Private Interview #1821 - Codename: Sharpshooter

[Serina Calis]

"Expectations."

Tags - Rae Cooke



The room was quiet.

Not sterile—though it had once been—but quiet in the way only old places learned to be. The kind of silence that didn't just fall but coiled. It moved like smoke through the darkened rafters of the private docking annex, brushing against the walls with the stillness of a predator mid-breath. The hololamps along the ceiling flickered lazily, casting uneven pools of light over long-forgotten crates stamped with old VesperWorks insignias. The duracrete beneath Serina's boots bore faint outlines of oil, ash, and blood—cargo stains, probably—but none of it reached her.

She sat reclined on the edge of a carbon-alloy throne repurposed from a decommissioned power loader—an ugly, industrial thing she'd stripped of its plating and lined with silk from Zygerria and cords of phrik cabling twisted into ornamental latticework. The seat groaned under her only when she wanted it to, and tonight it made no sound.

Serina Calis exhaled, slow and measured, the faintest sound of breath filtering through the hidden seams of her helm. It wasn't boredom. No—she liked this part. The waiting. The vetting. The moment before the mask peeled off the next would-be killer and she got to see what lay underneath. Desperation? Greed? Rage? The good ones bled all three. The best had learned to make those impulses look like professionalism.

A faint pulse of violet glowed at her sternum, steady as a war drum.

She crossed one leg over the other, plated greaves whispering against each other with a sound like folded knives. Her fingers drummed idly along the armrest—clawed digits tapping with surgeon's precision against the metal—though her thoughts were elsewhere. The six slanted eyes of her helm drifted through the gloom, a lazy, almost amused gaze cast over the warehouse's repurposed interior.

One of the glowing optics dimmed, then brightened again. A blink. A sigh, perhaps.

She was alone, but not unobserved. Cameras were watching. Microdrones floated above in near-invisible orbits, maintaining angles, filtering data, mapping movement. Somewhere in the annex, a mercenary was being escorted inward. She could hear the echo of footsteps.

Good.

Her head tilted ever so slightly. The synthcloth hood that draped her helm swayed with the motion, whispering against the curve of her shoulder plates. Even seated, cloaked in shadow, the armor radiated dominion. Not brute force, no—it was too refined for that. Too quiet. But it exuded power in the way a storm does from the horizon: inevitable, encroaching, patient. You didn't run. You didn't kneel. You simply realized too late that it was already here.

The glowing node in her chest pulsed once more, faintly illuminating the glyphs spidered across her breastplate. Ancient runes hummed beneath the silence, responding to the tension in the air. They always did, around people. Around prey.

A sharp click echoed in the distance. The outer door.

Her gaze sharpened, just enough to mark the change. But she did not rise.

There was no need to posture. The armor did it for her. The room did it for her. She did it without motion.

This place had been chosen for a reason. It reeked of old industry, of power now forgotten, and that made people talk. They entered thinking they were walking into a negotiation. A test. They were wrong.

They were walking into a memory.

Serina relished it.

In this moment—between inquiry and judgment—there was peace. The calm certainty of the apex, surveying its environment, unthreatened. No generals barking in her ears. No Sith Lords posturing behind cloaks of righteousness. No senators pretending their desires were virtues. Just her. Just this. And soon, the candidate.

She could feel it already: the moment their eyes would meet. The flicker. The drop in body temperature. The instinctive readjustment of posture. Recognition. They wouldn't know her name, not always. But they'd know what they were looking at.

A thing shaped like a woman, wrapped in silence, carved in purpose.

A mirror that didn't show reflection—but extinction.

Her fingers stilled.

The door to the inner chamber hissed.

And still, Serina did not move.

Let them approach. Let them speak. Let them reveal.

She was in no rush.

She was enjoying herself.

 

[Rae Cooke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

The odd but familiar feeling of the armor clung to her frame. It had been a long time since she had worn it, but it still fit like a glove. Everything was as it used to be, dredging up old memories of the Empire, an Echani—even a woman reminding her of her station—all old memories that no longer belonged to this mind, this face. She was reborn, something else, something new.

Looking at the small data pad, the encrypted language she developed spilled her status and her legend's deep history with the GADF. Everything was correct; her rank was something she had actually earned until they erased it. The thought burned in the woman's mind as she shoved the data pad back into the pocket.

Everything about her had changed, but this was just another one of her many masks. Turning the corner, she was guided by one of the other mercenaries. The woman she was to meet was already waiting. Rae cursed from behind the armored mask. Did she already screw this up?

