Private Shock and Awe

[Serina Calis]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



The chamber was quiet. But not silent.

It breathed.

Deep beneath the surface of Polis Massa's black-core architecture, Sublevel Eight was not a place for visitors. It had no marked entrances, no indicators, no directional glyphs. The hallways leading toward it had been purposefully left incomplete—walls dark and unpolished, lighting sparse and focused only on the paths Serina Calis herself walked.

This was not a place for process.

This was a place for conditioning.

The Discipline Chamber—Delta-3 by internal designation, though Serina simply called it the mouth—was circular, domed, and without windows. It had no weapons racks. No training dummies. No durasteel flooring or padded crash zones. The floor was dark obsidian, polished to a mirror-finish. The walls were curved and engraved with interlacing Sith script, each character carved at slightly different angles to capture and distort the chamber's acoustic feedback. It was built so that no sound here ever quite died—it lingered, folding in on itself, becoming a whisper and an echo all at once.

At the center of the chamber stood Serina.

Not pacing. Not meditating.

Waiting.

Her long cape, cut with precise angular edges, fanned out around her like the unfurled wings of some predatory noble bird. She stood with her arms loosely crossed behind her back, posture perfect, head slightly inclined—not toward the door, but toward the ceiling. As if speaking to something unseen. Or simply listening to herself think.

The air was cool. Not cold. Just cool enough that the taste of metal lingered on the tongue, just warm enough to carry static on the skin.

She liked it that way.

Today would be delicate.

Not because the lesson was difficult. Force Shock was, in practical terms, basic. A trick. A weapon used by acolytes and assassins, often abandoned in favor of the raw, gratuitous fury of Force Lightning. But that was the very reason it was perfect for Lyssa.

Because this—this flicker of violent precision, this whisper of energy that could hunt and sting—was not brute power. It was craftsmanship.

And Serina had no intention of raising a beast.

She would raise a blade.

A smirk curled her lips, slow and sensual. It was not the smile of a woman pleased with her student, but the kind of expression a sculptor might wear when they spotted the first gleam of gold beneath the mud.

A reward not yet granted.

She reached out one gloved hand, slowly rotating her wrist so her palm turned upward. The faintest ripple moved around her knuckles. Barely there. A breath. A murmur.

Then, with no visible strain, a thin spark of violet-blue arced between her fingers and flicked forward into the air, where it danced for a moment in lazy, seeking spirals.

Force Shock.

Not as chaotic as lightning. Not nearly as deadly. But alive. A thread of controlled aggression. Measured. Directed.

The energy flickered once more, then sparked out of existence with a faint hiss.

Five seconds. Enough to train pain into memory.

Serina lowered her hand, exhaling slowly. The Force settled again around her shoulders like a lover's shawl—possessive, familiar, comforting.

The purpose of today's lesson was simple. Not to teach Lyssa how to kill.

But how to tease.

Force Shock was not a weapon of dominance, but of denial. It licked. It bit. It hunted. It did not devour—it tormented. It warned. A little spark between enemies—or lovers. A reminder of control.

And Lyssa, Serina knew, was ripe for such a lesson.

She had watched the apprentice closely over the past days. Her resilience had proven authentic. Her will, though fervent and raw, was enduring. But what Serina truly delighted in was the way Lyssa reacted not to pain… but to attention. Her hunger was endless. Her loyalty absolute. And yet… she trembled, just slightly, when praised. As though unsure she deserved it.

That insecurity was not a flaw. It was kindling.

"Let her come," Serina whispered aloud, her voice cutting softly through the chamber. The room, built to carry voices like mantras, repeated her command a moment later in five different intonations.

Let her come...
Let her come...
Let her come…

Her eyes, half-lidded, turned now toward the sealed door at the far edge of the chamber. She knew Lyssa would be punctual. Exhausted, still—Serina had ensured that. But loyal. Always loyal.

And loyalty, in this Order, was not weakness.

