Private Blood and Steel, Etched and Forgotten.

[Darth Virelia]

"Wars are not won by soldiers, but by those who command them. I have no desire to die on a battlefield—I will shape one. And when the galaxy drowns in fire and steel, it will not be for freedom, justice, or vengeance… but because I willed it so."

Tag - War Marshal Helix



Serina moved like a serpent through the ancient arteries of the factory, her halberd gliding in her grip like an extension of her will, humming softly with anticipation as if it, too, hungered for revelation. The deeper they descended, the more the air changed—drier, stiller, heavy with disuse and the weight of forgotten ambition. The walls closed in, not physically, but metaphysically. The dead here were not spirits, but ideas—half-born, choked in the womb of war, chiseled into the bones of the Confederacy by time and sand.

And Serina breathed it in like perfume.

Helix's words flowed behind her like smoke, and though she didn't slow her pace, her attention never wavered. He spoke with precision, the cool detachment of a being unburdened by flesh, and yet there was a strange elegance to it. A sculptor's care for the meat he melted. An artist who carved his legacy in broken men and stolen voices. She admired it. Not for sentiment—but for style.

"Oh, Helix," she murmured as she moved, voice dipping low and sultry, the verbal equivalent of fingertips gliding across exposed nerves. "You're quite the philosopher of entropy. You don't harvest souls—you violate them. You don't conquer enemies—you dismantle them. It's almost enchanting, the way you reduce them to data and decay. The purity of it. The absence of guilt. There's a certain... savage beauty in that."

She looked back over her shoulder at him, her expression half-lidded, smirk curling like incense. "I suppose it's no surprise that I find it terribly alluring."

Then, she turned forward again, letting the flirtation drip like honey off her tongue and vanish into the cold.

"But you're right, of course. This place is not haunted by ghosts. Only by failures. Bad decisions, bloated egos, half-measured plans. If the Confederacy had a soul, it was made of spreadsheets and signatures. And that," she added with a laugh that echoed off the walls, "is why they fell."

They reached a sealed bulkhead—rusted, but more intact than the rest. A massive vault-like construct, its door shaped like a hexagonal iris locked shut. Serina's smile sharpened.

"There you are," she breathed, stepping closer, her boots scraping gently against the old floor. Her fingers slid along the control panel, long-dead and unpowered. No matter. She turned to Helix, eyes gleaming with calculated delight. "Would you be a dear and whisper sweet nothings to the door for me?"

As he approached to do so, she stepped back and let her gaze drift over the engraved steel, her expression momentarily distant. This was the heart. Where the schematics, the prototypes, the vision had been hidden when the end came. Not in the surface archives—those were for misdirection, for fools. This was where the designers had stashed what they feared the Republic would take. What they feared their own commanders would misuse. What they had dreamed might one day rise again when the galaxy was finally ready.

She exhaled slowly, letting the anticipation wind around her like silk. "You asked me once what I would do with my army, Helix," she said softly. "The real answer is this: I will build it, perfect it, unleash it—not out of some desperate need for control, but because it is beautiful. Because no one else will. Because it is mine." Her voice dropped into a reverent hush. "Not for justice. Not for order. Just for me. The artistry of dominion. The elegance of inevitability. The sheer, exquisite pleasure of watching the galaxy submit."

The door shuddered.

A groaning shriek of ancient servos rumbled through the corridor as Helix worked his will upon the mechanisms. Dust burst from the seams like expelled breath. One by one, the iris petals peeled open, revealing the chamber beyond.

Serina stepped forward slowly, Ebon Requiem raised just slightly, the faint glow of its etchings casting elongated shadows. The vault was enormous—a cathedral of silence and steel. Rows of long-dormant fabrication pods lined the walls, most of them inert… but not all. Faint lights flickered deep within a few, weak but steady. Holographic schematics hovered like frozen ghosts above darkened workstations. A central table displayed an interface that still pulsed with low power—shielded, somehow, from decay.

She strode to it with a calm reverence, her fingers activating the interface with practiced ease. The screen blinked, then solidified.

Prototype Class Designation: SRV-17 — Adaptive Tactical Enforcer.

Serina stared, then smiled slowly, the expression blooming across her face like a flower opening to feed on sunlight. "This… this is it."

A modular droid platform. Tactical adaptation. Distributed neural link. Autonomous, but obedient. Sleek. Lethal. Hers.

She glanced at Helix, her voice little more than a purr. "Tell me… can you see it? The end of the old world? This is where it dies, Helix. Buried here, in the bones of their hubris. And we—" she laid her hand flat on the schematics, possessive, reverent, lustful "—we are going to build a new one."

She turned to face him fully now, standing in the soft, flickering light of ancient ambition reborn. The glow from the halberd played across her features, a reflection of the storm behind her eyes.

