkward. Just… honest.
Then the corner of his mouth lifted again.
"And if that happens to include me reminding you how to fight properly, that's just a bonus."

He turned slightly, gesturing toward the simulator entrance as the system inside gave another low diagnostic chime.
"Hasn't been the same since I last ran one of these," Korda added, more to himself than anything else. "Not since before Yaga Minor."
The words didn't linger long in the air. He didn't let them.
Instead, he gave a small nod toward the door.

"C'mon, little brother."
There it was again, casual, unforced, but solid.
"Let's see if you've gotten better. Or if I'm about to embarrass you."
And with that, Korda started toward the simulator, expecting Omen to follow like he always did.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

"Well, you didn't have to fly through space to be here either." The half-grin on Omen's face and his cheery voice told Korda that he wasn't in a fighting mode, and he accepted the shoulder pat just the same. From what he just saw, Korda didn't need any extra stress. "And you know I'll come running whenever you need me. I might kick your ass first before saving it, but I'll save it all the same."

The Clone did the same check, but no on Korda's Armor, just those red stormy eyes. Just to see if the big man was still all there. Or how far he was gone. But eventually, he did stop to take the ration cylinder and examine it. "Always did wonder what they put in these things..." Surely he could do better, but he ate its contents all the same.

Looking around as chatty groups of young cadets filtered past them, the former ARC wondered what kind of simulator this was. Even Aren couldn't give him any details when they received Korda's invitation, and she normally knew a lot more about this kind of thing than Omen did. "Yeah well, we haven't exactly been frictionless either, but I appreciate the sentiment. I guess it gets me out of a day of clothes shopping. So, are you gonna tell me how this thing actually works?" Glancing inside the simulator's room, he wondered how much this thing could really simulate. Even force powers? It would be nice to surprise the big man for once. Maybe it would stop him from thinking about the past and wondering where his next right hook would come from.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's grin came easy at first.
"I did fly here," he shot back without missing a beat, stepping alongside Omen toward the simulator entrance. "You just didn't see the part where I made the trip look effortless."
A faint chuckle followed, low and rough around the edges.

"After the cantina, I'll show you the ship. Try not to look too impressed."
At Omen's comment about kicking his ass first, Korda let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
"Careful," he muttered. "You keep talking like that, I might start thinking you're trying to impress me."

There was a flicker of something almost playful there, almost, before it settled back into something quieter.
Omen's gaze lingered on him, and Korda noticed.
Of course he did.

Those red, storm-heavy eyes met his for a moment longer than usual. Long enough to say something without saying it.
And yeah… they weren't the same.
Not like before Yaga Minor. Not like those nights by a fire with a tankard in hand and nothing heavier on his mind than the next fight and the men beside him. There was distance there now. Not cold. Not empty. Just… further away. Like part of him was still
standing somewhere else, in a place that hadn't let him go yet.

Korda broke the moment first, turning his attention toward the simulator as the doors loomed closer.
"You'll like this," he said, voice settling back into something more instructional. "Full-spectrum combat sim. Environments, weather, pressure variables. You want a desert siege, it'll give you one. Boarding action, urban collapse, zero-vis night ops… all there."

He gestured lightly toward the sealed door.
"It adapts too. Learns how you fight. Pushes back where you're weakest."
Cadets filtered past them in small clusters, voices low, armor clinking in uneven rhythms. Korda's eyes tracked them briefly — instinct, habit.

One of them clipped his shoulder on the way by.
It was small.
It didn't matter.

Korda stopped cold.
Turned.
The shift was immediate.
"Stop."

The word cut clean through the corridor. The cadet froze mid-step.
Korda closed the distance in two measured strides, his presence suddenly heavy, controlled in a way that pressed down on everything around them. His gaze dragged over the cadet from head to toe, slow and merciless.

"What unit signs off on this?" he said, voice low.
He grabbed the edge of the cadet's chest rig and yanked it forward just enough to expose the flaw.
"Strap's loose. Seal's uneven. You feel that?"

He didn't wait for an answer.
"That's a failure point."
His grip tightened for just a second.
"You step into a live environment like this, that gap doesn't stay a gap. It becomes a hole."

A beat.
"And that hole gets you killed."
The cadet tried to speak.

Korda shut it down instantly.
"No."
Flat. Final.
"You don't explain it. You fix it."

