Private Welcome To The Shark Tank

[Sergeant Omen]

Location: Empress Teta, Garage/Multi-Use Room At Home

He would probably regret what he was about to do. As Omen looked up at the barbell, he wondered if he was going to regret his decision. Getting back in shape had been his New Year's resolution or at least trying to maintain his body. Exercising wasn't an option in prison, so he wanted to get back into a standard routine. And so here he was on an exercise bench, hoping he would be able to take the weight that was going to be set on his shoulders.

Eventually, he took the weight bar out of the bench's hooks, letting it rest on his body. With a grunt, he pushed it up into the air as he counted the sets... 1... 2... 3... He gave as good as he got. He got up to ten, his muscles struggling to keep up with the pain being put onto their shoulders. Still, whatever inner will he had left was put into the last thrust up in the air, he laid the weight bar back onto its hooks. It took him a minute to raise himself back up to sitting position, his tired body telling him that he wasn't the man he used to be. Hell, he was starting to agree, little did he know that someone else might come through the Open Garage door that might think he was still had something left to give.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

The garage door didn't creak open so much as announce itself, metal rolling up with a low, complaining rattle that cut through the quiet between Omen's breaths.
Boots followed. Heavy ones.


Korda Veydran stepped in like he belonged there, helmet still on, visor unreadable, shoulders broad beneath the weight of beskar and scars you couldn't see. The Ashen Maw rested easy across one shoulder, mag-locked and inert, more habit than threat. In one gauntleted hand, he carried two bottles of whiskey, necks hooked between his fingers like trophies liberated from some forgotten shelf.
He took in the scene in a single glance: the bench, the bar, the way Omen sat there a moment longer than pride would've preferred.


A low laugh rolled out of Korda's helmet, rough, genuine, edged with amusement rather than mockery.
"Ni kar'ta kyr'am," he called out in Mando'a, voice carrying easily in the open space. Not dead yet.
He crossed the concrete floor without hurry, armor plates shifting softly with each step. When he reached the bench, he set one bottle down with a solid clack near Omen's elbow, keeping the other for himself.

"Didn't think I'd catch you trying to kill yourself with iron today," Korda added, head tilting slightly as if he were appraising a weapon rather than a man. "But I'll admit… I like the look of it."

Another short chuckle.
"You always did have something left to give," he said, tone quieter now, less teasing. "Even when you pretend otherwise."
Korda hooked a thumb at the bottle he'd set down.
"Figured we'd earned these last time we crossed paths. Thought I'd check if you were still breathing."

A beat.
"…Looks like you are."
He stayed where he was, Ashen Maw steady on his shoulder, visor angled toward Omen, waiting to see if he'd take the drink, or the company, first.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen didn't know he should greet the big giant or reach for the rifle sitting in its rack. He settled for a "Really?" eyebrow raise as he slowly raised his tired body to up see his uninvited guest. "You would come into my house like it's one of those fortresses you were trained to break into..." Still, the bottle of ale kept him from complaining too much, though he did make a face at the "kill yourself with iron" comment. "Well, unlike you, some of still have to work to get muscles." The Clone didn't want to think about the workout routine this mad man had to get that big. All Omen knew it was more intense than he was doing.

The Clone managed to take a sip of the Ale as the sweat dripped down his face. He had no idea how this brute had tracked him down, but this wasn't the worse thing ever. The worst thing ever would be if Korda had shot him through the garage door. He almost spit it out though when Korda complimented him. "If... you are trying to flirt with me... I already have a partner, and I don't think she is the type to leave doors open..." Thank the ones Aren had went to Toshi Station to pick up parts for one of her repairs because if she was here, this was going to be a lot more awkward than he ever could imagine.

Taking another gulp, Omen just shook his head, chuckling to himself. "Well, I'm not doing this for nothing." Too be honest, he wasn't doing this to get into battlefield shape, it was just something to keep him active and let the Clone blow off some steam. He still had something left to give, he just got to choose where he would give it. "Nice to know you care though."

If the Mando Wallbreaker looked around, he would see the garage had been tapped into two sections, one being Omen's "workout room" and another section looking like a robotics lab with a workbench and peg board containing tools doing who knows what. It might be the like the droid torture chamber in Jabba's place for all he knew. Omen got up and pointed to the stairs. "I got the new bolo ball game if you wanted to blow off some steam with me. Just do me a favor and leave the gun down here. I don't want Aren to come home and think I'm being held hostage." Not that she probably wouldn't have her own questions about this new guest.

