Private Welcome To The Shark Tank

[Korda Veydran]

Korda paused mid-bite, letting Aren's words settle like embers in a darkened room. He chewed slowly, thinking carefully before responding, as if choosing each word for weight and precision.

"I have… spoken with her," he admitted quietly, eyes lifting to meet hers. "But never beyond the sermons. Never about anything personal. The Destroyer God. Why He… why He returned someone like me to the Mandalorian Empire. That's all."

A faint exhale, a small shrug. "She's… intimidating. Divine, yes, but also distant. I never sought more than… duty conversation. Never courage to speak beyond it."

Then his gaze softened, a subtle acknowledgment of her offer. "If you're… willing to help me get into a position where I can say what I need… I'll gladly accept it. And I'll compensate you. I do not believe in unpaid debts. Any assistance given… it will be repaid, in kind, in credits, or in whatever manner you require."

He let the words linger for a heartbeat, then a small, dry chuckle escaped him. "It's a rare thing… someone offering a hand without judgment. That… is not lost on me."

His tone shifted just slightly, humor threading in carefully. "I don't expect miracles. I only expect honesty. If you see fit to help, I will honor it, and repay it fully. That is the way I operate. Always."


Korda's posture relaxed just a touch, shoulders loosening under the weight of his armor. For once, the tension that usually clung to him felt slightly lighter, not gone, not entirely, but manageable.


"Neutral ground," he added, eyes flicking toward her, "sounds… fair. I can follow your lead."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Warpriest Prime

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen's phone would slide over to Aren with a picture of a happy, blue-purple-skinned creature whose teeth covered their face as she grinned, happy as could be. Atleast that was one of her younger pictures. Who knew what she looked like now? "That's her in all of her toothy glory." She certainly had been a handful back then and probably would be now too.

When the Mando Warrior accepted her offer, Omen chuckled, holding his sides as his chest rose and fell from the laughter. "I'm sure we will use your muscles if we ever need to move. Let's just keep it at that. Let's dig in." With that, the Clone started digging into his plate, trying to replace all the calories he had lost from his exercises.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't react to the image the way Omen clearly expected.

She leaned in just enough to look at the screen properly, eyes taking in the bright, sharp-toothed grin with the same neutral attention she gave to schematics or unfamiliar interfaces. There was no flinch, no amusement at the expense of the subject, no judgment at all. Just a quiet assessment.

"She looks… alive," Aren said at last, handing the phone back to Omen without ceremony. "That's usually a good sign."

Then her attention returned to Korda, and with it the calm, deliberate focus she reserved for things she intended to follow through on.

"I don't broker miracles," Aren said evenly. "And I don't force outcomes. If someone doesn't want to listen, I won't manufacture leverage to make them."

A pause, letting that boundary sit clearly between them.

"But I do know how to create space where people can speak without being turned into symbols," she continued. "Neutral ground. Clear expectations. No audience unless it's invited." Her head tilted slightly. "If that's what you're asking for, then yes. I can help with that."

She waved off the notion of compensation with a small, economical motion of her hand.

"This isn't a transaction," Aren added. "If I decide to assist, it will be because it makes sense to do so, not because you feel indebted. You can keep your credits for things that actually require them."

Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching.

"I'll see what I can do, Korda."

The words weren't grand, but they carried weight. Commitment without spectacle. Capability without bravado.

She straightened then, reaching for her own plate as the conversation eased back into the rhythm of dinner, allowing Omen's laughter and movement to fill the space again.

"And for what it's worth," Aren said, almost casually, "if you're already capable of naming what you're afraid of, you're closer to speaking than you think."

Then she took a bite, letting the moment settle naturally, as if that was all that ever needed to be said.

Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran Warpriest Prime

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda took a moment before answering, the way he always did when something had actually landed.
He lowered his utensil, posture easing just a fraction, not relaxed, exactly, but no longer braced like he expected a blow. Aren's words had done that. Not softened him, but… aligned something. He gave a short, quiet huff that might've been a laugh if it had grown up differently.

"Fair," he said, voice low and steady. "Neutral ground. Boundaries stated, not implied. I can respect that."
His gaze dipped briefly to his plate, then back up, first to Aren, then to Omen. The curiosity was there now, unmistakable, but it wasn't prying. It was the same look he'd worn on battlefields when something unexpected proved effective.

He tipped his head toward Omen, one corner of his mouth twitching.
"So," Korda rumbled, "how did this happen?"

He lifted a hand slightly, palm open in a conciliatory gesture. "No offense meant," he added, tone sincere. "But I've served with clones. I know your reputation. Discipline, loyalty, stubbornness that borders on religious conviction." A beat. "Not exactly the traits most people associate with pulling in a tech-savvy woman who sets boundaries like firing lines and means every one of them."


His eyes flicked back to Aren, not appraising her, not sizing her up. Just acknowledging her presence as a constant in the equation.
"How did you meet?" he asked. "And how did that turn into this?" He gestured vaguely at the room: the shared space, the easy rhythm, the unspoken coordination between Aren and EL. "Living together. Comfortable. Real."