He shoved the cadet back a step.
"Now."
The cadet didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. He backed off quickly, already fumbling with the faulty strap as he disappeared down the
corridor.

Korda watched him go for a second longer than necessary.
Then exhaled through his nose, tension bleeding off just enough.
"…Yeah," he muttered, dragging a hand briefly along the side of his helmet before letting it fall.
He glanced back at Omen.
"Sorry."

Not brushed off. Not defensive. Just honest.
"Been working with the next wave of heavy infantry," he added. "Guess it sticks with you. Start seeing mistakes before they happen."

A faint shake of his head, like resetting himself.
Then he stepped to the simulator console, pulling it to life with a flick of his hand.
"Anyway."

The interface lit up beneath his gauntlet, layers of systems awakening in sequence, quiet at first, then deeper, heavier.
Korda keyed in a sequence, fast, practiced. Authorization codes sank into the system like they belonged there.
The doors hissed open.

Light spilled out in fractured sheets, unstable, shifting, lines of white and amber geometry stretching into emptiness like a world trying to remember how to exist.
Korda stepped forward.

And the moment his boot crossed the threshold, the simulation began to build itself around them.
The flat grid beneath fractured outward, dissolving into rough terrain as dust bled into existence from nothing, carried on a wind that hadn't been there a second ago. The air changed immediately, dry, sharp, heat-laced, carrying the faint bite of distant fire.
Sound followed next.

A low rumble rolled in like something massive turning over in its sleep. Then came the rest, distant blaster fire snapping into place, artillery thudding somewhere beyond sight, wind threading through structures that were still forming.
Ruins rose around them in incomplete stages.

Buildings assembled themselves in broken sequences, walls phasing in, cracking, then locking into permanence. Scorched beams jutted upward at violent angles. Broken walkways stitched themselves together overhead with echoing metallic groans.
Far off, the sky ignited into being, not all at once, but in slow, boiling layers of ash-choked orange and bruised grey. Smoke columns formed like ink dropped into water, curling upward across a horizon that hadn't existed seconds ago.

Korda didn't stop walking.
Didn't even look impressed.
Like it was familiar. Like it always was.
He stepped fully into the solidifying street as the last flickers of gridlight vanished beneath their feet. The simulation sealed with

a final, subtle shift, a pressure change more than a sound, as reality locked itself into place.
Only then did he glance back at Omen.
"Urban warzone," he said simply. "Mid-collapse. Limited visibility. Unstable structures."
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Try not to get buried."

He turned forward again, scanning the ruined streets like they were real, because in here, they were close enough.
"Stick close at first," Korda added, voice dropping into focus. "System'll adapt once we engage."
A beat.

Then quieter, almost to himself:
"Let's see what you've got."
And just like that, the battlefield became the test.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Letting him lead him inside, Omen raised an eyebrow when the big man listed all the operations. "With something this big, it sure seems like it. Wonder what computer runs this thing..." The Clone knew that look though... the look people got when they had seen too much. Korda needed to be off the line for a while. Try to get his head right, and maybe inviting him here was just that. Inviting him to share the burden. The exchange with the cadet only confirmed that fact. As Korda turned around, he would feel Omen embrace him, giving him a short hug for as long as both men probably could stand.

Korda would hear him wince at the word "Urban". Fighting in cities wasn't exactly his favorite battlespace. He usally per more... living spaces, not paved over ones. But when the big man wants to knock over buildings, he gets what he wants. And as the simulation started up, it looked... exactly like a real battlezone. Guess they really had come a long way. "Guessing you can select loadouts in this thing, too?" Leaning down, he took a hand and leaned down, feeling the dirt beneth his feet and let out a whistle. "Wow, this really does feel real..." The sounds, the enviroment, all of it felt possible. Now all that was needed was to beat it.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Omen's question about the system lingered for a second longer than the city noise around them.
"Guessing you can select loadouts in this thing, too?"

Korda gave a short nod without looking back.
"Yeah."

Simple. Expected. Like breathing.
Omen dropped his hand to the ground, fingers brushing over fractured grit and simulated dust. He let out a low whistle.
"Wow… this really does feel real."

Korda didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he stopped.
Just for a beat.
Not long enough to be dramatic.