It was a currency. And Serina was a banker of souls.

She stepped to the center of the room now, the light above her dimming slightly as the crystalline nodes overhead adjusted to her proximity. She let the chamber settle into its 'lesson' mode. The floor beneath her shimmered faintly, signaling tracking had begun. The walls pulsed with quiet warmth. The smell in the air changed—just slightly. Burnt copper. Ozonic tension.

Her voice would sound sharper in here. Commands would cut deeper.

Good.

Because Lyssa would be expected to suffer today. Not in pain—not truly. But in restraint. Force Shock required patience. Timing. Discipline. It was not a roar. It was a whisper given claws.

Serina smiled again—sharper this time, more hungry than amused.

The door hissed.

And there she was.

The scent of ozone hadn't even faded before Serina's voice, low and warm, cut through the space like silk against bare skin.

"Enter, apprentice."

A pause. Not to let Lyssa respond. Merely to enjoy the sound of command.

"Today, we speak in sparks."

She took a single, deliberate step forward. Her voice dipped into something deeper, something meant to be felt between the ribs.

"You will not learn to hurt. You will learn to sting."

Another step.

"You will learn how to track a soul through shadow, how to remind them what it feels like to be prey. How to whisper pain into the skin without speaking a word."

She smiled as the door sealed behind her apprentice.

 

[Lyssa Clauda]

Tag - Serina Calis

The past few days had been both paradise and perdition. Restful and rigorous. But above all, painfully, excruciatingly tantalising.

Because before she had met her mistress, Lyssa's life had meant nothing. Years spent chasing shadows of the past, wasted on the whims of childish fantasy. Now she had seen the light, or perhaps more accurately, found the root of darkness. Now, she walked a different path. It was the path of the disciple.

No -

It was the path of the apprentice.

And yet it was a painful path to walk. After all, were she anyone else, Lyssa might have been able to trick herself into being satisfied with life on Polis Masa. To be static and grateful, resting in her new quarters in this strange place she now called home. The former Jedi might have even been able to fully enjoy the comforts that were offered to her here - food, water, a warm bath, even healing for her wounds.

But Lyssa could never be satisfied with such things. They meant nothing in comparison to the goddess who gave them to her.

The way the mirialan felt about her mistress was now beyond simple admiration. The seeds the woman had planted in her heart had grown and bloomed into the blood red roses of lust and desire. Not of the flesh, but of the spirit - for Lyssa craved the presence of her superior, hungered for attention from her idol as the wolf hungers for blood, as dog hungers for its master's touch.

It was obsession, plain and simple. Burning, all consuming, and never ending.

All these thoughts swirled within her as she answered her mistress's call. The metallic ring of the cyborg's steps rang through the subterranean halls as she approached the doorway she had been summoned to. The woman would likely hear her long before she arrived. No, how idiotic. Her master would sense her presence before the sound of her footfalls even dared to grace her ears.

Still, she arrived early, after all, to be early was to be on time, and to arrive on time was to arrive late. Hovering for just a second at the door, the cyborg steadied herself. Took a deep breath that shook, just slightly. As every prophet feared to speak to their God, so to did every apprentice tremble at the thought of displeasing their master.

Yet it wasn't hesitation that held her there. Lyssa was preparing herself for perfection. She would not disappoint her mistress.

Not again.

"Enter, apprentice."

Lyssa smiled as she did, with warmth in her eyes that should not have been possible given their corrupted red hue. Maintaining the silence, the mirialan chose instead to bow reverently. She had retired her usual hooded cloak for the lesson, so that her mistress could read the emotions on her face even easier.

Not that Lyssa ever attempted to hide her devoted, adoring expressions from her mistress. Everything that the cyborg was already belonged to her - soul, mind, and body.

"Today, we speak in sparks."
"You will not learn to hurt. You will learn to sting."
"You will learn how to track a soul through shadow, how to remind them what it feels like to be prey. How to whisper pain into the skin without speaking a word."