The man guarding the door opened it, and she moved inward and stood before the woman. She had that menacing air about her—one that was familiar when dealing with Sith. It wasn't the woman's first rodeo with their kind, and with the way the galaxy was going, it wouldn't be her last. The young mercenary nodded in respect to the woman, hoping to start this interview with a better step than she originally did.

"Apologies for keeping you waiting, my Lord." Her voice carried the refined lilt of Imperial nobility—polished, deliberate, and far too composed.

Rae Cooke was not what she seemed.

There was no oppressive aura of command, no raw intimidation. Instead, she wore mystery like a badge. With careful grace, her gloved fingers unfastened the chin clasps of her helmet. She lifted it away, revealing a sleek visor mask beneath, which she slipped off just as easily.

Dark hair spilled free into a neat ponytail, bangs softening the sharp angles of her freckled, youthful face. Warm brown eyes, focused, met the gaze of the armored woman before her with calm defiance.

Cradling the helmet under one arm, Rae dipped her head in a final show of formality. But when she looked up, the tilt of her lips betrayed her—a lopsided, almost flirtatious smirk aimed squarely at her audience.

"Rae Cooke. Sharpshooter." The introduction rolled off her tongue with effortless poise, every syllable shaped by her natural accent as if she was breathing.

"I trust my record and responses will meet your expectations," she added smoothly, the corner of her mouth lifting. "I do have a habit of always hitting the mark."

Her smile lingered, unshaken, as she punctuated the remark with a casual wink, confidence woven into every movement.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Expectations."

Tags - Rae Cooke



The mercenary's voice cut through the haze of silence like a warm blade—refined, measured, and dressed in the kind of aristocratic diction Serina hadn't heard in some time. That alone piqued her interest. So many of the hired blades these days spoke like the gutter-spawn they were—blunt tools, more muscle than mind. But this one…

This one remembered which fork to use.

Serina didn't move. Not at first. Still seated, still cloaked in the impossible silence of her armor, she allowed the moment to stretch thin. The type of silence that turned nerves brittle and exposed false bravado like cracks in a mask.

And she watched.

Through six cold, symmetrical eyes—each one subtly adjusting its luminance, cataloging Rae Cooke from hairline to heel—Serina drank her in. A woman unmasking before a predator. Confident. Polished. Flirtatious.

How quaint.

The armor recorded everything. Thermal readouts, pulse elevation, microshifts in posture. Serina didn't need to see her smirk to know it was there; she could hear it in the way her voice curled around her own name like a glass of expensive liquor.

"Apologies for keeping you waiting, my Lord."

There it was.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

A low hum, almost imperceptible, began to stir in Serina's chestplate. It was not laughter. Not quite. But something akin to it—something more akin to amusement than anything she typically allowed herself to feel these days. It vibrated beneath the breastplate's crystalline core like a dangerous purr, violet energy throbbing once with subtle emphasis, as though the armor itself shared its mistress's sardonic delight.

She's been around Sith before.

Of that, Serina was certain.

To reach so naturally for the title—my Lord—and deliver it with that kind of velvet grace meant experience. Not fear, not awe, but a calculated nod toward familiarity. And if it was a lie, it was an exquisite one. That, too, she appreciated.

Perhaps I'll let her keep it, Serina thought dryly. A little vanity makes for excellent leverage later.

But when she finally did move, it was like an insect waking—precise and alien. She lifted a single taloned hand from the throne's armrest and angled it in the air, one elegant, languid motion that silenced the room without needing a single word.

The glowing eyes of her helm refocused, settling on Rae like a predator resting its gaze on a new curiosity.

"You must have worked with Sith before," Serina said at last, her voice like perfume laced with poison—soft, slow, and disturbingly intimate. It echoed from behind her helm with unnatural clarity, as though spoken directly into Rae's ear. "Or perhaps you've killed a few. Either way… 'my Lord' is an affectation best left for zealots and ghosts."

Another pause.

Then, gently, almost lazily:

"Governor will do."

She tilted her head slightly, the hood shifting over her helm with a subtle hiss of synthcloth on itself. Serina's posture never changed. She didn't rise. She didn't lean forward. And yet the weight of her presence crept forward like a shadow beneath the door.

Rae Cooke. Sharpshooter. Confident. Youthful. Trained.

Serina let her fingers tap once against the throne's arm. A metallic sound, soft and absolute.

