Serra Corrane
Widow. Veteran. Survivor.
SERRA CORRANE
'Widow. Veteran. Survivor.'
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OVERVIEW
Serra Corrane doesn't stand out in a crowd, and that's the point. At 53, she's the woman you call when everything's already gone to hell: a job botched, a secret bleeding out, a mess that needs to vanish. She doesn't posture, doesn't shout, doesn't chase credit. She just fixes what others can't, then disappears.
Once, she was an investigator with the Naboo Security Force. Then her daughter died under circumstances no report could make right. The case was buried, and so was she. These days Serra drifts in the margins, carrying silence like armor and grief like a shadow. She doesn't chase work - it finds her. And when it does, she does what she's always done: keep her head clear, her hands steady, and just get on with it.
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HISTORY
Born in Naboo's lake country, Serra came from modest stock: farmers, mechanics, civil workers. She joined the Naboo Security Force young, where her clear head and unflinching focus earned her a place as an investigator. She worked murders, disappearances, organized crime - the kinds of cases that carved lines into her face before her years ever did.
She married briefly, widowed too soon, and poured everything into raising her daughter, Alira. That bond became her anchor. Steady work, a small home, a reason to keep showing up in a galaxy that rarely gave back what it took.
Then Alira died. The report said accident. The evidence didn't. Witnesses changed their stories, files went missing, and the case was closed before Serra could press further. Her badge meant nothing against the weight of silence and politics. She buried her daughter with her own hands, and with her went whatever remained of Serra's faith in systems or justice.
Within the year, she turned in her badge. Since then, she's lived in the margins. No advertisements, no crew. Just a name passed quietly from one desperate client to another. She doesn't chase credits - she chases control. And in a galaxy that stripped her of everything else, control is all she has left.
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APPEARANCE
Serra wears her 53 years without apology. Lean, wiry, deliberate in every movement, she wastes nothing. Her gray eyes are cold at first glance, but behind them is the shadow of someone who has already buried too much. Her short, iron-streaked hair is practical, never styled. She wears plain field gear - boots, jackets, work shirts - clothes that blend in anywhere from a docking bay to a backroom meet.
She carries only what's useful: a toolkit, a blaster, and a pendant that belonged to her daughter. She never explains it, but sometimes her hand lingers on it in quiet moments, as if remembering she once carried more than tools and weapons.
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PERSONALITY
Serra Corrane is silence and steel. She doesn't posture, doesn't bluff. She does what she says, without excuses, without second chances. Few earn her trust, fewer still her loyalty - but once inside her circle, she'll bleed for you without hesitation.
Her grief has hardened her, but it hasn't hollowed her out. Beneath the discipline and control lies a vein of warmth she refuses to acknowledge: a softness reserved for those rare moments when memory catches her off guard. A kind word, a hand on the shoulder, the smallest act of care - reminders that she is not unfeeling, only wounded.
Serra doesn't care for glory, legacy, or credit. She cares about order, about keeping people alive, about finishing what others start and can't complete. She is not a hero. She is not a villain. She is the one you call when you can't afford either - the one who cleans up what's left behind.
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