"And the best part?" she whispered. "No one will even see it coming."

She extended her hand toward the nearest live pod and grinned like a dark goddess preparing her altar.

"Let's wake it up."

 

[War Marshal Helix]

One of Helix's bladed fingers ran itself across the door idly, shaving off a piece of reinforced metal as though it were soft plastic. As if wounded, the long-dead mechanism sprang to life, surrendering at last the secret that they had come all this way for.

Designation SRV-17. He knew nothing of this project, but that wasn't surprising. The CIS did love their exotic wonder weapons, a love he had inherited. He was responsible for loosing many terrible things upon the galaxy, and so knew a monster when he saw one. He didn't hesitate, doing as he was asked and interfacing with the pods.

"Not a moment too soon." He responded as he invaded the machine's dormant consciousness. Nanites surged across delicate internal systems, repairing those ravaged by time. With a whir, the system slowly lurched to life again, taking its first unsteady steps in many centuries.

"The rot runs deep. I had underestimated its severity when I first set this task upon myself. It is as you said. We do not require compatible ideologies, if the end goal is the same. Evolve or die. The universe's only true, encoded law. Evolution only comes through pain." The droid's voice distorted briefly as he disconnected himself. The system lived on its own now, restored, at least mostly, to functionality. "Through destruction, change. Through change, survival." He stepped back to observe. "I think the old order has lived quite long enough already. I still harbor my doubts that you can topple it, but as ever, I am open to being proven wrong."

The room was filled now with the quiet hum of ancient machinery, dragged from its slumber and forced into servitude once again. The irony didn't escape Helix. He had woken something that maybe should have been left to rot in the trashbin of history.

"Maybe I am more of a philosopher than I am comfortable admitting." He said quietly, thinking on Darth Virelia ' earlier observation. "One of the more onerous burdens of thought. I would rather use it as a sword rather than a shield, however. In that regard, we are exactly alike, set apart from the rest of the Order. If you would use your new mechanical terrors for domination, then do so, and make no apologies. That is, in my analysis, your greatest advantage over those you would topple. You are a great many things, but no liar or moral coward. Not many in the Order, Alliance, or otherwise can say the same."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Wars are not won by soldiers, but by those who command them. I have no desire to die on a battlefield—I will shape one. And when the galaxy drowns in fire and steel, it will not be for freedom, justice, or vengeance… but because I willed it so."

Tag - War Marshal Helix



The vault sang with power now. Faint at first—whispers, breath, the gentle tremble of a heart long thought dead. Then, stronger. The pulsing thrum of capacitors waking from centuries of slumber, the hiss of airpress lines cycling through resurrection, the soft, eerie click of servos testing ancient joints.

Serina stood in the center of it all, her silhouette etched in the pale blue light of dormant machines stirring to life. She looked divine—less woman than icon, cast in shadow and firelight, her halberd Ebon Requiem resting against her shoulder like a scepter of fate. One gloved hand trailed down the edge of a reawakening pod as though caressing a sleeping lover.

She felt it, that slow birth of motion in the dark. It was not mechanical. It was not sterile. It was a stirring of purpose, of potential. The room didn't come alive because it was restored—it came alive because she was here.

And Helix—faithless, monstrous, invaluable Helix—had done as she asked. No hesitation. No moral handwringing. Just results. Beautiful, cold, efficient results.

She turned toward him as he finished, her expression touched by something rare—genuine satisfaction. Her voice was velvet and razors as she spoke.

"You see, darling?" she purred, stepping closer. "You are a philosopher. A killer, yes. A sculptor of extinction. But your words cut nearly as deep as your blades. And that, I think, is why I find you so impossibly compelling." She circled him now, slow, deliberate, her fingers trailing just a breath's width away from the glimmering edges of his form. "I've always had a weakness for creatures like you. Elegant monsters. Unrepentant minds. The kind of men who set fire to the world and call it poetry."

She stopped just behind him, her voice a warm breath against the coldness of his metallic frame. "You call it an onerous burden—thought. I call it setup."

A beat passed. Then another. She stepped around him again, this time with less indulgence, more purpose, her tone sharpening as she approached the central pod.

"You've done well. Better than I had hoped. I didn't bring you here to agree with me—I brought you because I knew you would see it. That you'd recognize what this moment is." She gestured broadly to the room. "This isn't just a weapon depot. This is the beginning of a machine cult. Not in robes and prayers, but in obedience and steel. I will not merely use these constructs. I will imprint upon them. They will be mine in ways no Sith Lord ever truly owns their pawns. Thoughtful enough to act. Loyal enough to never question. Unstoppable enough to matter."

The pod hissed open.