She thought about the datapad she'd reviewed earlier. The record was flawless—suspiciously so. Old military files scrubbed then rebuilt. Black-barred sentences where commendations once sat. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it note about prior GADF status, then nothing. Erased. Wiped. Reborn.

Serina knew the feeling.

"Your lucky." she murmured aloud—more to herself than to Rae. "At least they gave you a quick death."

The room fell quiet again as Serina quickly fixed herself.

She leaned back, and the exo-frame of her throne adjusted automatically with a sound like a breath being drawn in reverse. The glow of her armor dimmed slightly, violet bleeding back into darkness.

Still no smile. Still no warmth. Just those six impassive eyes, staring straight into the heart of the woman before her.

And yet—

"If you're going to wink at me, Ms. Cooke," she added coolly, "do try to mean it."

There was an almost imperceptible indulgence in Serina's tone now, a slight downward curl of cadence at the edges. A test. One only someone clever enough might notice.

 

[Rae Cooke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Rae tilted her head slightly at the comment about death from the woman who preferred Governor instead of Lord. As most Sith relished in the title, it was curious, but it seemed Serina Calis was different. Rae kept her smile and posture as she listened to the words. The GADF didn't kill her; they erased the service record as per their separation. Either way, Rae wouldn't correct the woman and instead nodded. She would have to figure out a cause for the consequences of the assumption.

But it was better not to argue - especially in an interview.

As the silence stretched between them, filling the void of the space that separated their existences - Rae didn't change, and her demeanor changed. It was defiant, while at the same breath complying with the power that was on display. This Governor wanted something, but she couldn't quite place the feeling. Perhaps this was to unnerve the mercenary? Cause some semblance of fear or concern at how the six-eyed armor stared straight - searching for a way to the soul.

A part of the young Corellian almost laughed, tempted to break the tension with levity. But she knew better; this was a test. So Rae held her ground, meeting the six-eyed gaze with a steady, unshaken calm.

Finally, there was some give. The Governor decided to speak. Rae adjusted her footing to ensure her knees didn't lock and the blood stopped rushing to her head. It would have been embarrassing to faint in front of such a being as Serina Calis.

"Oh?" Rae couldn't help herself. The comment was too revealing to ignore. Doubt was already threading between them, and it piqued her curiosity. Her brow lifted slightly; the gesture was subtle.

Beneath all that armor, there was something softer, maybe even a little desperate. The mercenary bit back the urge to let her smile twist into a full grin. In just these few moments, Rae had learned more about Serina than she ever could have.

A hand swept her dark bangs aside, finally giving her face a moment of freedom from the composed stillness she'd held for too long. The helmet slipped from her fingers, dangling lazily at her side as her stance eased—unguarded now, deliberate.

The bait was set, and Rae did not intend to waste it.

Her teeth caught her lower lip as she pretended to consider the Governor's comment. Still, the air of defiance in her eye betrayed her. She wanted to challenge the other woman.

"Who said I didn't mean it, Governor?" Her voice came softer now, warmer, each word draped in subtle flirtation.

Rae stepped forward just enough to shift the air between them, her smile widening into something more intimate. Perhaps crafted for only the woman behind the mask.

"I hope I wasn't too forward for a first meeting… but I've got a feeling we'll get along just fine." Her gaze lingered. "If you're willing to give me a chance."

 

[Serina Calis]

"Expectations."

Tags - Rae Cooke



The mercenary leaned in—just a little.

A calculated shift of posture. A tilt in her voice. Intimacy conjured like a stage-light trick, soft and sultry, meant to melt barriers. The kind of playfulness that weaker women fell for. That lesser men mistook for vulnerability. Her voice, warm with velvet flirtation, lingered on the air like a fine perfume chasing a storm.

"Who said I didn't mean it, Governor?"

Serina Calis did not flinch.
Nor did she smile.

Instead, she watched. Listened. Calculated.

Inside her helm, the violet glow of her six unblinking eyes refracted faintly, adjusting their focus not just on Rae's body but on her biometric shifts. Heart rate. Breath. Muscle tension. Each step the mercenary took forward drew data like a blade draws blood. Serina didn't need to hear lies to know them. She could feel the play. She could see the hand reaching for control, even in the way Rae let her helmet dangle from her fingers like a fruit offered to a god.

That was the thing about people like this. People who lived through erasure, through exile, through the cold bureaucracy of betrayal. They either shattered—or they started performing. The mask was never taken off. It was just worn better.

That intrigued her.

But it didn't impress her.