Korda Veydran
Aren D'Shade You can jump in whenever you want if you want.

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's shoulders lifted once in something that might've been a shrug, might've been a laugh, the sound of it rumbling out of his helmet as Omen talked. He didn't reach for the Ashen Maw. Didn't need to. The rifle stayed where it was, steady on his shoulder, like it was listening too.
"House," he echoed, amused. "Fortress. Same rules apply. You leave a door open, someone's going to walk through it."
He took a long pull from his bottle then, unapologetic, head tipping back slightly. When Omen shot back about muscles, Korda let out a sharper laugh this time.

"Still work out," he said. "When I'm not on contract. Or drinking."
A pause.
"…Sometimes both."
At the comment about flirting, Korda actually froze for half a beat, visor angling just enough to suggest he was staring.

Then he laughed. Full, unrestrained, the kind that carried heat and genuine humor with it.
"Relax," he said, waving the bottle slightly. "If I were flirting, you'd know. And I don't steal what someone's guarding. Bad for long-term survival."
He glanced briefly toward the stairs at the mention of Aren, filed the name away, then followed Omen's gesture toward the corner of the garage.


Without ceremony, Korda reached up, unhooked the Ashen Maw, and set it carefully against the wall near the workout equipment. The motion was deliberate, respectful. He thumbed the mag-lock once more out of habit, then reached up and twisted his helmet free.

The man beneath it was all sharp angles and old scars, hair dark and sweat-damp, eyes bright with something feral and alive. He set the helmet atop the barrel of the rifle like it belonged there, then took another drink.


His gaze drifted over the split garage, the weights, the workbench, the tools, the half-finished projects.
"Huh," he said. "You build things instead of breaking them now."
Then he looked back to Omen, mouth quirking.

"Bolo ball," Korda agreed, lifting his bottle in a lazy salute. "Fine. I'll behave."
A beat.
"No guns. No hostages."

Another swig.
"But don't get comfortable," he added, already turning toward the stairs. "I still intend to win."

Sergeant Omen
Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

The garage door rolled up again a few minutes later, its motor giving a softer, more familiar whine this time. Aren stepped inside with a small crate tucked against her hip, boots scuffing once on the concrete as she paused just long enough to take in the scene.

Weights still out. Whiskey on the bench. A very large armored man no longer wearing his helmet. And Omen, upright again, alive, talking.

Her gaze tracked the space quickly, not alarmed so much as assessing. When she caught the tail end of Korda's comment about building instead of breaking, the corner of her mouth twitched.

"That part's mine," she said calmly, setting the crate down on the workbench without ceremony. "The other half is his. We keep the overlap minimal for safety reasons."

She glanced at Omen then, a brief check-in more than a question, her expression settling once she confirmed he was fine. Only then did she turn her attention fully to the newcomer.

Aren wiped her hands on her jacket and stepped forward, posture relaxed but self-possessed, the way she moved through rooms she owned without needing to announce it.

"I'm Aren," she said evenly, extending a hand. "I live here."

A pause, then, with the faintest hint of dry humor,

"And if you walked in uninvited, I'm assuming you're either very confident, very lost, or someone he already knows."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the rifle resting against the wall, noting its placement, then back to Korda's face. No judgment. Just awareness.

"You're welcome to stay," she added, tone neutral but sincere. "As long as the rules are simple. No shooting, no breaking load-bearing structures, and if you win at bolo ball, you don't gloat."

She glanced back at Omen, one brow lifting just enough to signal we'll talk later, then returned her attention to Korda.

"So," Aren finished, calm and curious. "Who one are you?"

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't flinch at the doorway opening again. He simply shifted his weight, Ashen Maw and helmet already set aside, and gave Omen a brief nod.
"I met him at the Pyre," Korda said, voice low, rough-edged but steady. "Before the mission into the mines a little back. He didn't exactly need me watching his back, but… someone had to."


His red eyes scanned the garage, taking in the organized chaos, weights, workbench, tools, and then rested on Aren. He took a deliberate step forward, slow but confident, as if measuring the ground without hesitation.