There was no envy in his voice. If anything, there was something like careful study. As if he were trying to understand a tactic he'd never been taught.
"I ask because," he went on, quieter now, "most people see what I am before they see who I am. You didn't do that with each other." A brief glance to Omen. "You listened. That counts for something."

He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"And if a clone can walk into a room, speak plainly, and somehow end up building a life with someone like her…" His gaze returned to Aren, respectful, measured. "Then maybe there's a lesson there I haven't learned yet."


A pause, then, dry as dust and just as grounded:
"Besides. If I'm going to take advice on courage from anyone, I'd like to know the origin story first."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Well, this was going to be a long story. But a fun one, though. The smirk on his face as Omen started should have told Aren where this was going. "Well, it's a fun story." Sliding his arm around Aren's chair, his grin was infectious. "Well, we both got set up on a dinner date together. But something happened that made us slide apart. And yet..." The Clone leaned in to playfully kiss Aren's lips quickly before she could object. "This spicy kitty kat came all the way across the galaxy to find me. Adorable, huh?" He left out more of the awkward parts, but it got the point across while embarrassing Aren at the same time. And that was very much worth it.

The Clone paused for a moment to glance at Aren before saying, while looking at her with smiling eyes. "All we can say is try. And who knows how it will turn out. But if you had a chance to get a sample of how happy I feel when I'm with her, I would say go for it. Because I wouldn't ask for anything different. Though..." He reached for the phone and swiped through the pictures in his gallery before landing on . "She would look cute like this, don't you think?" He attempted not be the only one who should branch out a little in her sense of style. Though if Korda stepped on this landmine, he might not be ready for a girlfriend.

Korda Veydran Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda glanced at the picture Omen held up, brow quirking just slightly. He let out a short, low chuckle, shaking his head faintly.
"To each their own," he said, voice calm but with that subtle edge of humor. "Looks matter… differently to different people. Cute? Sure. If that makes you happy, I won't argue."

He shifted slightly in his chair, letting the armor creak under his weight. "When I'm not in armor," he added, almost as an aside, "I don't exactly look… approachable. Most people see the plating and the bulk first, not the man beneath. It's… effective for some things, less so for conversation."


Then his lips twitched in a rare grin as he shot Omen a sidelong glance. "I do wonder," he said, dry and teasing, "how you'd look in a tuxedo. You know, for a formal 'spicy kitty kat' dinner somewhere civilized. I… despise tuxedos. Always too tight in places they shouldn't be. Claustrophobic."

He leaned back, letting the words hang lightly in the air, the faintest spark of mischief in his eyes. "Though I suppose some things are worth tolerating for the right company."
Korda leaned back in his chair, one hand slipping to his belt. With a practiced motion, he pulled out a small, compact projector and set it on the table. The device hummed softly as it powered on, casting a faint light onto the wall nearby.

He gestured toward the image that appeared. "Since we're talking appearances…" he said, voice calm, almost casual, though the edges carried that unflinching weight of someone who'd seen too much.

On the wall, a younger Korda stared back: leather vest open, tattoos winding across his arms, scars visible along his chest and shoulder, cargo pants tucked into worn boots, chains dangling from his belt and pockets, and a belt with a skull-shaped buckle. A few rings glinted on his fingers in the projected light. Beside him, an old friend grinned, arm slung casually around Korda's shoulders.


"Me," Korda said, tone flat but with a hint of humor. "Not exactly approachable outside armor. But… that was then. Still me, though. The scars, the ink, the leather, they tell stories. And the friend? Still one of the few who'd call me on my bullshit."


He let the image linger a moment, then looked to Omen with a faint smirk. "See, even I've had a past before armor and missions. Not everything needs plating, and I still wear the outfit when I feel like it."

Korda leaned back again, hands resting on his thighs, the corner of his mouth tugging into a shadow of a grin. "And for the record, some of the rings aren't decorative, they're reminders. Don't ask which ones. Some stories are better left for whiskey and campfires."


He shifted slightly, eyes flicking toward Aren and Omen, the weight in his gaze softened by the subtle humor. "But if you were wondering why people might hesitate before talking to me… this explains a little. Appearances can be deceiving."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened without interrupting, letting the exchange run its course the way she always did when people were circling something honest. When Korda finished, and the image hovered between them, she didn't rush to fill the space. She took a bite of her food instead, unhurried, eyes still on the projection as if committing it to memory rather than judging it.

"We met at a street festival," she said at last, voice even. "Noise, lights, too many people pretending they weren't lost." She glanced sideways at Omen, the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. "We won tickets to a dinner out. Neither of us expected much."

A pause. Then, dryly, "Close enough, though."

She shifted in her chair, angling slightly toward him as she continued. "After that, things got complicated. A few shared adventures. A few wrong turns that turned out to be the same direction." Her head tipped subtly toward Omen. "My lift went sideways after his did. Turns out that mattered."