Long enough to notice.
When Omen stepped in closer, Korda felt it before he saw it, the weight of an arm around him, sudden and grounding.
The hug was brief. Firm. No hesitation.
Korda didn't freeze. Didn't stiffen.

He just exhaled through his nose like he'd been holding something in without realizing it.
"…Yeah," he muttered, quieter than before.
Then, like he refused to let the moment sit too long, he tapped Omen once on the shoulder in return.
"Don't get sentimental on me. We haven't even started getting shot at yet."

But there was no bite in it.
Only familiarity.
Only history.
The simulation answered for them.

A distant mechanical chime echoed through the ruined city, followed by a subtle shift in the air, like something waking up and realizing it had guests.
Korda rolled his shoulders once.
"Urban's not your favorite," he said, glancing sideways at Omen.
Not a question.

A fact he already knew.
Then he turned toward a collapsed side structure, what used to be a transit depot, now half-open like a broken ribcage in the street.
Inside, a reinforced steel crate sat waiting.
Korda walked straight to it.

The simulator doors sealed behind them with a heavy, final thud.
No exit now.
Not until the run ended.
Korda keyed the crate open.


It split apart with a hydraulic hiss, revealing neatly organized weapon racks inside, standard issue, exotic variants, and a few things that definitely didn't belong in a training environment labeled "safe."
He reached in first, pulling out a blaster rifle, checking its weight, then setting it back like it had offended him personally.

"Basic issue," he muttered.
Next, Verpine scatter rifle.
He gave it a brief look, then a quiet approving hum.
"Better."

Then he picked up the Ashen Maw.
The moment he handled it, the tone shifted.
Not loudly.

Just enough that it mattered.
Korda checked the magazine with practiced ease, then opened the chamber, inspecting it under the dim simulated light.
He chambered a round.
The sound was sharp, solid.

Omen got a clean view of it when Korda held it slightly angled.
Massive.
Heavy.
.50 caliber AP slug.

Built to turn armor into a suggestion.
Korda pulled the bolt back again.
Ejected the round.
Caught it midair between two fingers without looking.

Paused just long enough for Omen to really register the size of it.
Then slid it back in.
Slammed the chamber shut.
"Don't double-feed it," he muttered. "It'll ruin your whole afternoon."

A faint grin.
Like that was a personal lesson learned the expensive way.
He set the Maw against his shoulder, then stepped back from the crate.
"Grab what you want," he said, finally shifting tone.
Not brother now.

Not soldier banter.
Squad leader.
Clean. Focused. Direct.
"Two minutes until contact drops. System will start feeding targets in waves after that."

He looked over the street once more, collapsed buildings, blind corners, vertical kill angles everywhere.
Then back to Omen.
"This isn't a spar," Korda added.
A beat.

"It adapts. It escalates. It punishes mistakes."
He tapped two fingers lightly against the side of his helmet hanging at his belt.
"Move smart. Shoot faster."
Then, quieter, just enough to slip through the noise of the simulation:

"I don't want to drag you through this."
Another pause.
Then the edge came back just slightly.
"…But I will."

The city gave a low mechanical groan.
Somewhere ahead, something began to power on.
Targets were coming online.
Korda shifted his stance.
Ready.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen just smirked as he pulled away. "Such a softie." Despite his bellicose nature, Korda needed some love occasionally. Just like everyone else in the universe. At Korda's comment, Omen just gestured to his green armor, trying to say, "What do you think my favorite is?" with his actions. As the Big Man started into the arena and choose his weapons, Omen pulled a Firepuncher Sniper Rifle and two Westar pistols out of the selection along with some throwing knifes. It wasn't his average loadout, but a new scenario meant he might as well try something new.

As Korda showed off his weapon, Omen only shook his head as he slapped the various mags into his weapons and made sure they were ready. "I'll let you keep your shoulder destroyer any day of the week. I don't need all that to be deadly." The Clone nodded though as Korda told him the simulation's terms. "Sounds like they tried to make this as real as possible, guess we are going to see how long we can last. What's the high score?"