A shape began to rise—sleek, angular, humanoid but exaggerated. The droid's plating was blackened phrik, its limbs reinforced with adaptable muscle bundles layered beneath armor segments. Its head bore no face, only a single vertical photoreceptor that pulsed dimly like a heartbeat. The SRV-17 model was a marvel—combat elegance distilled into a bipedal form. It stood nearly two meters tall, unmoving for a moment as though unsure whether it was alive… or dreaming.

Then it turned, and knelt before Serina without a word.

She approached it, hand outstretched, gently placing her fingers beneath its chin and lifting its head. "You are mine," she whispered. "You were made in a world that didn't deserve you. But you've found your purpose now. You were meant for this. For me."

The droid did not speak. It didn't need to.

Behind her, more pods began to shimmer with activity—some faint, others stronger. Slowly, steadily, a line of lights came online along the walls of the chamber. A pattern of reactivation.

She turned to Helix, her smirk wicked and alight with victory. "Now the real work begins."

She strode to the console, inputting new commands with fluid familiarity. "We'll have to catalog each functional pod, verify schematics, strip out any CIS-aligned security protocols. I want them wiped clean. Blank slates. We'll keep their adaptability, but nothing that allows for resistance. And if we find anything… curious left behind in their code," she said, with a glance toward Helix, "you'll let me know."

Already, she was making plans. A new foundry. Underground. Hidden. A manufacturing complex tailored to these models. No mass production yet—but enough for field testing. For tasting war. Not open war, not yet. But small things. Raids. Assassinations. Disruptions. The galaxy wouldn't even know what had begun until the machine was too large to stop.

Her voice took on that reverent tone again, low and sultry, the whisper of temptation and prophecy.

"This is the moment, Helix. Right here. We won't look back on the death throes of the Confederacy or the self-indulgent corpse of the Sith Empire. We'll look back here, in this room. The day the new order took its first breath. Not because we demanded it. Not because we begged. But because we built it."

She stepped forward again, her tone shifting once more into something intimate, dark, and utterly certain.

"Stay with me, and I will give you the future. Not a throne. Not worship. Just purpose. Shared. In blood and steel and whispered names in the dark."

She paused, close enough now that her words curled against his frame like smoke.

"You give me your mind, Helix, and I'll show you what it means to reshape the galaxy."

Then she turned back toward the console, the smile lingering on her lips as more pods began to open—slowly, steadily, inevitably.

The gods of the old galaxy were dead.

Serina Calis had just begun to build her own.

 

[War Marshal Helix]

"I'm not in the business of doing poorly." He responded. "Delving into a ruin is not among the more difficult things I have had to do. I have no doubt there will be greater trials in my future." He stared somewhat distastefully at the machines as they emerged from their pods. By his standards, they were long obsolete. Of course, any ancient machine could still kill.

He stepped forward, and his form shimmered, then dispersed. A whirring cloud of silvery dust, propelling itself through the air. This was the reality of the compound intelligence that called itself "Helix", when it no longer shackled itself to a bipedal frame. Strands of the cloud seeped themselves into the kneeling machines, examining, dissecting, learning. Others tore chunks of stone from the walls, breaking them down and reassembling their structure into yet more self-replicating probes.

His mind stretched across each molecule of metal, silicon and wire. He didn't much like examining machines at this level. It was a reminder that their consciousness, such as it was, was illusory. All just conducted electricity and physics. Not that Serina would care. Mute slavery was all she desired. Helix allowed himself to feel a tinge of bitterness about that.

There was little that would prove dangerous and disruptive within them, save for programmed allegiance to long-dead masters. That didn't take a great deal of effort to change. Briefly, he entertained the idea of implanting hidden directives, in case he should suffer a... falling out with the ambitious young woman. Time had taught him that trust was a luxury, one that would likely remain always beyond his grasp.

He soon dismissed the thought. Time enough for that later.

The cloud suddenly vibrated all at once, producing a low chattering buzz. A sound of amusement, perhaps. There was a certain inhumanly cruel tone to it, one that transcended all boundaries of communication. The entity's sheer, timeless malice filled the room in that moment, and the very stone and dusty shadows of that place seemed to quiver.

"What kind of future would that be, I wonder?" Came the response as the cloud rapidly solidified back into a bipedal shape. "I have purpose already. Thinking beings have the luxury of forging that for themselves. Offer purpose instead to them." He gestured at the still-kneeling machines. "For they cannot exist without it."

"I have the power to reshape the galaxy already, too. What I suppose I lack is the desire. My desires are more... personal. Understanding. Enlightenment. Exploration. Experimentation. Experience." A rare flicker of honesty from Helix. "Those wretches earlier offered some, however briefly. Reading the shudders of his fading neurons in those last moments. A sight unseen by any other. I find myself hungering for these sights, however small. I wish only to see if you can succeed."