"Rules are noted," he said simply. "I don't destroy houses unless it's for two reasons: part of a mission… or a home abandoned and in need of demolition. Otherwise," he let his shoulders ease back slightly, "I respect what you've built here."


He paused, With a measured motion, he inclined his head toward her in a subtle bow.


"I've heard whispers of your work in the Mandalorian Empire," he continued, voice low, carrying just the right weight of respect. "People speak well. That earns mine."


Korda straightened, extending a gauntleted hand, careful not to overstep.
"Korda Veydran," he said, formal now, measured. "It's… an honor."
A faint smirk touched the edge of his mouth, a touch of humor in the otherwise commanding presence

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Their little exchange on the rules made Omen chuckle for a moment. If he really wanted too, the Clone bet Korda could take down this house in an instant. Thankfully, the big man was a functioning drunk or they would all have issues. If only he could have his mouth function in the right way as well.

Omen just shook his head as he held a hand to his face when Korda mentioned the Bonfire. How this man could be trusted with the operational security of anything was beyond the Clone. And that look from Aren made sure she was gonna pry out of him how they met one way or another. Now he really was going to be in the dog house...

The twitch in his eye as Korda leaned into Aren and say about his devotion to her, they both would hear a cough that told them both he was still in the room. "Okay, now I wish you were still fliritng with me instead of... what just happened." Omen felt like one of those comic book heros was trying to steal his girl right from under his nose. He knew it wasn't what Korda was trying to do but unfortunatly the Kaminoian's didn't breed jealousy out of his emotions. It was time to get the hover train back on the track. "Aren mainly does lighting display for holidays. We got some framed pictures upstairs if you wanted to see them. It was his way of downplaying her "other" activitives and trying to get back the normal natural born Mando awkardness. Best move this along so he could kick Korda's virtual butt.

But that is not what happened... A groan could be heard from the living room as the Giant scored another goal and Omen looked about ready to pull his non-existant hair out. "How... How can you be this good. I bet you haven't touch any game that wasn't a battle simulator." The Clone was just surprised Korda hadn't snapped the controller in half. Guess that was just a lesson for him, never allow anyone over for fear of being one uped.

Korda Veydran Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda laughed again at the groan from the living room, the sound low and rough, shoulders shaking once as another goal lit up the screen. He didn't look smug about it, just amused, like winning was incidental.
He took another drink, then glanced sideways at Omen, visorless eyes sharp enough to have caught that twitch the instant it happened.

"I saw it," he said casually. "Your eye."
He shifted his weight, stretching one arm across his chest, and winced despite himself. For a split second, something tight flickered across his face. Then, without ceremony, he pressed a gauntleted palm against his chest plate and thunk, a dull, unpleasant pop as he forced the rib back into place.

"…Still healing," he muttered, as if that explained everything. Another swig. Problem solved.
Then he looked back toward Aren, tone leveling out, respectful and clear.
"She's a good one," Korda said simply. "Tech like that doesn't come from dabbling."


A beat, then his mouth twitched.
"But with all due respect," he added, glancing back to Omen, "she's not my type."
He leaned back into the couch, long legs stretched out, controller loose in his hands.

"I prefer women who are a little more…" he searched for the word, then shrugged.
"Barbaric."
Back to the game, thumbs moving with infuriating ease.

"And no," he continued, answering the earlier accusation, "I've never touched a battle simulator. Waste of time."
Another goal. The controller didn't snap.
"I train with droids when they're available," he said. "If not, live missions. Breaches. Brawls. You learn faster when mistakes hurt."

He glanced over again, grin sharp but not unkind.
"Relax," Korda added. "I'm not stealing your partner. And I'm definitely not stealing your house."
A pause.


"But your game?"
He shrugged again as the score ticked up.
"That's already gone."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren had been leaning in the doorway long enough to take in the whole scene without interrupting it: the lopsided sprawl of Korda across the couch, the scoreboard ticking upward with quiet cruelty, and Omen's escalating disbelief as another goal landed. She watched it all with the same expression she used when systems behaved exactly as expected and still managed to be annoying about it.

She let out a slow breath and rolled her eyes, the motion small but unmistakable.