Two minutes wasn't a long time, but it was enough to dig in abit. As the time ran short, Omen quickly ran up the crumbling stairs to the station's second level. Here, he found enough rumble to dig into and cover over his body, using tables, chairs and burnt flags that once hanged from the sides of the building to cover himself. As the simulation started, he laid there motionless, ready to support Korda while the big man let him be the simulations main target.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda snorted at the "softie" comment, shaking his head as he adjusted the Ashen Maw against his shoulder.
"Keep talking like that," he muttered, "and I'll show you exactly how soft I'm not."
His eyes tracked Omen's choice of gear, watching the clone arm himself with the sniper rifle, pistols, and knives. A balanced loadout. Mobile. Precise. Built for speed and clean kills.

Very Omen.
At the sight of the Firepuncher, Korda gave an approving grunt.
"Can tell you still prefer the trees," he said. "Jungle. Forest. Anywhere you can crawl through mud and leaves like some overgrown predator."

A faint grin touched his mouth.
"I like it. More fuel for the flames."
At the question of the simulator's high score, Korda paused while adjusting the sling on his weapon.
"Three days."

He said it flatly.
Like it wasn't absurd.
"My longest run." He checked his sidearm next, then holstered it with practiced ease. "Straight. Minimal rest. Minimal food."
His expression didn't change.

"You never know how long an engagement lasts in real life. If your body quits before the enemy does, you die tired."
There was no bravado in how he said it.
Just fact.
Then the timer overhead flashed:

00:30

Korda's posture shifted instantly.
Mission mode
"Positions."
Omen was already moving.

Korda watched him sprint for elevation, taking the stairs two at a time before disappearing into the broken upper levels of the ruined structure. Smart. High ground, concealment, clean sightlines.

Without another word, Korda crossed the street and entered the skeletal remains of a blasted-out building opposite Omen's perch, planting himself behind a collapsed wall of ferrocrete and twisted metal. From there, the two held overlapping lines of sight.

Perfect.
The city groaned around them.
Then the timer hit zero.
A sharp electronic tone rang through the battlefield.
Movement.

Korda immediately dropped lower, peering through shattered masonry.
Down the ruined street ahead, a hostile patrol phased into existence and began advancing.
One light scout vehicle rolled first, hovering just above the ground on whining repulsors, turret scanning side to side. Behind it came six infantry in staggered formation, rifles sweeping methodically.

Two heavies followed in the rear.
Bulky armor. Rotary cannons.
And overhead
"Drones," Korda muttered.

Two of them.
Small, fast-moving aerial scouts hovering above the formation.
His visor narrowed.
He tapped his wrist comm.
Static cracked briefly.

Then:
"You got visual, little brother?"
His voice came low and calm through the channel, stripped of warmth now. Focused. Tactical.
He kept his eyes on the patrol as they advanced, mentally mapping firing lanes, kill order, movement routes.

"Scout vehicle front. Six infantry center stagger. Two heavies rear. Two drones overhead." His breathing stayed even. Measured. "Recommend drones first. They'll mark us if they live."

He adjusted his grip on the Maw.
Then glanced toward Omen's position across the way.

"I'll take ground pressure."
A pause.
"Your call on opening shot."
And just like that, Korda deferred.
Not because he had to.

Because he trusted him.
The patrol rolled closer.
Closer.
Unaware they were seconds from walking into hell.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Okay, Korda needed to be signed up for some therapy because being in here for three days straight without food or water wasn't something a sane man would do. He definitely needed help. Still, going through this for an hour or two for his sake wouldn't hurt.

As the mixed force came forward, Omen adjusted his sights. The speeder would be easy enough as long as he could get the driver and so would be the drones. The only problem for the Clone would be the heavy infrantry which would sweep fire across his cover before he could bore holes into their armor. But that would be Korda's job.

Carefully having his crosshairs over one of the drones, he quickly unloaded into it, making the holograms quickly swivel around with their weapons, trying to seeing who shot them. What they saw was Korda, what they didn't see was the Clone quickly reaimming and knocking down the other drone before it could go evasive. Soon a third shot would come through the Speeder's windshield and through the driver's forehead, making the speeder stop in its tracks. Omen would soon get the gunner too while Korda became the main focus, shooting down the infrantry with his choose weapon. And then it would be time to relax his muscles and reset before the another wave came to do them harm.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

The first drone dropped.
Then the second.
Clean. Efficient. No hesitation.
Korda's grin flashed sharp beneath his helmetless profile as the patrol's formation broke, their awareness snapping toward the only visible threat

Him.
"Good shot," he muttered into the comm, already moving.
The Ashen Maw came up and spoke.