She took another bite, unbothered by the attention, then lifted her gaze back to Korda. "You want to talk about making an impression," she added calmly, "you don't think my purple hair turns people away?" A beat. "It does. That's useful. Anyone who can't get past it usually isn't worth explaining myself to."

Her eyes flicked to the image again, then back to him. "You follow our rules," Aren said simply, "you're welcome to stay and visit any time. No armor required. No performance either."

She reached up then and drew her collar aside just enough to reveal her shoulder. Two tattoos marked the skin there: one old and weathered, its lines softened by time, the other newer, sharper, deliberately placed. She didn't explain them. She didn't need to.

"No judgment there either," Aren said, letting the fabric fall back into place. "We all carry scars. Just most people prefer to pretend they don't."

She tapped her knuckles lightly against her temple, once. A quiet, deliberate sound.

"Some of the worst ones never show."

Then she leaned back, returning her attention to her food, the conversation clearly open but no longer pressing.

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't answer right away.

The projector dimmed with a soft click as he thumbed it off, the image folding back into darkness. He watched the space where it had been for a heartbeat longer, then lifted his gaze to Aren, studying her with the same careful attention she'd given him.
"Purple hair?" he said at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. A corner of his mouth tugged, not quite a smile, but close. "I would've thought it did the opposite. Draws the curious in. Filters out the dull ones."

His eyes shifted briefly to Omen, then back to her. "Seems efficient."
He rolled one shoulder, the movement slow, deliberate. "It's usually the eyes with me. People look too long, or not at all." A quiet exhale through his nose. "Some think I'm cursed. Others think I'm a Sith wearing the bones of a fallen Mandalorian like a trophy." A beat. "Doesn't help that I don't rush to correct them."

There was no bitterness in it. Just fact.
When Aren spoke of rules, of welcome without armor or performance, Korda inclined his head, formal, sincere. "Thank you," he said plainly. "For the invitation. And for the clarity. I respect places that draw their lines clean."
He paused, then added, more softly, "I'll honor them."

After a moment, he straightened a fraction, presence settling back into him like a mantle. "Then it's only fair I return the courtesy." His gaze moved between them, steady, unguarded. "If either of you ever find yourselves with reason, or no reason at all, you're welcome at the Iron Citadel. That's where I'm based. if anyone asks why, just tell em your there to see me"

A faint, wry note crept in. "It's less… homey than this. More stone and fire than comfort. But it's neutral ground. Safe. And mine."
His eyes flicked once more to Aren, thoughtful rather than intense. "No armor required there either. And no gods demanded at the door."
Then, almost as an aside, "Scars don't bother me. Pretending they aren't there does."
Korda set his fork down and looked off slightly, past the table, past the walls of the garage, like his mind was momentarily back where the wind bit harder and fire echoed louder.


"The Iron Citadel," he began, his voice low, measured, but with a warmth that wasn't often heard. "Home isn't the right word for it... not the soft kind folks whisper about in stories. But it's the place that shaped me. Like a childhood first love… the kind you never really forget."

He paused, eyes drifting like the memory itself was rising before him.
"It sits solid on volcanic rock. Black stone, tempered with flame and sweat. Not built to be pretty, it's built to last. Every wall, every spire, every scar in its stone has a story. Battle. Forges. Abandoned paths… found again. It breathes heat like a beast, like it's always alive."


His expression softened just enough. subtle, almost invisible unless you were really watching.
"People call it a fortress," he continued, "but it's more than that. It's sanctuary and trial both. You earn your place there. There are no pretty gardens. No gentle halls. Just fire, stone, and the echo of footsteps that never learned to fear silence."


Korda's fingers tapped the table once, not nervously, but in rhythm with the memory.
"And the thing about the Iron Citadel," he added, not as a boast but as a truth, "is that once you've lived under its walls, softer places feel… unfamiliar. Not bad. Just different. Like someone once touched your face with fire and now water feels strange."

He met their eyes, calm, steady.
"If you come," he said his voice quieter, more earnest, "you won't find comfort at first. You'll find strength. Truths you didn't know you carried. And paths you didn't know you'd walk."

Another pause.
"…And there'll be good fire. Always that."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen could help but smile at Korda's comment as the Clone admired his partner. "Certainly, drew me in at least. And..." He pulled at the fabric of her shirt to give her tattoo a kiss. "I love her just how she is, scars and all."

When Korda mentioned his home, the description was enough to perk his ears up as he listened. "Sounds like you are talking about some fantasy evil villain's castle but alright. We'll think about it." It really did seem like he was talking about something from a story book... or a penal colony. Then again, the way he described it was very Mando, so it wasn't that hard to believe.

Omen nodded along as Aren said about the rules. It was clear he would go along with whatever she set down. At least until he decided they were dumb like the peculate child he was. But as his fingers slipped into hers, Omen decided he would try his best to meet her expiations.