"Well," she said evenly, breaking the rhythm of victory music and groaning commentary, "this answers the question of whether inviting either of you into the same room with a competitive outlet was a mistake."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the screen, then back to Omen, taking in the look on his face with faint, unhelpful amusement.

"For the record," Aren added, tone dry, "those light displays you mentioned are not mine. If there are framed pictures upstairs, they're decorative, seasonal, or something EL decided looked 'festive.' I don't document my work like a gallery exhibit."

She shifted her weight, crossing her arms loosely as she looked at Korda again, assessing him the way she assessed unfamiliar machinery: not wary, but thorough.

"And you," she continued calmly, "are welcome to keep winning at that game for as long as it takes to get bored. Just don't bleed on the furniture. EL will complain."

As if summoned by name alone, the faint hum of the household droid drifted in from the kitchen, accompanied by the soft, efficient sounds of preparation. Aren tilted her head slightly in that direction.

"EL is already handling food," she said. "Something substantial. You both look like you need it, for different reasons."

Her eyes returned to Omen then, steady and pointed, the look that promised neither an argument nor forgiveness but something inevitable.

"And you and I," Aren said quietly, "will be having words later. Not about him," she added, nodding once toward Korda, "but about how you keep ending up in situations you think you can downplay."

She stepped fully into the room at last, resting a hand briefly at Omen's shoulder, grounding rather than possessive.

"For now," she finished, "sit. Breathe. Lose with dignity if you must."

Her mouth curved just slightly as another goal chimed from the screen.

"Dinner will be ready soon."

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda tilted his head slightly at Aren's words, letting the faintest smirk trace the edge of his visorless face.
"I won't bleed," he said, voice calm, almost casual. "Fractured rib, but it's healing. No lacerations involved." He shifted slightly, pressing the plate again as if testing the alignment, then eased back into the couch, posture still long and relaxed.


When the soft hum of the household droid reached him, Korda's expression stiffened ever so slightly, eyes narrowing as he instinctively assessed its movements. The twitch in his jaw wasn't anger, it was the ghost of training, the quiet caution of someone who'd learned the hard way that even small machines could kill if underestimated.


Omen, noticing the momentary freeze, seized it, and finally scored a goal.
Korda blinked, shook it off, and let the tension fade as though it had never been there. Still, the wariness lingered in the back of his eyes, a shadow that didn't speak, but stayed.


"…Is that droid capable of combat?" he asked casually, voice low, carrying that same edge of respect-for-danger. Not a challenge, but a check, the way someone like him always does.


Then, almost immediately, he went back to the game, thumbs working the controller with smooth, deliberate precision, letting the moment pass but never quite forgetting it.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Korda was clearly something else... Something Omen couldn't pin down. Yes, he was a Mandolarian destoryer and yet he acted like a land holding Aristoricrat. Some of the Vod were like that though. He wondered though if he had been born in the Verika clan or had been adopted. If Korda ever sold his bio someday, he would certainly be interested in picking it up.

Despite being down hard as they played, Omen still had a smile on his face. He knew Korda wasn't going to be a problem, espessially with Aren. All these beginning steps in their realitionship was building trust. Shaking his head as Korda teased him, he admiting proudly. "She is my rock. So yeah, I wouldn't want to be paired up with anyone else." The caring look he sent Arens's way said the same thing, that he truely loved her. As Aren rolled her eyes though, he raised a finger to stop her. "Hey, nothing broken, just be thankful that the case." No one wanted to see the destoryer's crash out. Omen also fought against her not talking about her talents. "And I'm just saying Hun. You have many talents and being a holdiay lights layout designer is one of them."

The whincing defiently caught his attention and while he didn't question his new friend's condition, he made a note to put some credits in his pocket for medical bills. It was a hazard of the job but good health equaled a good life and defiently wasn't Korda right now. It was atleast cover a bacta wrap for his chest though he didn't know Korda's policy on assisted healing and if he would rather muscle through.

Depsite being beaten, he couldn't help but laugh as Korda said his type. The Clone suspected that would be the case. Pointing to his ribs he reiterated the question. "Aka, you want someone that can do this to you and lives the frointer lifestyle. I understand Vod." For Omen, he liked his tech girl and stable life just fine. "So this is your first video game then?" Despite his relcant to battle simulators, Korda would have to admit this was fun. And seeing him happier was worth the price of losing.