Serina's fingers moved slowly, folding one over the other on the throne's armrest. Not fidgeting. Not idle. Just placed. Every inch of her was coiled grace, a portrait carved in obsidian that had learned how to hold power the way other women held breath.

She let the silence stretch again. Not to intimidate—though it should—but because time was hers to spend. Power wasn't just about what you said. It was about how long you could make someone wait to hear it.

Serina leaned forward at last.

It was the slightest motion—but it changed everything. Her armor hissed as it shifted, pressure vents whispering beneath the plates as the six-eyed helm tilted down just enough to look directly into Rae's face. The glow of her gaze caught the curve of the mercenary's cheek, casting it in cool, violet light.

And still, she said nothing.

Because Serina had already seen what she needed to see.

"You're charming," she said finally, and the word slithered out in a voice that could have passed for a caress if it weren't so devoid of heat. "And very used to getting your way."

The helmet inclined half an inch.

"Neither will serve you here."

Knowing that the mask will not betray the truth, she allowed herself a satisfied smile. The flirtation game was one to be enjoyed.

But this was a mercenary, a killer for hire.

Not a killer for Serina.

She rose then,

Slowly.

Effortlessly.

The throne exhaled as she stood, and the motion was almost supernatural—so fluid, so soundless, that for a moment the armor didn't seem to move at all. It reassembled. She stood in a single, serpentine uncoiling of form and shadow, violet light pulsing softly from the runes across her chest as her cloak swept down behind her like liquid night.

She towered over Rae now, but she made no move to dominate the space. That wasn't necessary. The room had already surrendered to her presence. Every molecule of air had been colonized by her silence. Her control. Her intent.

The insectile eyes of her helm gleamed in sequence. A blink. A breath.

"You're not here to impress me, though I do certainly take much pleasure in it, Rae Cooke." The name curled off her tongue like the faint aftertaste of a drug she was still deciding whether to indulge. "You're here because someone needs dying, and I don't have the time to do it myself."

Another pause.

"But I don't hire pretty mouths. I hire results."

The implication slithered between them, coiling at Rae's feet like a silent threat—or an invitation. There was no cruelty in her tone. No derision. Just… gravity. Like the way planets pulled. Or black holes.

Serina circled once. Not around Rae, but beside her—never touching, never brushing, just enough to catch the edge of her aura and weigh it in her senses. The cloak whispered across the floor in a predator's rhythm. From the back, the cape shimmered like oil, hints of crimson flaring through the black as if something inside it smouldered. Her taloned fingers trailed once over a rusted crate's edge, leaving no mark.

When she spoke again, it was behind Rae's shoulder.

"All your confidence. The posture. The voice..."

A slow breath, synthetic and soft, echoed from within the helm.

She stood there, for just a moment too long, before moving again towards the front of Rae.

And this time… she stopped close.

Very close.

The space between them was narrow enough now for Rae to see her reflection distorted across the armor's chestplate—fractured by runes, haloed by light. The violet heart-core pulsed once, like a heartbeat—or a countdown.

Serina inclined her helm once more.

"Now," she said gently, "tell me what you're best at."

And this time—this time—there was something in her voice.

A glint.

A curve.

Not approval. Not yet. But interest.

 

[Rae Cooke]

//: Serina Calis //:
//: Attire //:

Her benefactor wanted to project strength—controlled emotion and composure without a single crack. Rae saw through it easily. She already understood the type of woman the Governor of Polis Massa was. This wasn't her first encounter with someone like Serina Calis, and it wouldn't be her last. Rae knew the routine and would perform it with practiced precision, like any seasoned professional.

She returned to a more formal stance, reflecting her military training years ago. The helmet was tucked back under her arm, but the defiant smirk stayed.

Serina was all business, and Rae could respect that. A need for structure, for order—it told her everything she needed to know. She let the woman keep speaking, allowing her to hold the illusion of control. Still, Rae was already watching, already planning. She didn't need much to find the gaps.

With a slight shrug, Rae spoke, her voice clear and confident. "I have a pretty mouth that gets results. So you're in luck—you get both."

She felt the flicker of disapproval and kept going, unbothered. "I was a scout and sniper with the GADF. Operated alone. Recon, infiltration, and target elimination. I was sent in when others couldn't finish the job."

Her head tilted slightly, watching Serina with calm interest, reading every shift and motion in the Governor's stance.

"Twenty-four confirmed kills during service. That doesn't include my work as a mercenary. But I deliver. And with the right payment—maybe a bit of charm—you can buy my loyalty."