Aren D'Shade @Korda

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened without interrupting, the way she always did when someone was speaking about something that mattered to them. She didn't fidget. Didn't glance away. Her attention stayed anchored on Korda as he spoke of stone and fire and memory, of a place that had shaped him the way some people were shaped by families instead.

When he finished, she was quiet for a few seconds longer, letting the image settle into something solid rather than just dramatic.

Then she spoke.

"Efficient is usually the goal," Aren replied first, dryly, in response to his earlier comment. "If something filters out the wrong people before they waste your time, I consider that a success."

Her fingers tightened slightly around Omen's, not possessive, just present.

"The eyes thing makes sense," she added calmly. "People decide too much too fast based on what they think they're seeing. Most never revise their first assumption." A pause. "I don't correct people either, unless it becomes operationally necessary."

At the mention of the Iron Citadel, her gaze sharpened just a fraction. Not with suspicion. With interest.

"I know of it," Aren said simply. "Through Mandalorian channels. Through the Empire." She didn't elaborate on that yet. "It has a reputation for endurance. Not aesthetics."

That, coming from her, was high praise.

She considered his invitation for a moment, eyes thoughtful.

"There's a chance I may have a professional reason to visit someday," she continued evenly. "I'm part of the Mandalorian Empire's technical corps. Oversight, systems integration, field support." A brief glance at Omen, then back to Korda. "Which means I occasionally end up in places built on lava and stubbornness."

A faint hint of amusement touched her expression.

"So I won't say 'maybe.' I'll say 'likely,' at some point."

She shifted slightly in her chair, more relaxed now.

"And if I do come," Aren added, "it won't be for spectacle. It'll be to understand how your systems breathe. How your infrastructure handles stress. How people function when comfort isn't part of the design."

That was her version of curiosity.

Her eyes met Korda's again, steady and unguarded.

"I don't need soft places," she said quietly. "I need honest ones."

Then, softer, more personal:

"And I appreciate the invitation. It wasn't casual. I recognize that."

She finally leaned back, resting against Omen's shoulder, her posture easy but grounded.

"If we show up," Aren finished, "we'll respect the ground we're standing on. Same as here."

A small pause.

"And yes," she added dryly, "good fire is a convincing argument."

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda was quiet for a moment after Aren finished.
Not the guarded silence of a warrior deciding whether to strike, this was something softer. Reflective. His head angled slightly toward her, eyes catching the room's light, and when he finally spoke his voice was lower, steadier.


"If you come," he said, slow and deliberate, "bring Omen with you."
He gave a faint huff of amusement.
"I've got a few things in the Citadel he might appreciate. Old training halls. A forge wing that still runs on original magma flow. A firing gallery carved straight into the rock." His gaze flicked briefly toward the clone. "Places where noise doesn't bother anyone."


Then, more quietly:
"And my quarters are open. Both of you. If you ever need somewhere to sleep."
He rolled one shoulder, armor plates shifting with a muted scrape.
"I don't, much."
Not a joke.
"Trauma. Insomnia. Old instincts that never learned how to stand down. Bit of everything." A pause. "The Citadel doesn't mind. It keeps watch when I can't."


His head tilted slightly, as if something had just clicked into place.
"You know… my clan didn't start fearing me because I was brutal."
A soft exhale.
"They said it was the eyes."


The red of his eyes seemed to darken as he spoke.
"I was the only one born with them."
He leaned back a little, one gauntleted hand resting against his chest plate.
"The last Mandalorian in our history to have red eyes nearly drove our people to extinction. Old stories. Old warnings. So when mine showed up, they started looking at me like I was a prophecy instead of a child."


A quiet, humorless chuckle slipped out.
"Funny thing is… they were so afraid of it happening again that they made it happen."
His gaze lifted back to Aren, steady but unshielded.
"They tried to exile me. Watched me too closely. Treated me like a weapon that might go off on its own."


Another small breath.
"And eventually, that fear became reality."
He let the moment sit, then shook his head lightly, as if pushing the weight away.
"But here I am."


A faint, crooked smile touched his voice.
"So maybe purple hair scares people away. Maybe red eyes do too."
He inclined his head toward her in something that might have been respect.
"Doesn't matter. The ones who stay are the ones worth defending."


Then, softer:
"If you walk into the Iron Citadel, you won't be guests."
You'll be under my protection, the unspoken promise carried easily beneath the words.
"You'll be kin."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

"Unless someone shackles you first as I did her." Aren's hand felt comfortable in his, like it was where it was meant to be. The Clone did chuckle a little guiltily when she mentioned the Korda's eyes. Maybe he shouldn't have joked about that during their first meeting. Not his fault that they were so outspoken.

It didn't take long for Omen to notice that look in her eyes. He might as well warn Korda what he was getting into with her. "Aka, look forward to a week without power when she overpowers the main generator, trying to get everything in its system just how she likes it." It was a playful jab at her ability to overwork herself till the project was complete, just like her parents before her. But at least Korda knew that she wasn't the enemy.