The weapon didn't fire like a blaster. It cracked. Heavy, concussive rounds tore downrange, punching through advancing infantry with brutal force. The front line collapsed almost instantly, their formation shredded before they could properly return fire.

Korda didn't linger on them.
He shifted targets.

The heavies.
One step forward into the open.
Deliberate.
He wanted their attention.
"C'mon," he muttered under his breath.

The two heavy infantry units responded immediately, rotary cannons spinning up with a rising mechanical whine. Suppressive fire tore across the street, chewing through ruined cover and forcing Korda to shift position.

He reached to his belt mid-movement.
Thermal detonator.
Armed.
Thrown.
It arced cleanly toward the nearer heavy

And then...
The heavy kicked it.
Hard.
Back toward him.

Korda just stared at it for half a second.
"…Really?"
The explosion hit.

A sharp, concussive blast tore through the space in front of him, debris slamming into his armor in a wave. Dust and fragments peppered his chestplate and shoulder, forcing a brief stagger as the shock rolled through him.

Then
He laughed.
A low, rough sound.
"Alright," he muttered. "Fair."

He stepped back into the fight immediately, raising the Maw and firing again. A heavy round slammed into one of the armored units, staggering it hard, armor cracking under the impact.

It dropped.
Korda shifted

Paused.
"…Where'd your friend go?"
That was his mistake.
A shadow moved fast from his blind side

The second heavy closed the distance and drove a brutal right hook into the back of Korda's head.
The impact snapped him forward.
Hard.
The Ashen Maw slipped from his grip, clattering across the ground.

Korda stumbled, catching himself on one knee as the world tilted for just a second
Then snapped back into focus.
The heavy moved fast, grabbing the Maw and bringing it up, trying to turn it on him.

It pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
Again.
Click.
Korda looked up at it, breathing steady despite the hit.

"Yeah," he said, voice low, almost amused. "That doesn't work for you."
He pushed up to his feet as the heavy adjusted, discarding the weapon with a mechanical twitch.
Korda was already moving.
His hand dropped to his side,

Vibroblade ignited with a sharp, hungry hum.
He closed the distance in a burst.
The heavy swung.
Korda met it head-on.

The first strike slammed into his shoulder, armor taking the brunt as he twisted into it, deflecting just enough to keep momentum. His blade snapped upward in response, carving across the unit's side, sparks and fractured plating kicking off the impact.

They traded blows in tight, brutal space.
No finesse.

No distance.
Just force meeting force.
The heavy swung again
Korda stepped inside the arc this time.

Closed the gap.
Drove the vibroblade forward with both hands.
The weapon punched through weakened armor and buried itself deep into the unit's chest.
The heavy froze.
Korda held it there for a second, then ripped the blade free and drove a boot into the unit's torso, kicking it back and down into the fractured street.

It hit hard.
Didn't get back up.
Korda didn't waste time.
He turned, scooped the Ashen Maw off the ground in one smooth motion, and brought it up.

One shot.
Final.
The heavy went still.
Silence fell over the street again, broken only by distant simulated war noise.

Korda rolled his shoulder once, testing the hit.
"Still intact," he muttered.
Then he keyed his comm.
"You good up there?"

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

The Bolter's crack echoed around the ruins of the Station, telling Omen that he wasn't going to need to do all the work alone. Through his scope, he watched Korda work. And this simulator could clearly fight back. The Clone's eyes went wide as he saw the heavies kick the grenade back like it was a boloball. Thankfully, Korda was hard in body as he was in head and managed to dodge it. The ragged laugh he heard was enough to tell Omen he was alright.

Omen wished he could have helped out more against Korda's enemy, but shooting at close range into a fist fight wasn't exactly worth the risk. Instead, he engaged the light infantry, slowly whittling them down as they sprayed back uselessly, shot by shot, as they tried to scale the same crumbling staircase he had walked up. By the time Korda was done playing with his food, it was all over. "Yes, I'm fine. Didn't think that one would give you so much trouble, though." Slowly, he got up and stretched while he still could, leaving the sniper on the ground as his arms extended into the air. "How much time do we have till more come?"

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Omen's voice came through the comm steady, grounded.
"Yes, I'm fine. Didn't think that one would give you so much trouble, though."