Helix gave the droids another glance. "Do take care of your new toys. They have languished long in this tomb. I could feel their sorrow, their sense of abandonment. Something you can remove when they go into full production, of course. But in the end, they are machines, and not doing as they are made to is unpleasant for them. In that way, droids are much more like organics than either is comfortable admitting. They are battle droids. Failing to do battle is like you failing to eat or drink."

"A sentimental thought, perhaps, but droids do have a habit of growing beyond their limitations. The CIS likely did not design B1s to experience fear or pain, but I have repeatedly noted that they did feel these things. Surviving examples continue to."

He was quiet for a long, long moment. "I wish only to see if you can succeed." He repeated. "So far, I estimate a high probability that you will. I believe the galaxy deserves you, Darth Virelia . Time will tell if you deserve the galaxy. You certainly cannot be a worse steward than those it already has."

He gave a nod, one heavy with finality, and his metallic faceplate formed a small fissure. Gradually, it split into a hideous approximation of a smile, complete with fine needle teeth. The apparition was smiling at her. "Fine. Let's go carve you a throne."

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Wars are not won by soldiers, but by those who command them. I have no desire to die on a battlefield—I will shape one. And when the galaxy drowns in fire and steel, it will not be for freedom, justice, or vengeance… but because I willed it so."

Tag - War Marshal Helix



Serina watched as Helix dissolved into dust and purpose, each glittering filament of his nanite swarm moving with a grace that was almost spiritual in its precision. She didn't interrupt. Didn't speak. She simply watched the way he peeled back the layers of reality itself—how he dissected the SRV-17s like a surgeon who no longer saw anatomy, only design. She envied it, a little. That purity of dispassion. The way he could strip something down to its essence and leave behind nothing but raw, trembling truth.

When he spoke—when that low, skittering chitter filled the vault like the whisper of a tomb breathing—it sent a ripple across her skin. Not fear. No. Nothing as mundane as that. But recognition. He was not alive, not in the way organics were, but he understood life. Understood her. And she understood him. That alone made him dangerous. Irreplaceable.

When he reformed—fluid turning back to blade, dust to predator—Serina turned toward him fully. The glow from the awakened pods haloed her in violet and shadow, their faint pulsing light casting her features in sharp relief: the high cheekbones, the serpentine smile, the eyes that shimmered like a promise half-whispered in the dark.

She took a slow step toward him, and then another, halberd still in hand, now lowered to her side like a staff of office. She wasn't tense. She wasn't armed.

She was inviting.

"I never asked you to follow me," she said, voice as soft as silk drawn over bare skin. "And I never expected your loyalty. What you've given me is worth far more than that."

She stopped just short of him, her eyes lifting to meet the fractured, terrible smile etched into his faceplate.

"You've given me your honesty."

Her voice was calm, reverent, dangerous. A whisper forged in steel.

"And that is rarer than any technology. Rarer than trust. Even among the Sith. Especially among the Sith."

She let the moment hang between them for a breath, two. Then her voice shifted—cooler now, more precise, like a scalpel pressed to flesh. "You say I should offer purpose to them." She glanced to the kneeling droids. "And I will. Not because I believe they deserve it, but because I require it. If they suffer in silence, they will suffer for me. If they think at all, they will think in my language."

She looked back at him, something flickering in her gaze—intellect sharpened by ambition. "And you… you may already have all the power you need, but power without direction is just heat without a flame. I am not here to take it from you. I am here to offer you a furnace. Something worthy of your brilliance."

She smiled now, slow and knowing, her tone slipping into that luxuriously corrupt murmur that always wrapped like silk but cut like glass. "You want to see if I succeed? Then don't blink, darling. I won't stop. I don't stop. I will tear the bones of this galaxy apart with precision and patience. I will crawl into its mind and make it dream of me. And you—you'll have a front-row seat to every scream, every surrender, every empire that forgets it was built on borrowed time."

She reached out—not to threaten, not to control—but to touch. Her fingers found the edge of his metallic chestplate, a feather-light contact, utterly fearless. "You are not a weapon to me, Helix. You are not a tool. You are something far more precious." Her thumb traced a lazy circle across the polished phrik of his surface. "You are interesting. And if the galaxy has one unforgivable sin... it's boredom."

She withdrew her hand slowly, deliberately, her smirk returning, but this time with warmth under the ice. Respect. Recognition.

"So, come then," she said, turning toward the deeper corridors that would lead them out. The awakened SRV-17s fell into step behind her, like wolves behind their queen. "Let's go carve that throne. Brick by brick. Bone by bone."

She didn't look back as she walked, but her voice echoed, deep and reverent:

"And when it's built, Helix, you'll never need ask if I deserve the galaxy."

A pause. Her final promise, heavy and holy.

"It will finally deserve me."

The vault doors sealed behind them.
And the future began.