The aducity of this woman telling him that he was skinny. Now it was his time to roll his eyes as Korda replied to her. Ones forbid he try to diet some just so he could fit into his armor. The sigh he lets out when she said a "talk" going to happen later, told her that whatever points she had to mention that were probably right. "Fair enough hun. We'll hatch it out tonight." Omen guessed he should be thankful that Aren had allowed his new scary friend into their life.

Now it was Omen's time to notice the look. EL being a combat droid? Now that was a good joke. "No, she is just something Aren brought into the realitionship. EL most helps with things like cleaning and cooking, the household manuel tasks. All the possible mechincal menances she has downstairs." Like Korda, the Clone hadn't really figured out Aren's cabalities along that front. She wasn't exactly a weapons tech and the most she would probably put on her droids were self defense weapons, which fit the job. Still, it was a much needed break in Korda's contration the Omen needed to get back in the game.

Korda Veydran , Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren watched the exchange from where she'd settled near the edge of the room, arms folded loosely, weight resting on one hip. She tracked the way Korda stiffened when EL crossed his peripheral vision, the reflexive assessment in his eyes, and the deliberate way he let that tension ease rather than act on it. She didn't interrupt. She rarely did when someone was still sorting out what they were seeing.

When he finally asked, Aren answered without urgency.

"No," she said simply, tone even and unbothered. "EL isn't a frontline combat unit."

She let that land before continuing, shifting her weight slightly as she spoke.

"She's a domestic support with adaptive problem-solving. Cleaning, cooking, maintenance, logistics. That's her primary function." Her gaze flicked briefly to the droid as EL moved through the living room with quiet efficiency, then returned to Korda. "If she ever had to defend herself, it would be incidental, not tactical."

A pause.

Then, more precise.

"Let me amend that," Aren added calmly. "She does carry advanced combat knowledge, but it's structured for ranged engagement and support roles. Use of cover, suppressive fire, and flanking behavior. She understands battlefield flow, not domination of it."

Her expression didn't change, but the clarity sharpened.

"Her melee capacity is intentionally limited. Even a low-skill opponent could overwhelm her at close range. That's by design."

This wasn't reassurance. It was a specification.

"She was assembled from discarded components on Voss," Aren continued, almost conversational. "Same make, same era. I activated her later with a compatible programming core. The result is a hybrid. Protocol cognition layered over combat logic."

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, the way they always did when she spoke about systems she understood intimately.

"She also carries a private communications module keyed to my comm. Non-verbal transmission only. If she's relaying information, you won't hear it."

A beat.

"So no," Aren finished, folding her arms again. "She's not here to threaten you. But she's not helpless either. And she won't surprise you unless you give her a reason."

The faintest hint of dry humor touched her mouth.

"I don't keep useless machines."

As if on cue, EL passed through the room, unobtrusive, already transitioning into dinner preparations without acknowledging the conversation at all.

Aren's attention returned to the couch, the controller, the bottle, and the two men occupying her living room.

"And now that we've clarified capabilities," she said evenly, "I'd prefer we all go back to pretending this is a normal evening."

Her eyes slid briefly to Omen.

"We'll have words later," she added quietly. Not a threat. An inevitability.

Then she leaned back against the wall again, arms folding once more, content to let the game continue while dinner handled itself.

Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda listened more than he spoke at first, a rare thing for someone built like a siege engine. His attention stayed half on the game, half on Omen's words, eyes flicking to the screen just in time to block a shot before finally easing back.
"This is the first one," he admitted at last. "Video game, I mean."
He huffed a short laugh, more breath than sound.


"Never had the time. If I'm not on a mission, I'm working on something. Armor. Charges. Old projects that don't know when to stay finished." His thumb stilled for a second on the controller. "Or I'm listening."


That earned a glance from him toward Aren and then back to Omen, as if measuring how much to say.
" Warpriest Prime s sermons," Korda continued quietly. "They… settle things."
Another goal chimed, but he didn't react right away.


"She speaks about fire the way most people talk about mercy," he said. "Fire destroys what can't endure. But it also clears the ground. Makes room. In the end, it leaves only what's strong enough to rebuild." A pause. Something heavier passed behind his eyes , grief, maybe, or memory. "That spoke to me."
He exhaled, shoulders shifting beneath beskar.


"I spilled my own clan's blood," he said plainly. No drama. No excuse. "Wiped them off the map. Became the last one standing. Following the Majestic Flame gave that… meaning. A way to keep moving forward without pretending it didn't happen."
Then, just like that, he smiled, small and real, the weight easing.


"As for the droid," Korda added, glancing toward EL as its hum drifted through the house. His posture was relaxed, but there was no hiding the tension beneath it. "If it doesn't attack me, it won't be dismantled. Simple agreement."
A beat.


"…I don't like droids," he admitted. "Bad history."
His thumbs moved again, focus snapping back into place.
"But this?" he said, nodding at the screen as Omen finally evened the score. "This isn't bad. I can see why people do it."


Another faint chuckle.
"Don't get used to winning, though."
He leaned back, taking another drink, comfortable now, not because the past had loosened its grip, but because for the moment, it wasn't the only thing in the room.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

So, EL did have combat abilities. That was good to know. Omen knew that Aren didn't suffer any fools and that went for her droids too. It's partially why this talk was going to be a big one.

Omen felt tempted to pull Aren into his lap like he usually did but he knew he wouldn't get away with that in front of a guest. So, he focused on playing the game and enjoying time with a new person in his life. It made sense Korda never had the time to play one of these games before, he had only really had the time to play since settling down with Aren. "So, this is beginner's luck. I don't feel so bad now." Letting out a chuckle as his little aliens from his Kel Dor team passed by Korda's flatfooted players, he enjoyed the closing the seconds of the match, glad he had someone to play with.

Warpriest Prime... Omen thought he had heard that name before. It was enough of a head scratcher that he paused the game to look the name up on his phone. And then the familiar image of that strange blue alien came up, and his eyes let up in recognition. "Oh, you mean Dima. Yeah, she is certainly something. The first time I met her, she was crashing through the ceiling and yelling where the enemy is." The Clone smirked as he realized why Korda had gotten quiet as he ever was. "Yeah, Dima would be your type wouldn't it. I bet she is the only woman who could actually pin you down on a bed. And as far as I know, she is still single." It was his way of saying, "I hope you take a chance." Omen was only here because he did after all.

Unpausing the game again, he just pointed to his face when Korda as a way to saying that he wasn't the biggest fan of them either. "Not having to use my hands was a change to get used too. But EL is like a sibling to Aren and she was a non-negational, so we try to get along as much as we can" It was the truth. EL was an extension of Aren's family and he accepted her into his life as much as he did Aren.

Once Korda had finished him, he eventually got up and walked over to see what EL was cooking. Had to make sure she didn't put any poison in the pepper shaker. Besides, it would give the two a chance to get over their differences and try to get to know each other. Who knows, maybe both who be able to laugh together. Maybe he could get the Warpriest's contact information, too.

Aren D'Shade , Korda Veydran

Warpriest Prime mentioned for her viewing pleasure.

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda actually laughed at that, not the sharp bark from before, but something warmer, lower, the sound of a man who knew exactly what Omen was doing and appreciated it.


"I wish," he said again, shaking his head. "I'd take that shot without hesitation."
Then he glanced sideways at Omen, eyes narrowing just a touch, amusement alive there.
"But courage has a habit of failing me when it matters," he added. "And even if it didn't… why would someone like her go for an unclean sinner like me?"


He stretched as he stood, rolling one shoulder back carefully, ribs protesting just enough to remind him they were still healing. He ignored it and followed Omen toward the kitchen, gaze flicking briefly to EL before settling back on the clone.


"I've only seen warpreist prime In battle once," Korda said. "The ground didn't survive the experience."
A pause, then a faint smirk.
"I imagine very few things do."


He stopped near the counter, close enough to be present, far enough to keep space. Then, casual as anything, he leaned an elbow against the surface and tilted his head toward Omen.
"So," Korda said, voice deliberately slow now, unmistakably suggestive, "what kind of gadgets does Aren use on you?"


A beat. Just long enough to let it land.
His mouth curved, wicked and brief.
"Must be some impressive work," he added lightly. "You look… well maintained."


He lifted his bottle in a half-toast, eyes glinting with humor rather than challenge.
"Relax," he said. "If she keeps you standing this steady, I'm not foolish enough to compete."
And for once, the teasing didn't feel like a wall, it felt like inclusion.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened without interrupting, her attention moving easily between the game on the screen, Korda's voice, and Omen's posture as he played. She catalogued the way Korda spoke about faith and fire with the same precision he applied to combat, the way his humor softened the edges without hiding what lay underneath. It was familiar territory to her: people who rebuilt meaning after ruin, even if they used very different tools.

When Korda mentioned the droid again, and Omen drifted toward the kitchen, Aren followed at a slower pace, stopping just short of the counter. EL moved with quiet efficiency, hands steady, processes invisible unless you knew where to look. Aren watched her for half a second longer than necessary, then felt a small, private note of relief settle in her chest.

It was probably for the best that she hadn't mentioned Red or Sam. Some systems worked best when they remained theoretical, and some droids were not meant for casual disclosure. EL was enough context for one evening.

Korda's comment finally drew her full attention back to him.

Aren tilted her head slightly, eyes calm, unreadable, and then exhaled once through her nose in something that might have been amusement. She didn't bristle. She didn't smile either.

"That's not how this works," she said evenly. "I don't experiment on my partner."

She stepped closer to Omen without touching him, her presence alone doing the work. "What you're seeing is maintenance, not modification. Sleep, food, fewer bad habits, and a home that doesn't try to kill him." A pause. "The results are predictable."

Her gaze shifted back to Korda, steady but not confrontational. "If you're curious about my work, you can ask about systems, not people. I'm precise about where those lines sit."

EL set a pan down on the stove with a soft sound, unbothered, unconcerned.

Aren glanced briefly at the bottle in Korda's hand, then at his ribs, then back to the room as a whole. "Dinner will be ready soon," she said calmly. "Which means this has officially crossed from 'unexpected visit' into 'normal evening.'"

She looked at Omen then, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. "Try not to antagonize our guest before we eat."

Then, to Korda, measured and composed, "You're welcome to stay. Just understand that curiosity works better here when it's mutual and respectful."

It wasn't a warning.

It was a boundary, cleanly drawn, and she was already comfortable on her side of it.

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda let out a low, rumbling chuckle and shook his head, leaning against the counter for support as he massaged the spot along his ribs.
"Point taken," he said, voice calm but deliberate. "I'll keep the jokes respectful. I like people who say what they mean instead of letting it fester. Most don't. They bottle it, let it rot, or they watch and wait for a chance to stab without warning."

His eyes flicked briefly to Aren, then back to Omen, sharp and honest.


"Most see me," he continued, voice quiet but carrying weight, "and they assume they know who or what I am. Armor. Scars. A history that smells of fire and blood. Job description doesn't help. People recoil first, ask later… or never. They see the surface, see the destruction, see the monster in the mirror I keep close, and they run."

He shifted, letting his long frame stretch just enough to ease the tension in his shoulders. "But you didn't. You listened. Heard me out. Looked me in the eye, even with all that in mind. That matters more than you probably realize. In my world, that's rare. Very rare."


A soft exhale, almost a sigh, followed. "I don't hand out trust easily. Not because I don't want to. because I've been wrong before. Trusted the wrong people, or trusted when I shouldn't have. You've earned it, Omen. You've earned the right to speak plainly around me, to call me out, to joke, to… not run. That's no small thing."

Korda's gaze drifted to the rest of the room: Aren, calm and precise as ever; the faint hum of EL moving through the kitchen; the scattered remnants of their little chaos. He let a faint smirk edge his features, letting the corner of his mouth curve almost imperceptibly.

"Mutual respect," he said finally, tone firm, reflective. "That's the foundation. Everything else… we build from there. Maybe it's uneasy. Maybe it's awkward. But it's real. And that's better than any illusion."


He straightened fully, shoulders squared, and let his voice soften just enough to be sincere. "For once, I can relax in someone else's space without feeling like I have to prove the monster isn't awake. That… it's something I won't forget."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Knowing what he did about the Alien, Omen betted she would actually find Korda interesting enough that his being a sinner wouldn't be an opinion. He would have to get that out of his head if he even wanted a chance at her. "Have you asked her? If the answers no, then you'll never know the real answer. If I had seen Aren the first time and said "Nope, she is too high maintenance or she doesn't look friendly enough to talk to." I would have regretted it." It was the truth. If he had been told during that first meeting that they would have been living together, he would have laughed. And yet here they were, happy together.

The "I imagine very few things do." line got a chuckle out of him as he leaned against the kitchen countertop. He laughed even louder at the gadget line. "Oh Ones... Let's just say she can be aggressive when she knows what she wants and let your head spin at that." That was the polite PG way of saying it. Omen didn't mind the dirty jokes. It was nice having someone with whom he could rib back and forth since it wasn't Aren's forte. "And trust me, there is a reason I want to put a ring on her someday. She is probably going try to convince me otherwise, though. By that way, that snort is her laugh. I had to get her user guide when we started dating."

Raising his hands in surrender at Aren's marching orders, Omen sat down to eat, smiling as Korda sat down as he talked. "Hey, I didn't come to that meeting just to thump chests. I came to meet people, and I'm giving you the chance that you gave me. You are a person who makes me laugh, and that's worth giving you back that respect every day of the week. But enough said, let's get ready to eat." When EL set eveything down, he feasted like a true mando would.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of metal under his weight filling the brief silence. He traced a finger along the edge of his plate before speaking, voice quiet but deliberate.
"I'll never gather the courage to talk to Warpriest Prime," he admitted, eyes lifting briefly, thoughtful. "I keep my distance. If she calls on me for a mission, I answer. That's duty. That's simple. But… to speak with her personally? To meet her where she stands? That… I cannot yet do."

He let the words hang for a moment, then glanced at Omen with a faint, half-smile. "You… you've settled down with someone like her. Aren't afraid to take a step like that. That's… something rare. I respect it."
He shifted, elbows braced on the table, tone softening, just enough to be personal without being vulnerable.

"The truth," he continued, "there are only two things that terrify me. Losing those I care about… and speaking to a woman like her. Warpriest Prime is no ordinary woman. She is the Destroyer God's messenger. Divine. Untouchable."
Korda's gaze drifted for a heartbeat, almost distant, before returning to Omen. "But… I can keep my hopes up. Even a little. That's enough for now."

Then he leaned back again, relaxed but not distracted, giving Omen the kind of measured respect reserved for someone who had earned it. "You… choosing to step into a life with someone, letting yourself be vulnerable… that's admirable. Not many can. Don't lose that."
A soft chuckle followed, quieter this time, almost private. "And if you survive dinner without choking on something EL made, I'll call it a victory."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

Warpriest Prime (for her viewing pleasure)

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren had been quiet through most of it, listening the way she always did when people finally said what they meant instead of circling it. She caught the shape of Korda's honesty, the weight he carried without ornament, and filed it away with what she kept worth remembering. When he finished, when the room settled into the soft clink of utensils and the hum of EL moving between tasks, she spoke at last.

"I should meet this woman," Aren said simply.

The words weren't teasing. They weren't reverent either. Just a matter of fact, delivered with the same tone she used when identifying a system she wanted to understand better.

She glanced at Korda then, really looked at him, not as a warpriest or a destroyer or a man haunted by gods and fire, but as someone who had drawn a boundary so sharp around another person that it had become fear.

"Anyone who can terrify you more than loss is worth at least one conversation," she continued evenly. "Divine or not."

Her mouth curved faintly, the smallest hint of dry humor surfacing. "If she's untouchable, she's still speaking to people. If she's speaking to people, she's human enough to listen. Titles don't change that. They just make others hesitate."

She reached for her drink, taking a measured sip before adding, "And if you're waiting for courage to arrive fully formed, it won't. That's not how it works. You take the step first. Courage follows after, if it feels like it."

Aren's gaze shifted briefly to Omen, then back to Korda, steady and unflinching. "You don't need to worship someone to respect them. And you don't need permission to speak."

Another pause, softer now, but no less certain.

"If you ever decide you want an introduction," she said, "I'm good at neutral ground. And I don't scare easily."

EL chose that moment to set another dish on the table, seamless and precise. Aren didn't look away as she finished,

"And for the record, dinner will not kill you. If it does, I'll fix that too."

It wasn't a promise.

Just a statement of capability.

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen Warpriest Prime