At the mention of soft places, Omen grinned as he contested her line about soft places. "I don't know about that. I don't think you would be in my arms and holding my hands so much if they weren't soft." In reality, she probably just liked feeling the texture of his calloused hands more, not that she would ever say it out loud.

Omen didn't know he would appreciate all those things Korda's as much as the big warrior said. Being in a city devoid of life other than the clanging of metal was more Aren's thing, not his. He would much rather be watering his babies on the balcony. Either way, maybe it would be worth the visit just to see if any new weapons had come out that he didn't know about.

Raising an eyebrow, Omen couldn't help but smirk as the jokes came pouring in at Korda's offer. He eventually settled on "As much as I think you would look hot in just boxers, I think we might need to sleep in separate rooms. Aren gets jealous easily." It was his way of trying to keep the situation light, even when he was making that talk that Aren wanted to have longer and longer.

Apparently, Korda wanted it to go the other way, back into his past with his clan. His story wasn't unique. Hell, Anakin Skywalker could have been called nearly identical to his past readings. The Clone let him get it all out, his other free hand running up and down Aren's lower arm just for something to do. His crack about purple hair did make him let out a chuckle, though. "Trust me, she is scary enough all on her own." Oh ones, wasn't that true?

The twist in Omen's face showed that he wasn't entirely sold on the idea of Kinship. Guests meant you could keep a friendly distance from one another. Kin meant he would have to take responsibility for Korda's actions, which could be quite... aggressive... "How about we just stick with friends for now. As long as we still get floating castle privileges, I'll be fine with that title." Contenting himself to lean against his partner, Omen let the food settle in his stomach as he let Aren ask any questions she had about Korda. For now, he was happy just staying by her side like usual.

Korda Veydran Aren D'Shade

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda let out a low, rough chuckle at Omen's boxer comment, rolling one broad shoulder as if easing old tension from it.
"Last person who saw me in boxers was a forward post on Malachor's outer rim," he rumbled. "They kicked the door without announcing. Reflex took over."

He tapped his jaw once with two fingers.
"Caught 'em with a right hook before I even finished waking up. No hard feelings after. They learned to knock. I learned to lock doors."
His gaze drifted for a moment, unfocused, before he continued.

"I don't really sleep like normal people anymore. Armor stays on most nights." He gave a faint shrug. "Started after a few fire missions. Long deployments. Too many times waking up to alarms or incoming. Eventually your body decides it's safer to stay ready than to rest."
A pause.
"Habit stuck."

He glanced between Omen and Aren, then added quietly, "Even Rynar Solde hasn't seen me fully let my guard down. And he's blood to me, even if not by clan. He's seen me at my worst. Lowest points. Still stood beside me."
That earned another soft exhale through his nose.

"As for the drinking…" Korda lifted one of the whiskey bottles slightly, then set it back down untouched.
"I've slowed way down. Used to be bad. Five bottles of hard whiskey in two hours, easy. Especially after missions." His jaw tightened briefly. "That was before the Majestic Flame of Manda. Back when I was trying to drown ghosts instead of facing them."
He looked back at Omen, eyes steady but warmer now.


"So yeah, separate rooms is probably safer for everyone involved." A dry edge crept into his voice. "I don't snore, that I know of, but I do wake up ready to kill things."
Then, softer, almost rueful:
"And I'd rather not explain that to house guests."

A beat.

He inclined his head slightly toward Aren.
"I respect your boundaries. Both of you. Friends is good. Friends means I don't have to worry about dragging either of you into my mess."
Then a faint smirk.
"But floating castle privileges?"
Korda spread his hands.
"Those you've already earned."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not interrupt him.

She rarely did when someone was speaking from a place that was not performative, not posturing, not wrapped in bravado or carefully constructed deflection. She recognized the difference immediately. Korda's words were not meant to impress, intimidate, or protect his image. They carried too much history for that. They were shaped by long nights spent half-awake, by alarms and fire and frantic seconds that decided whether people lived or died, by losses that never quite learned how to fade, no matter how many years passed.

So she listened.

Arms loosely folded, weight resting on one hip, posture relaxed but attentive, she kept her eyes steady on him as he spoke. She did not rush him. She did not fill the pauses. She let him take the time he needed, because she understood that some stories could only be told slowly, in pieces, when the speaker felt safe enough to keep going.

When he finally fell quiet, the room itself seemed to exhale.

The subtle hum of EL working in the kitchen filtered in from the next room. Somewhere, glass clinked softly against glass. Outside, distant traffic and city noise drifted through the walls, reminding them that life was continuing beyond this small pocket of stillness.

Aren shifted slightly, uncrossing her arms and letting her hands rest at her sides, grounding herself in the moment before she spoke.

"Armor habits," she said quietly at last. "Hypervigilance. Fragmented sleep. Reflex conditioning."