Sparks? Her mistress had instructed her to leave her saberpike behind, so the apprentice knew she wasn't referring to the cracked crystal within. Curious, Lyssa leaned closer towards her mistress as she spoke. Were it not for blind faith erasing thoughts of doubt from her mind, she might have questioned the point of learning a skill that could not end the life of another. Thankfully, all unfaithful, intrusive thoughts like those were quickly dismissed from her mind.

Her mistress was primordial, a being of darkness incarnate. Of course she knew what she was doing.

Subtilty was never Lyssa's strong suit, so to learn it would surely take some trial and error. Stepping forward until she was within arm's reach of her master, Lyssa held out her hands, palms up.

"If it is your will, teach me this power, mistress," her voice echoed through the chamber like a worshipper's chant. "Teach me the art of shadows and quiet power, for I am yet unpolished, loud, reckless, and burning far too bright with the fires of my desire."

 

[Serina Calis]

"One spark is all it takes."

Tag - Lyssa Clauda



She arrived early. Of course she did.

Serina had felt her apprentice moving through the corridors long before the doors hissed open. The Force wrapped around Lyssa like a second skin—overwound, hungry, radiating like a pulse beneath metal and bone. The girl wore her devotion like a shackle, and she dragged it behind her with reverence.

And when the door finally slid open, Serina turned—not with haste, not with drama, but with the slow, deliberate grace of a sovereign who had expected to be worshipped.

Lyssa entered with a bow, wordless but bursting with meaning. Her face, free of the shadowing hood, was a portrait of surrender. Her eyes, that unnatural shade of alchemized gold and red, shone not with fire—but with want. Unspoken. Unashamed.

Serina drank it in.

Every motion. Every breath.

She adored this stage of apprenticeship—the trembling cusp between fear and rapture, where devotion became a kind of addiction. Lyssa had passed the crucible of pain. Now came the far more dangerous trial: the pleasure of proximity.

Serina stepped forward, the long sweep of her cape catching a currentless breeze that did not exist, the chamber seeming to respond to her presence alone.

"You arrive early," she said softly, circling her like a serpent in silk. "A wise choice. The breath between anticipation and disappointment is razor-thin. And you... have already learned to fear wasting my time."

She stopped just behind Lyssa, her breath deliberately exhaled close to the girl's ear, a whisper of ozone curling around them both.

"Good."

The word echoed around the chamber like the last word before a spell is sealed.

Then, slowly, Serina's hand lifted. She did not touch her apprentice immediately. She hovered—fingers outstretched, gloved, commanding—just over Lyssa's shoulder, tracing an outline that the Force felt, even when flesh did not.

"Today is not a lesson of death," she purred. "But of dominance. Of suggestion. Of reminders."

She circled again, and this time, she stopped in front of Lyssa—closer now. Their bodies a breath apart. She raised her other hand, letting the violet-blue crackle of Force energy dance just barely between her fingers.

"The power I show you today is not for killing. It is for correcting. For marking. For taming."

The spark hissed softly, curling like a question into the air before vanishing.

Her thumb traced just beneath the Mirialan's lower lip, slowly.

"You'll learn," Serina murmured, her voice slithering past the senses like silk soaked in poison, "that the most dangerous power… is the one that never asks to be feared."

She let the silence settle like a net. Not dead silence—no, the chamber hummed now. The air thickened, saturated with potential energy. Even the shadows in the corners seemed to recoil from the two of them, afraid to blink and miss what came next.

Serina did not move at first. She simply looked at her.

And that was worse than any touch.

Her gaze slid down the bridge of Lyssa's nose, over the trembling part of her lips, lingered on her throat—where the pulse beat visibly now—and then, up again. Calculating. Dissecting. Drinking.

Then she took one, slow step forward.

Then another.

Then another.

Each one measured, not with distance, but with dominion—as if the space between them wasn't being crossed so much as conquered. She advanced the way a storm rolls over the ocean: with certainty, and no intention of leaving anything untouched.

