Private Excursion: Kamino

[Serina Calis]

"Try not to fight over me, thanks."

Tag - Rae Cooke , Lyssa Clauda , Kali'ka



The drop ship shook as it entered Kamino's upper atmosphere—though shook was generous. It was more like a soundless shudder, a ripple across the hull felt more through instinct than motion. The clouds were a crushing grey wall, thunder-veined and endless, stretched in roiling tiers across a world that had not known sunlight in millennia. Lightning lanced across the blackened sky like nerves twitching in the corpse of a god.

And Serina Calis stood at the edge of it, waiting.

She did not move. Not as the vessel adjusted trajectory. Not as the engines dimmed into their whisper-quiet descent configuration. Not even as the temperature inside dropped to match the freezing ocean waiting below.

Her breathing was a metronome, slow and silent within the helmet of the Revenant-Class Adaptive Stealth Suit. All external light had long since vanished—the interior lights disabled, HUD set to thermal-occlusion and sonar-based navigation. Every movement of the suit was tracked not by visual overlay but by sensation alone, translated through the gel-layer's neuro-filaments directly into her spine, her nerves, her will. It was not armor. It was a second skin. A purpose worn like a secret.

She could hear them behind her—the others.

Quiet.

Efficient.

Predators, like herself, shaped by black doctrine and sharpened by necessity. She didn't look. Didn't need to. The silence that hung around them was not from uncertainty—it was from discipline. The kind that no longer questioned whether they would survive, only whether they would complete the objective.

Only whether they could serve Serina.

She liked it that way.

Lightning lit the cockpit one last time as the pilot gave a brief signal. Nonverbal. Coded. They were here.

Below them: the shattered skeleton of Tipoca City, once the heart of Kaminoan bio-genetic supremacy, now a drowned cathedral of forgotten ambition. The great spires were bent inward like dying fingers, their skin peeled back by Clone War bombardment and centuries of corrosive rainfall. The ocean had consumed it. But not erased it.

And somewhere in the dead bones of that place, beneath collapsed birthing chambers and flooded datavaults, lay the Cloning Template Synchronizer.

A device Serina had no intention of leaving to chance, to scavengers, to time—or to Sith interference.

"You're not just building an army," Garreth had said. "You're building a power base."

No.

She was building a lineage.

The thought flared in her like cold fire, and her gloved fingers flexed once as if sculpting something out of the dark. Not merely soldiers. Not pawns. Not even tools.

Herself.

She had spent years cultivating ideology. Power. Beauty. Fear. Every piece of her had been distilled, refined, forged into a force capable of outmaneuvering the Empire's endless bureaucracy and devouring the Force's false dichotomies. And now—finally—she would preserve it. Replicate it. Not just in data, or disciples, but in flesh.

A clone of Serina Calis. Perfected. Trained. Crafted from her DNA but evolved, honed, amplified. More than a shadow. A successor without dilution.

Not yet. But soon.

If this mission succeeded.

"You want a species, not a uniform."

And she would have it.

The drop ship banked, cutting into a wind channel just above the water. The sound was gone. No engines. No hum. Just the scream of the Kaminoan storm outside, muffled to a distant pressure by the reinforced hull. The insertion point was near—a half-submerged corridor shaft that once linked the cloning archives to the behavioral conditioning halls. It now jutted from the ocean at a ragged angle, barely visible, like a broken limb trying to claw its way back to the surface.

Perfect.

Serina activated her HUD with a mental impulse—rebreather nominal, magnetic sole calibration green, internal pressure locks engaged—and stepped forward into the drop bay. The ramp hissed open without light or sound, revealing the cold abyss.

Rain hammered the outer hull, whipping sideways like knives. The ocean below was ink-black, alive with current and static charge. But Serina did not see weather. She saw a test.

And she would not be found wanting.

She turned slightly—just enough to acknowledge the presence of those behind her.

A nod.

"Are we all ready to go?"

Tipoca City waited below, like a corpse guarding its secrets.

But Serina Calis was not here to plunder the dead.

She was here to resurrect something far worse. This time, she would not share it with anyone.

Not the Assembly.

Not the Dark Council.

Not the Emperor.

Not even the stars.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Tag - Serina Calis , Rae Cooke , Kali'ka

When the ship shook, Lyssa shook with it, the magnetised boots of her suit anchored tightly onto the metal of the vehicle below them. She knew the sensation well, found it comforting even, after all, she had done this a hundred times before with the magnets in the soles of her own feet. The ship swayed and Lyssa swayed with it, feeling every little movement, every raindrop that fell upon the hull and wings. It was almost as if she was a part of the ship herself - just another part of the machine, another cog in the clock that ticked in time to her mistress's tune.

And that suited her just fine.

Arms crossed over herself, standing barely a breath away from her master, Lyssa was completely silent. Her tattooed face was hidden behind the mask of the suit her mistress had given her, her emotions concealed behind the layers of synthetic mesh and nano weave. Slightly bulkier at the legs, Lyssa had modified her suit to be compatible with her mechanical appendages. It had been a difficult task, but was well worth the effort, in the end. As had been stripping her legs of their secret compartments - the extra weight would not be missed when she went underwater. Her vibroblades were a small price to pay for being able to keep up with her master.

And keep up with them.

The two others. The women who followed her mistress. Who dared to call themselves apprentices of the goddess that she worshipped.

Beneath her mask, Lyssa seethed.

It was not in her nature to share. Had that not been proven again and again, a thousand times over? Bitter hatred swirled in her heart, sharpened and directed at the two women on either side of her. The unworthy, ungrateful creatures who thought they could take her place. She would be damned if they did.

Lyssa was no fool. She knew why her master had summoned these two, why she did not grant her favour to just one acolyte alone. To have many apprentices invited chaos, not harmony, and it was the way of the dark side that sith should fight to prove themselves worthy. Her mistress had surely called them together for a bloodbath, a fight to the death for her tutelage. If it was blood she craved, then blood she would have. Lyssa would willingly slaughter them both if her master gave her the chance.

But first, the mission.

The cyborg forced herself to focus on the underwater city as they approached it. Years ago, her father had told her of how the ancient Jedi had fought alongside the clones made here. Now that she was older, Lyssa looked down upon it with disdain. This was what it meant to be affiliated with the Jedi. Destruction and ruin. Failure.

Her mistress's fingers flexed and Lyssa thought of the item they had been sent out to collect - a relic that held vital information from the forgotten civilisation. Lyssa's own hand curled into a fist. She would be the one to find it, and prove herself worthier than all these other acolytes. She would prove herself worthy of her mistress's sole attention and appreciation.

Or she would die trying.

As the ship banked, Lyssa turned off the magnets on her boots, ready and waiting for the order to go outside. The impatient twitch of her muscles under her suit was evident as she eyed the insertion point, a great finger of a hand reaching out of the sea, beckoning them forward. She turned on her HUD and moved as her mistress did, a perfect shadow as she dutifully followed her onto the drop bay. Finally, her master turned back to her.

"Are we all ready to go?"

"Always, Mistress," Lyssa replied, her voice mechanical but no less devotional through the helmet's com systems. "Lead the way, and know that I will be right behind you."

 

[Kali'ka]

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Tag: Serina Calis Lyssa Clauda Rae Cooke

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The dynamic aboard the craft was a palpable tension. Serina had seemed to have intentionally kept her apprentices apart and mostly ignorant of one another until that very mission. But the Mistress did nothing without a purpose, every action a working a cog in her nefarious machinations. Kali'ka could only believe there was a purpose in being left in the dark when it came to Lyssa Clauda and Rae Cooke.

It was classic Serina Calis to manipulate her apprentices, as she did everyone else. Maybe she planned on one sticking a blade in the other. But Kali'ka didn't beleive so. Her Mistress was greedy, and if Serina could have more than one adoring worshiper at her feet, she most certainly would. The Kiffar was obsessed with Serina, but she was not ignorant nor a fool.

Kali'ka studied Lyssa in every spectrum and manner in which her cybernetic eye could, as if to find some weakness. Or maybe it was the petty satisfaction of violating the Mirialan in some way. The Kiffar knew very little about her. Cybernetic legs, volatile temper, that was about it. If Kali'ka had known the almost freakish similarities between herself and Lyssa, it would have enraged her. As it were, the way Lyssa lingered by Serina like the woman's shadow ignited a visceral jealousy in Kali'ka. Kali tried not to imagine the Mirialan receiving the same attention, the dedicated training, the taunting touches...

The vessel shuddered as they entered the atmosphere. Kali'ka's gaze shifted to the fourth member of the group. Rae Cooke. Of this woman, Kali'ka knew even less. She discerned the way the woman carried herself, disciplined, military. Other than that, the woman looked no different than any of the rest of them in their diving suits. Another unknown with which to contend.

They arrived over the drop zone.

They gathered, helmets in place. Serina inqured of their readiness. Lyssa's response earned an indignant scowl from the Kiffar sorceress, who refused to acknowledge she would have made a similar, devout confession herself had she been quick enough.