Korda let out a short breath that almost passed for a laugh as he rolled his shoulders.
The joint popped hard.
"Forgot how hard this thing hits back," he muttered.

He checked the Ashen Maw like it might've developed an opinion on survival.
Then answered.
"Thirty seconds."
A beat.

"Ten if those drones had stayed up long enough to ping anything out."
He shifted into cover immediately after, posture already changing, banter gone, humor flattened into focus.
Command mode.
"Keep high ground," he said. "Don't overextend. It adapts fast once it locks on."

Then...
The ground changed.
Not an explosion.
Not impact.

A deep, grinding rumble that rolled through the ruins like something underneath the city had decided it was done waiting.
Korda froze mid-step.
"…You feel that?" he asked over comms.

No answer from the system.
No warning.
Just pressure building.
He turned slightly toward Omen's position across the fractured skyline.

"Tell me you see something."
He already knew the answer.
Because something was already there.
It pushed through the ruined horizon like the city was only a suggestion.

Massive. Quadrupedal. Armored in brutal, angular plating that belonged to an older war, one that didn't care about elegance, only results. Stabilizers crushed rubble with every step. Heavy artillery systems tracked with slow, deliberate patience.

An AT-MA.
A relic that refused to stay dead.
Korda exhaled once.

"…That's not a patrol," he said.
The walker's sensor head rotated, sweeping the battlefield like it was choosing where to erase first.
Then its cannon elevated.

Korda moved.
"Break line of sight. Now."
The first shot didn't land.
It arrived.

A building edge where Korda had been seconds earlier simply ceased to exist in a bloom of force and dust. The shockwave rolled through the ruins, tearing debris into the air like it had weightless permission.

Korda was already shifting.
Already repositioning.
Another cannon tracked.

Another pause.
Another decision.
The second shot came faster.
Closer.

It carved through an adjacent structure, collapsing it inward as shards of durasteel screamed past his position. He twisted into cover, armor taking fragments like a storm hitting steel.

Then...

A third shot fired.
Korda saw it too late.
There was no time to think, only movement..
But it still wasn't enough.

The impact hit near his cover with a violent concussive blast that turned the world sideways. The force ripped through the edge of the structure and slammed into him full force.

Korda was thrown.
Not knocked back.

Thrown.
He hit the ground hard, sliding through dust and broken concrete before coming to a stop several meters away, one knee digging in instinctively to arrest momentum.

For a second, everything rang.
Silence inside the noise.

He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"…Yeah," he muttered, trying to push himself up.
His arm shook once as he braced against the rubble.
Not weakness.

Shock absorption catching up.
He blinked through the haze
And saw them.

Not in front of him.
Not in the simulation.
Just there.

Tor.
Fenn.
Rex.
Joric.
Standing in the ruin-stained dust like they'd been there the whole time.

Not speaking.
Not moving toward him.
Just watching.

Waiting.
Like they always had.
Like they still did.

Tor gave a small tilt of the head.
Fenn, arms crossed, like he was judging the landing more than the injury.
Rex, steady and unreadable.
Joric, quiet as ever, just present.

Not ghosts that mourned.
Ghosts that expected.
Get up.
Korda exhaled once through his teeth.

"…Yeah," he muttered under his breath.
A faint, tired edge of a grin tugged at his mouth anyway.
"Alright."
He pushed himself back up.

Slow.
Steady.
The Ashen Maw was still there in the dust.
He grabbed it.

Rolled his shoulder once as pain settled into place.
Then keyed his comm, voice low and steady again.
"I'm back up."
A beat.

"Still got eyes on it?"
The AT-MA continued its slow, inevitable advance through the ruins.
And Korda didn't look away from it again.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Okay, now this was just unfair... If Korda could see his face right now, it would be sighing while trying to figure out what settings he put this thing on. He lasted through this for three days... three days... Okay, Korda was defiantly either lying or a psychopath. And unfortunately, it was leaning more that he was just insane. "No nerf that not a patrol..."

Hearing the AV-7 whir to life in the middle of the walker, Omen listened to his brain which was screaming "RUN!". "I blame you I blame you I blame you..." could be heard through the comms as he ran down the stairs, grabbing a good ol RPS-6 Rocket Launcher off the back of one of the fallen soldiers as he went. That artillery was the least of the troubles though as the chin heavy turbolasers opened up, trying to track them both through the rubble. Those impacts along into the ground made the whole rest of the ruins shake.