When Serina finally came to a stop, they were too close. Her scent—sharp, alchemical, dark spice and heat—filled the apprentice's lungs with every breath. The taller woman leaned in, her lips parting slightly. She was not speaking now. She was letting the moment devour itself.

Their mouths were so close they might as well have been one breath apart.

But still—no kiss.

Not yet.

Serina tilted her head ever so slightly, as if curious to see how much restraint Lyssa could endure before she shattered. As if daring her apprentice to break formation, to move even an inch closer—to risk disobedience for pleasure.

She didn't. Goddess, she didn't.

And so Serina rewarded her.

Her voice emerged low, a ghost of a murmur that dusted over Lyssa's lips like snowfall on a flame. Each word burned because it shouldn't have been that soft. It shouldn't have been that close.

"Do you know what the shock truly is, Lyssa?" she asked, not expecting an answer. "It is not power. It is not damage."

Her lips brushed against Lyssa's—but did not stay.

"It is a message."

And then—finally—Serina kissed her.

Not a rush, not a taking.

A sentence, punctuated by flesh.

It was a kiss so calculated it could have been etched in a spellbook—an incantation cast not with incensed words but with lips forged for dominion. There was no hesitation, no messy collision of want; only the exacting application of intent. It was finite, yes, but not in its impact—only in its execution.

As deliberate as a blade drawn across skin just enough to bleed, Serina's mouth claimed Lyssa's without aggression, without haste, but with absolute certainty. The kiss didn't ask for response. It didn't need to. It commanded it, as surely as breath follows drowning. The rawness of it wasn't in passion—it was in precision. Every millimeter of movement calculated to bend the apprentice's will more thoroughly than any threat or shout could.

Her gloved hand rose without urgency, yet without delay, and found Lyssa's jaw like a sculptor correcting flawed marble. With two fingers beneath the chin, Serina tilted her apprentice's face to just the right angle, deepening the kiss with surgical elegance—until she felt it. The shift. The falter.

Serina didn't stop. She savored it—the fragility of that moment, when strength turned to surrender not through force, but through mastery. And in that fragile balance between collapse and rapture, the Dark Lady fed her lesson into the girl's body more surely than any word she might ever speak.

And then she broke it—cleanly.

It ended the way lightning does: abrupt, merciless, and unforgettable.

Serina stepped back—not to retreat, but to observe. Her eyes were sharp again now, focused like twin razors.

"That," she said, her voice thick with satisfaction, "was a spark."

Another step back.

"A leash."

Her fingers, still lifted, trailed one last time along Lyssa's cheekbone. Not affection. Not reward. A claim.

"A promise."

"And now, apprentice… you will return it."

She stepped back—not far, only a few paces—and raised her hand again. A single arc of blue-violet energy shimmered across her palm, then faded.

"The technique begins here. A spark between your fingers. But you must aim it. Will it. Bind it to your enemy with intention. A whip needs a target. A leash needs tension."

She turned her body slightly, opening her stance to display. Her voice shifted to its instructional cadence—velvety but sharp.

"Focus just behind the sternum. Not the gut. Not the throat. The heart. Always the heart. That is where pain breeds fear—and where fear becomes memory."

She gestured for Lyssa to mirror her.

"Lift your hand. Let the Force settle just under the skin of your palm. Don't force it. Invite it. Coax it. Sparks do not roar. They listen."

Another step. She was behind Lyssa now. Close enough that her hand could rest lightly against the Mirialan's back, just between her shoulders.

"Breathe."

The command was soft. Almost reverent.

"Now—ignite."

"Show me how much you want to obey."

And in that sentence, layered beneath her voice, were countless promises.

If Lyssa succeeded, she would be praised. She would be seen. If she failed... she would be broken again, reshaped again, reforged again—because Serina was not cruel.

She was thorough.

And this lesson had only just begun.