Her voice was calm and precise, informed without being clinical. She was not diagnosing him. She recognized patterns she had seen before in soldiers, pilots, operatives, and survivors—people who had learned, through repetition and pain, that rest was dangerous, and vigilance was survival.

"They are not weaknesses," she continued, meeting his eyes without hesitation or apology. "They are systems that kept you alive when nothing else could."

There was no pity in her tone. No softening meant to make the truth easier to swallow. Only respect, offered plainly.

A brief pause followed, long enough for the words to settle.

"But they do not have to run everything forever."

She did not frame it as advice. She did not present it as something he ought to do.

It was simply a truth, offered without pressure.

When he mentioned separate rooms and safety, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly, the faintest curve of restrained amusement touching her expression.

"That is reasonable," she said evenly. "And appreciated."

Then, after a moment, when her gaze softened:

"For what it is worth, you do not come across as someone who drags people into chaos."

Her eyes flicked briefly to Omen, where he sat beside her, relaxed and attentive, one arm loosely draped along the back of her chair, before returning to Korda.

"You come across as someone who learned to carry it alone," she added quietly.

A beat.

"And who chooses very carefully who is allowed to see it."

Without thinking, her fingers slid into Omen's, threading with his in an unconscious gesture of grounding. She squeezed once, lightly, then let go, her attention returning fully to their guest.

"Friends are fine," Aren said, her voice steady and unambiguous. "Friends mean mutual respect. Honesty. No assumptions about loyalty or obligation."

She tilted her head slightly, just enough to emphasize the next words.

"And it means that if we ever come to the Iron Citadel, it will be because we chose to," she continued. "Not because we were pulled into it. Not because someone decided for us."

That distinction mattered to her.

At the mention of floating castle privileges, a hint of dry humor surfaced in her expression.

"We will try not to abuse them," she said. "Probably."

Then her tone sobered again, returning to quiet sincerity.

"Thank you," Aren continued. "For the invitation. For the boundaries. For being direct."

Her eyes held his, steady and unguarded.

"I value that."

Silence settled over them once more, but this time it was comfortable, unstrained, the kind that did not demand to be filled.

After a moment, she added, almost casually, as though offering information rather than intervention:

"And if you ever decide you want to learn how to sleep without armor," she said, "I know people who specialize in retraining nervous systems after prolonged combat exposure."

No pressure. No expectation. Just an unlocked door, left where he could find it if he ever wanted to.

She leaned back then, settling into Omen's side with practiced ease, her shoulder brushing his, her posture relaxed and certain. It was a familiar position, one that spoke of trust and belonging without needing to announce it.

"For now," Aren said quietly, "this works."

Friends. Boundaries. Warm food on the table. Low voices instead of alarms. Laughter instead of incoming fire. No one pretending to be anything other than what they were. It was, by her standards, a very good evening. And in her own quiet, deliberate way, she intended to protect it.
Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the tension in his broad shoulders ease for the first time since he'd arrived. He gave a half-smile, the kind that didn't quite reach the edges of his eyes but softened his usually intimidating features.


"First off," he said, his voice rough but amused, "thank you for the… uh… sleep-without-armor offer. I'll keep that in mind. If I ever decide I want someone to retrain me after decades of sleeping like a tank, you'll be the first I call. I'll bring whiskey. Or maybe a blaster, depending on how rough the sessions get." He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "No pressure now, though. It's nice knowing the door's open, figuratively and literally."


He glanced at the table, nodding appreciatively at the dishes Aren and EL had prepared. "And this," he said, gesturing with one massive hand, "was actually really good. I mean… really good. I'd say I'd pay credits for seconds, but I already stole a few bites off Omen's plate when he wasn't looking. That counts, right?"


Then, leaning forward slightly, he tapped the side of the table, and lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret. "I'm asking for a friend, obviously. Totally not for me." He cleared his throat, trying to appear innocent, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. "Do you happen to know any good way to… acquire a droid? Reliable. Doesn't chew on furniture. Doesn't shoot first and ask questions later. Preferably won't try to kill the owner in its first week." He gave a small shrug and a jokingly exasperated shake of his head.


"And before you ask," he added, leaning back and crossing his arms, "I've already tried 'just build one yourself.' Turns out I'm better at blowing things up than programming them. Who knew?" He chuckled lowly, letting the joke settle into the space between them. "So yeah… a friend of mine is looking. Not me. Definitely not me."


He glanced at Omen with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk. "Though if this friend does show up… I promise I won't let it beat me at bolo ball. Maybe."
Korda's tone was teasing, but his question was genuine, his body language open enough that Aren could tell he wasn't posturing, he genuinely wanted advice, but he couldn't resist cracking a few jokes along the way.

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen let the two take over the conversation for the most part, focusing on eating his meal. It's funny... he thought he had gotten a bigger portion, but he guessed not. He knew the way that the big man felt. Omen sometimes woke Aren with his nightmare,s so she probably would know more about the feeling than she let on. It was probably the same for Korda. "I get that feeling... It's easy to just break down." Guess holding the warrior up would be harder than he thought.