The Clone didn't answer Korda when he said he was back up, and he certainly wasn't in the maglev station. Maybe he had already been taken out... Korda soon got an answer though as a rocket blasted through the station's broken skylight and slammed into the exposed main gun. Hopefully, the explosion would be enough to penetrate the ammo storage and make the whole gun explode. "Yeah, I still got eyes on the pain in the ass... Hopefully it doesn't have eyes on me now."

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

The rocket screamed through the broken skyline.
Korda saw it before he heard Omen's voice.
A clean shot, straight through the shattered upper structure, threading debris and smoke like it had intent. It slammed into the AT-MA's main artillery housing with a sharp, concussive blast.

Fire bloomed.
Smoke rolled.
For a split second...
It looked right.
Korda's eyes narrowed.

Then the smoke cleared.
The cannon was still there.
Scarred.
Burning at the edges.

But intact.
"…No," Korda muttered.
His visor flickered as he scanned the impact point, data crawling across his HUD in quick, efficient sweeps.

"Ammo housing's been modified," he said, tone flattening as the pieces clicked together. "You hit above it."
The walker didn't even slow.
If anything, it adjusted.

The turret shifted, recalibrating after the hit, tracking angles with mechanical patience.
Korda exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Good shot," he added anyway. "Wrong spot."

Another artillery charge built
Korda didn't wait for it to fire.
He moved.

Cutting through the ruins, low and fast, using collapsed structures as cover until he closed the distance toward Omen's position. Along the way, he dropped to a knee beside a fallen sim trooper, ripping an RPS-6 launcher from its grip.

"Borrowing this," he muttered.
He slid into cover near Omen's level, back pressed against a fractured support beam as another blast shook the city behind them.

The launcher clicked open at the side as he worked it without hesitation.
Fast hands.
Practiced.
Not guessing.

Adjusting.
"…Alright," he muttered under his breath, half to himself now.
He reached to his belt, pulling a compact charge, a coil of filament wire, and a small tool from his kit.

"Too much armor on the exterior…" he murmured, already modifying the warhead housing. "Need delayed detonation… punch through before it cooks…"
Another distant blast rocked the structure.
Dust rained down around them.

Korda didn't look up.
Didn't flinch.
"…Magnetic adhesion won't hold," he added, almost irritated. "Surface is too hot."

He stripped part of the rocket casing open just enough to access the trigger assembly, fingers moving with controlled precision even as the battlefield tried to shake itself apart around them.

"Alright… fine… we do it the ugly way."
He re-seated the warhead, securing the improvised modification in place before snapping the launcher shut with a solid click.

Then he finally glanced sideways toward Omen.
"You're still buying the first round after this," Korda said, like they weren't about to pick a fight with a walking artillery platform.
A faint smirk flickered.

Then it was gone.
He leaned out just enough to sight the walker again, tracking its movement, waiting for the smallest opening in its armored rhythm.
"…Next shot goes lower," he said. "Right under the gun housing. That's where it's hiding the good stuff."

The AT-MA's cannon began to turn again.
Korda steadied the launcher on his shoulder.
"Let's see if it likes this one better."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen didn't know what to say. His jaw was having trouble getting off the floor as he watched the rocket he fired impact harmlessly against the gun. "Modified Ammo Storage... Huh..." This simulator really was the devil itself.

Thankfully, the Big Man managed to hit the right spot with its shot, the gun exploding in a way that broke the walker's spine in half, both front and back half slowly walking to the ground. Omen let out his breath as he started to relax. "I... think thats enough sim time for today. I'm not going to say facing a walker by ourselves isn't realistic but... it isn't realistic. Unless something went incredably fubar, we would atleast have some sort of support." The Clone took a seat on some of the station's rubble. "That you survived three days of that alone though... You are making me think you have been drinking alittle bit too much." Three days of evasion, maybe he could believe that but straight up combat...? He didn't believe even Korda could survive an entire combined arms company only while fighting back in the open. Still this sim run had been... interesting and had showed the Big Man could actually back up his talk somewhat. The question was... who was talking back to him.

Korda Veydran