Another shrug, deliberate. "Or maybe I'll like you enough to give it for free."

Rae chuckled, letting the helmet hang from her fingertips again, her tone slightly sharpening.

"In the end, Governor, you pay me, and whoever you want gone is already dead. I don't waste time, and I don't miss. Whatever you've seen here tonight—this isn't a game to me. I take my work seriously. Let me prove that to you."

Her voice lost its playful edge now. It was steady, even. Not noble, not flirtatious, just professional.

She was a soldier. An assassin. A loyal guard dog, trained and waiting—she just needed someone to pull her leash.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Expectations."

Tags - Rae Cooke



Serina Calis listened.

Not as a courtesy. Not even as assessment.

She listened like a surgeon listens to the rhythm of a dying heart—intently, analytically, already considering where to cut. Rae Cooke spoke with polish, with practiced efficiency, with the kind of precision that only came from war—real war. Not the theatrical posturing of Sith warlords or the blaster-happy bravado of bounty hunters, but the kind of work that got done in dust and blood, in breathless trenches and silent valleys. Serina recognized the tone. She'd used it herself once.

But the performance still played beneath the words.

That didn't bother her.

In fact, she rather admired it.

Her helm tilted by the slightest angle as Rae's voice shifted, shedding its earlier flirtation like a silk robe slipping from a shoulder. The playful defiance bled out, replaced by something colder. Sharper. Real. For the first time since the mercenary had stepped through the door, Serina could hear the truth between the syllables.

Twenty-four confirmed kills.
Operated alone.
Doesn't miss.

There was weight to the words—not because they were impressive, but because they were delivered like data. No embellishment. No pride. Just currency.

Serina could smell the soldier under the paint.

That's good.

Because she didn't need charisma.

She needed a knife.

And Rae Cooke—despite her smirks, despite her performative ease—was very clearly a weapon looking for a direction to cut.

Serina stepped forward again, this time slowly enough that the sound of her boots kissing the floor echoed across the walls. Every plate of her armor moved with predator-slick grace, overlapping, interlocking, whispering with polished menace. The lights caught the etched Sith runes down her arms and across her thighs, making them shimmer like ceremonial blades. Even her breath—amplified through the subtle modulator—was an instrument of control.

She banked on her standing her ground.

Even among Sith, even among killers, most bent. Twitched. Looked away. But this woman, with her scars dressed in charm and her eyes so terribly alive—she would endure.

And that question intrigued Serina more than anything else.

She reminded Serina of something long buried. Something she once might've been, if she hadn't drowned it beneath pragmatism and rot.

But there was no sentiment in Serina's movements. No longing. Just curiosity. Cold, clinical, dominant.

She reached out.

Not swiftly. Not violently.

Just one gloved, clawed hand, moving up to lift Rae's chin with two fingers—barely touching skin. Enough to feel the heat. Enough to let Rae feel the armor's breathless weight.

That dark helm loomed close now. Too close. The six eyes gleamed, refracting Rae's face in alien symmetry. It wasn't human. It wasn't meant to be.

Serina's voice came at last, soft as falling ash.

"You need a leash…"

The claws left her chin, ghosted across her jaw, and fell away.

"But I don't pull leashes."

A pause.

"I burn collars."

She let that linger in the air like a final breath before a kill. Then—without warning—she turned. A rustle of fabric. A flick of her cloak. She walked back toward the rust-colored terminal mounted into the corner wall. Her hands danced briefly over the console, and the screen illuminated with holographic files—a target dossier, rotating in the air like a condemned soul caught mid-prayer.

A face.

A name.

Coordinates.

A mission.

Serina didn't look back.

"You'll find a shuttle prepared on Subdeck Seven," she said coolly. "Two-day flight to target. Payment wired upon return with confirmation. No drama. No residue."

Another faint pulse from her chest—one beat, then another. Like an imitation of a heart. A heart she didn't possess anymore.

Only purpose.

Only outcome.

Only control.

Then, finally, she turned her head slightly over her shoulder, the black hood trailing like smoke down the ridges of her armor.

"If you come back, we'll talk about loyalty."

A breath.

"If you don't—at least I'll know what you were worth."

And that was it.

The interview was over.

Serina returned to her throne, folding herself back into its cold embrace without flourish, without need for theatrics. The game had already been won. Not through words. Not through fear.

Through truth.

And it was the truth Rae Cooke had given her—veiled in jest, framed in charm, but undeniable at its core—that Serina now held in her palm like a tool.

We'll see if she deserves to be used.