The Clone could guess why Korda was being honest. He didn't have much to lose. And being vunerable was the only way to make friends. Aren's line about chosing to visit did make him let a chuckle out. "Or because she wants to pull everything apart to steal tech secrets. But yes, we would both love to go." The "probably" led him to eyeroll hard. It would be hard to keep Aren's hands off anything automatated. Guess that would be his job during this vacation.

Giving a nod and smile as Aren spoke that she appreciated his actions, Omen made it clear that he felt the same way. But then her offer came to the table, making Omen turn in disbelief. Why hadn't he heard of these spealists before? Guess Aren never would tell him all she knew. It was one small tradeoff for loving the best tech girl in the world.

With his arm around her, The Clone raised an eyebrow when Korda said that his friend wanted to make a droid, just gesturing to the tech that probably still had some sort of fluid from her work still on her body. If anyone could make him a droid he liked, it was her. He narrowed his eyes at the BoloBall joke though, rasing a angry fist in his mind as he swore he wouldn't lose again.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren listened with the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes as Korda spoke, allowing him to finish without interrupting, even when the jokes began stacking on top of one another in that familiar way people used when they were trying to keep something genuine from feeling too exposed. She noticed the way his shoulders eased as he leaned back, the way his posture shifted from guarded to merely large and at ease, and she filed that detail away without comment. It mattered more than he probably realized.

When he was done, she exhaled softly through her nose, something very close to a quiet laugh, and folded her arms loosely, not as a barrier but as a comfortable resting position.

"For the record," she said calmly, "any retraining process that requires either whiskey or a blaster has already gone far beyond what I would consider a healthy learning environment. If it comes to that, something has gone very wrong."

There was dry humor in her voice, understated but deliberate.

"But," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "I meant what I said. The door stays open. There are no timelines, no expectations, and no pressure to act on it. Knowing that the option exists is often enough for people who have spent most of their lives without options."

Her gaze shifted briefly to the table, to the emptying plates and subtle signs that the meal had been thoroughly enjoyed, before returning to him.

"And you are welcome for the food," she added. "Although I am fairly certain that stealing from Omen's plate means you have already accepted whatever consequences come with that decision."

She glanced sideways at Omen, one brow lifting slightly.

"Bold choice."

When Korda lowered his voice and leaned forward, she mirrored the movement just enough to show she was listening, her attention fully focused as he framed his request in layers of joking denial and plausible excuses. By the time he finished, the corner of her mouth had curved into something knowing, not indulgent and not dismissive, simply aware.

"A droid," she repeated evenly. "Reliable, non-lethal by default, respectful of furniture, and unlikely to develop violent tendencies toward its owner."

She paused for a moment, eyes unfocused as her thoughts shifted into a different, more technical rhythm.

"Yes," she said at last. "That is entirely achievable."

Her tone carried the quiet certainty of someone who had solved far more complicated problems than this.

"You would not want to go through surplus military channels," she continued. "Those units are designed with escalation built into their core logic. Even the polite ones. What you want is a civilian-based intelligence framework with reinforced safety protocols, adaptive learning filters, and a behavioral governor that prioritizes de-escalation, cooperation, and long-term stability."

She glanced briefly at Omen, then back to Korda.

"And no," she added dryly, "building one yourself is not the solution, especially not if your instincts tend toward solving problems by hitting them until they stop sparking."

She let that settle before continuing.

"If your friend is willing to wait a little," she said carefully, "there are independent fabricators who produce high-quality companion and utility units designed specifically for long-term coexistence. No kill protocols. No loyalty chains. No hidden directives. Just consistent performance and adaptability."

Her gaze sharpened slightly, not cold, simply focused.

"However," she added after a brief pause, "that is not your only option."

She shifted in her seat, turning a little more fully toward him.

"I can build one for you."

The words were simple, spoken without fanfare, as though she were offering to fix a faulty panel or recalibrate a nav system.

"If I do it myself," Aren continued, "I can tailor the core architecture to your environment, your routines, and your temperament. I can design the personality matrix to be stable, flexible, and non-confrontational. I can hard-code safety layers that cannot be overwritten by accident or frustration. And I can make sure it understands the difference between a real threat and a bad dream at three in the morning."

Her voice softened slightly on the last part.

"It would not just function," she said. "It would fit."

At the bolo ball comment, her eyes shifted toward Omen again, a faint glimmer of amusement there.

"I will make no guarantees about competitive balance," she said calmly. "If it learns quickly, that responsibility will belong to you."

She leaned back then, settling more comfortably into her chair, her posture relaxed and unguarded.

"And for what it is worth," Aren added more quietly, "you do not sound like someone who does not know how to ask for help."

Her eyes held his steadily.

"You simply prefer to approach it from the side, with humor and distance, instead of directly."

A brief pause followed, comfortable rather than heavy.

"If your friend decides to move forward," she concluded, "tell him to let me know. We will take it one step at a time and build something that actually works for him."

No pressure. No obligation. Just another door left open.

Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's datapad beeped right as Omen finished speaking. a compact little unit, older and battered but still reliable. He lifted it, half expecting another work ping or fight prep notice.


Instead, a message from Keira Voss greeted him.
Not a blaster alert.
Not a mission directive.
Just a friend, the closest thing he had to a sister.

A low chuckle escaped him, more relaxed than it had been earlier in the meal. He slid the datapad toward Omen and Aren, showing the notification briefly. "That's my little sis," he said, voice quieter, almost fond. "Always calls when she's gotten herself into something… less than advisable."
He tapped out a quick reply without hesitation, then put the datapad away.


"I told her to message Rynar if she needed a pickup," Korda explained, eyes softening a fraction. "She's had a bit too much to drink at some guy's place... apparently thought his holiday lights needed reorganizing."
His smirk was warm, a rare thing.
"She should've just called you, clone. You seem good at that whole 'keep lights orderly' thing."

He leaned back slightly, tone drifting toward reflection.
"Keira's been with me since before most of this," he said quietly. "She fought beside me, bled beside me, not because she had to, but because she chose to. She's one of the few people I'll walk into fire for without hesitation. And she's got no illusions about what I've done… or who I've been."


He let that hang in the air a moment, not dramatic, not exaggerated, just real.
"But she's alive. Still wisecracking. Still dangerous when she's had two too many. And she's someone I'd trust with my back, my gear... and maybe even my secrets."

He looked between them, gaze steady.
"Just thought you should know," Korda added, brow lifting in that quiet half‑smile that said 'I don't say this often.'
"She's the kind of person worth calling family."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Korda's sideways approach to getting a droid definitely wasn't what he would have done. Then again, he also knew Aren and her work pretty well which the Mando Destoryer did not. It was probably was also tearing Korda apart that he had to get something made for a purpose that he could not do himself. Then again, maybe Omen was overthinking this thing all together. Who knows, Korda might like a female caretaker with a sweet voice roaming around his massive castle.

Omen face soured when he heard the word "clone" ekk out of one of Korda's sentences. Hell, the Destoryer made it sound like he was just another maid for Aren. Maybe he was... "I'll start on the dishes..." Pushing back his chair and moving to the sink, he only half-listened as Korda went on and on abou his sister. It was almost like he was gloating even though the former ARC knew Korda was just thinking he was stating the obvious. He just wished it didn't hit so hard that he was battling dishwashing duties with a droid rather than in the field.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't notice it right away.
He was still halfway through explaining his sister's latest project, hands moving as he spoke, posture relaxed in that broad, grounded way of his. It wasn't until Omen pushed his chair back that Korda's gaze finally followed him across the room.


The scrape of metal legs against stone carried farther than it should have.
Korda watched Omen head for the sink, shoulders set a little tighter than before. There was something in the way he moved, controlled, quiet, the same way soldiers did when they didn't want anyone to notice they were bothered.


His brow furrowed
"…Did I say something?"


He cut himself off mid-thought. For a moment, he just stood there, replaying his own words in his head. Clone. He'd said clone.
Kriff.
Korda exhaled slowly through his nose.


He rose from his seat, the chair giving a soft protest under his weight, and followed Omen into the kitchenette. The Mandalorian destroyer moved with surprising care for someone his size, boots thudding softly against the floor.


Omen already had his hands in the sink, water running, plates stacked beside him. He was working on autopilot, efficient, practiced. The kind of motions that came from years of doing whatever needed doing without complaint.


Korda leaned one hip against the counter beside him.
"I'm gonna help," he said simply, already rolling up one gauntlet and setting it aside so he could use his bare hand. He grabbed a towel, then hesitated, glancing sideways at Omen.


"…And I'm guessing that look on your face had something to do with me."
He cleared his throat.
"Back there. When I said clone."


Korda scratched at the stubble along his jaw, eyes dropping briefly to the counter before lifting again.
"I wasn't thinking," he admitted. "Didn't mean it like that."
He shifted his weight, visibly uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with armor or weapons.


"I don't see you as Aren's assistant. Or some extra pair of hands. Or whatever stupid thing that probably sounded like."
He took a plate from the stack and started rinsing it, movements slower than Omen's, but deliberate.
"You're her partner. You watch her six. You've bled for people. That counts where I come from."


A beat.
Then, because silence made him itch, Korda added dryly, "Also, if you were just here to do dishes, I wouldn't bother offering you a tour of a fortress or inviting you into my home."


He glanced over again, one corner of his mouth twitching.
"And for the record? If anyone's gonna be the castle maid, it's me. Place is massive. I lose rooms in there."


He huffed a quiet chuckle and nudged Omen lightly with his elbow.
"So," Korda continued, softer now. "Tell me what I said wrong, vod. I'd rather own it than pretend I didn't step on something."
He handed Omen a rinsed plate.
"And if it helps, I'm real bad at feelings but pretty good at apologies."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen