Private So, Civilized?

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


The streets of Lothal whispered like a well-oiled machine—quiet, functional, sterile.

Serina hated how impressed she was.

The skyline had been scraped clean, old rebellion-scarred metal replaced with chromed civic modesty. Transit lines glided in rhythm. Drones patrolled with polite invisibility. The gutters even smelled like soap. She tasted bureaucracy in the air—not corruption, but something worse: efficiency. It was the kind of order that left no room for rot to fester. Or dreamers to survive.

Lothal, the forever frontier, now dressed itself in the skin of a proper world.

"Interesting."

She moved like water around corners, trailing through alleys where speeder smoke still clung to brick and low-lit signs blinked in weary neon. She wore anonymity like a gown—plain cloak, low hood, soft boots. But no disguise could dull the current of her. The pull.

She passed three men playing cards on an overturned crate. One looked up—and forgot the game.

Her presence was a scent on the air. A curve of heat in an otherwise temperate evening.

There were rumors here. Always were. About the "Marked." Those who woke screaming, those who heard voices, those who moved things without touching them. They rarely lasted long. Jedi recruiters scooped up the promising. The unlucky vanished into the bureaucratic maw. The Alliance didn't advertise suppression—but Serina had seen what the weight of order did to fragile minds.

That was why she was here.
To catch what slipped between the cracks.
To recruit what dared to survive it.

Then, a flicker. Not sight. Not sound. Something in the pit of her awareness twitched—like a tripwire laced through her spine.

A presence. Nearby.
Not powerful. But tense. Like a string pulled taut and held just before snapping.

She turned her head slightly, the motion deliberate and slow. Her lips parted.

"Ah," she breathed, low and indulgent. "There you are."

A tug pulled her east. She followed.

Down a side street, past a mural of the late Mon Mothma, weather-faded and graffitied with obscenities. A low building came into view. Small. Brick. Smoke rising from a cracked chimney. No scanners. No guards.

A soup kitchen.

Of all places.

She stepped inside.

The shift in air was immediate: broth and heat and humanity. A dozen languages murmured over clinking bowls. Volunteers moved like worn clockwork. Someone coughed wetly in a corner. It was almost… sweet. Honest, in the way starvation made people kind.

She moved among them without being seen, yet impossible to ignore.

And then she something else.

A woman, seated alone at the end of a long table. Mid-thirties, olive skin, hair in a utilitarian bun, shoulders hunched in weariness. She was stirring her food but not eating. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes kept flicking toward the door—toward Serina. Not in recognition. In instinct.

The Force coiled around her like a wounded animal.

Serina's gaze lingered on her like the slow slide of a hand down silk. Not possession. Not yet. But possibility.

A kindred fracture.

She drifted toward the back wall of the kitchen, leaned there, arms folded beneath the illusion of her cloak. Her voice was smooth, warm, and rich with layered amusement.

"Lothal is run well. That's rare. Unnatural, even. A planet like this… it's meant to be unruly."

A breath escaped her lips. A sigh disguised as arousal.

"But the leash suits it. Maybe order is a form of decadence. One we can dress in civic pride and ration cards."

She tilted her head, studying the woman across the room without looking at her again.

Yet, another presence watched her.

Good.

Let them come to her. Let them circle like moths around the space where light shouldn't be. Let them ask questions.

Serina Calis stood in the warm belly of the system, smiling in the dark like sin in sanctuary.

Tonight, she'd find her ember.

And tomorrow, she'd set the fire.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

It was another day of work, more or less. The kind that she really enjoyed doing, but work none the less. She smiled as she worked over the soup, making sure it tasted the best it could. It wasn't the same every day, mostly because she'd be bored if it had been. The people who came here would be bored. This was a more local delicacy, if it could be considered as much. Bowl after bowl was put out, shared by those who were hungry. Those who were, at the end of the day, vulnerable.

There was a sacredness to the soup kitchen she'd instilled. It was akin to the watering holes of the deeper savanna like worlds, where predator and prey alike would drink without fight. The rules of the wilds cast aside for the rules of survival. Here, it didn't matter what walk of life someone came from. If they owed someone money, if they were on the run.

No judgements, just full bellies.

It's what pulled her attention from the kitchen. Her gaze drifted out, watching conversations. Something had upset another- ah. Her expression thinned for a moment before she took up one of the bowls and stepped forward. The smile was back as she half stepped between Serina and the other woman who was trying to eat, and offered up the bowl.

"You haven't gotten any soup yet. It's not much, but it's good to warm your stomach and keep you healthy. It's why this building exists, after all." Not for anything else. It wasn't said aloud, but as she smiled and offered the soup, the message was clear enough.

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina accepted the bowl with both hands, her touch feather-light against the other woman's fingers, as though any more pressure might break the moment—or the person. Her eyes lifted slowly, finding the volunteer's gaze, and for a second… something gentle stirred there.

A smile bloomed. Not wide. Not arrogant. A softness crafted with precision, like silk spun over razors.

"Thank you," she said, voice warm, low, and honeyed with sincerity. "You've made it with care. I can taste it already."

She stepped back just enough to ease the tension from the table, her posture folding into a more relaxed shape. The tension, once uncoiling like a serpent beneath her skin, softened—though it never truly left. It never did.

She looked down at the bowl, then back to the woman, her expression touched by something that almost looked like reverence.

"This place is rare," Serina murmured. "Too many places call themselves sanctuaries, but they're just waiting rooms for judgment. This… isn't that. You've done something sacred here. You should be proud."

Her tone didn't mock. It never needed to.

Then her eyes—those deep, luminous, calculating eyes—lingered just long enough to stir unease, not quite flirting, not quite challenging, but searching. As if she were peeling away the woman's layers with nothing but presence.

"And the soup is good," she added, lifting the bowl in mock toast. "A kindness with flavor. That's harder than it sounds."

She didn't sit. Not yet. Let them see her standing—beautiful, composed, utterly composed. Let them wonder why someone like her had stepped out of the dark and into this little flicker of warmth.

"I won't linger long," she continued, her smile returning like an echo of something familiar. "But I am… grateful. For the welcome."

And she was.
Even if gratitude, for her, was just another tool.

"Please, tell me your name..."

A question, laced with subtle curiosity and a dash of...

Authority.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

"You're welcome to stay as long as you need to eat your soup. There's no rush to eat it, either." Just no business here in these halls. Aliris's expression softened to the compliments though. She took some pride in what she made, how she made it. Here in this place, she was relaxed as can be. She didn't need to remember, didn't need to struggle. She'd make sure she was getting stronger at least, closer to where she had been before everything else that had happened.

Her brow did knit together though, some, at the question of her name. She never had an issue with giving it, with speaking it aloud. "Padawan Aliris." Her first name, at least. Her expression relaxed as she pushed away the paranoia in the back of her mind. It was there, always there, clawing at her consciousness, demanding attention. People who knew who she was. If her family was finally bothering to remove her. If it was someone that had been wronged by the other with her face.

Even now she dyed her hair to try and differentiate from the other woman of the Tremiru family. She didn't want to be associated with them in the slightest.

"What is yours?"

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina's smile deepened—not in triumph, but in something softer. Warmer. The kind of smile one reserves for intimate confessions, or the moment just before a kiss. She did not flinch at the word Padawan. If anything, she seemed pleased by it, her eyes lowering for a brief moment in mock respect. The expression that followed was quiet, a touch reverent, as if the name Aliris had settled into her mind like a delicate jewel.

"A beautiful name," she said gently. "And one carried with grace."

She took a slow sip of the soup—small, unhurried, as if savoring both the taste and the company. Her gaze didn't leave Aliris, not even for a second. She stood like someone with nowhere better to be, and all the time in the galaxy to be here.

"My name is Serina," she offered after a pause. No last name. No title. It was deliberate. The name was bare, uncloaked, given like a trust. Like a gift. "Just Serina, for now. I find surnames… tend to come with too much noise."

She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing the girl in a softer light.

"You've done something rare, Aliris. You've made a place that silences the chaos. That's not easy."

Serina's tone was slow, languid, but there was no laziness in it. Every word was a brushstroke. Every look, a veil drawn just enough to see something beneath.

Then she stepped a little closer—not encroaching, not threatening. Just enough that her voice could lower, intimate, just between them.

"But I am curious…" she added, voice light, teasing at the edges.

"How does a Padawan find herself here, stirring soup instead of wielding a blade?"

There was no judgment in her voice.

Just interest.

And just enough space for secrets to breathe.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

There was an odd indifference about Aliris as she smiled and listened to the other woman speak. Not to the words themselves, there were hints of a prideful and happy smile here and there, but the tone. The approach. Interest, flirting, those had no weight with the Padawan. She didn't entertain those concepts.

She wasn't worth it, in her mind.

"There's a need for it, and I've the means to give. So.. I did." It was better here than out on a battlefield again. Fighting again. She didn't want to spend her life as a soldier or a warrior. Peace, here, was more than enough for her to be comfortable.

"And, it turns out, I make really good soup."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina noted it all.

The way Aliris deflected rather than defied. The way the warmth in her smile never reached inward. The subtle shields—not built of arrogance, but of quiet erosion. A woman who had bled too long to believe she was worthy of touch, of flirtation, of being seen.

A broken thing that had mistaken stillness for healing.

So Serina changed. As easily as breath becomes fog.

Her posture eased. The heat in her gaze cooled into something gentler, quieter. She tucked away the lilt in her voice, the velvet, the honey. Replaced it with something steadier. Companionable. She took another sip of the soup and let a small, genuine-sounding hum escape her throat.

"You do," she said simply, as though there were no games being played at all. "This is better than most I've had in actual kitchens. And those are usually too concerned with presentation to bother tasting anything."

She looked back to Aliris, this time with a soft, earnest kind of respect. The kind meant for people who didn't want admiration—but needed to feel useful.

"You didn't run from the galaxy," she said. "You just chose to feed it instead of fight it."

She paused. A slow breath in. Then, carefully—

"That takes more strength than anyone gives credit for."

The weight of that landed like a feather, not a stone.

She let silence stretch for a moment—calm, unthreatening, a rare stillness between two women who knew different kinds of pain. Then Serina smiled again, faintly this time, and cast a glance around the soup kitchen.

"Do you think…" she said, her voice a touch lower now, thoughtful, "if more Jedi lived like this, there'd be less need for war?"

A question. Honest on the surface.
But Serina's words always came with hooks buried deep beneath the calm.

Hooks baited with the promise of meaning.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

There was a little pride. Just a little. She smiled sheepishly, trying not to let the praise go to her head, but it was there none the less ringing in her ears. She didn't want what she did to be for nothing. At the same time, that smile never did quite reach her eyes. Pride was an emotion she didn't enjoy having. She didn't like how it felt.

It just felt wrong.

Then, all at once, the smile was gone. The question asked, lingering in silence as Aliris's expression fell. A more serious expression had taken over. Would the galaxy be better if the Jedi didn't fight? "No. People don't need Jedi as an excuse to wage war. There'd just be less people fighting for those who can't."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina let the answer settle, unchallenged. She did not interrupt. She didn't smile, didn't blink. She just looked at Aliris with a stillness that was almost reverent—like she was memorizing her.

Then, a nod. Small. Thoughtful. Respectful.

"You're right," she said gently, voice as soft as cloth drawn over old stone. "There will always be those who take. With or without robes or orders or creeds."

She didn't dress the truth in grand philosophy. She didn't need to. That would have been too loud, too obvious.

Instead, she swirled the soup in her bowl once, watching the slow current before glancing back up.

"But that's what makes what you're doing here… extraordinary."

A pause. Measured. Not too long.

"You're still fighting. Just in a different way. You haven't abandoned the people who need someone to stand for them."

She allowed a sliver of admiration into her tone—not the kind meant to seduce or charm, but to recognize. To validate.

"And I imagine it's lonelier than most would ever understand."

She looked down again. The tip of her spoon touched the broth without scooping it.

Then, with perfect softness:

"You remind me of someone I once knew. Someone who tried to save people from themselves. Not with blades. Just… with presence."

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

Aliris let out a held breath. Nerves, most likely. That sort of topic, that line of conversation, she knew the opinions of far too many to be comfortable with it. Too many would point at the Jedi around her to be blamed because of violence, when all they were trying to do was help people survive. At least her friends. At least Loomi and Braze .

Those two were the two she didn't want to be insulted most of all. The reality that it wasn't a set up for as much seemed to give far more relief to the Padawan than she likely expected to show. A smile took over again as she nodded.

"Someone you used to? May I ask what happened?"

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina's gaze softened at the question, and this time the smile she gave was faint—private, like a memory she hadn't touched in years. The light caught her face just right, making her look more tired than dangerous, more human than whatever title she might have hidden behind.

"You may," she said gently.

She set the bowl down on a side table, untouched since that first taste, and folded her hands in front of her. Not tense. Not composed. Open. Vulnerable.

"She was… kind," Serina began, her voice just above a whisper. "Too kind, maybe. She believed people could be saved before they were ready to save themselves."

A pause. The kind that made it seem like the words hurt to say.

"She gave her time, her strength, her safety—for others. For strangers. And not once did she ask anything back."

Serina let her eyes drift, just slightly—like she was seeing someone who wasn't there.

"But the galaxy doesn't always notice the people who build bridges instead of burning them. She wore herself out trying to make things better, and when the storm finally came, there was no one there to shield her."

She looked back at Aliris then. Not intensely—gently. Carefully. The warmth in her voice was genuine, but beneath it… there was a quiet needle.

"They said she disappeared. I don't think she did. I think she was just forgotten."

Another beat.

"I suppose I tell you this, Aliris, because I see the same spirit in you."

There was no fear in the words. No overt warning. But the implication hummed softly beneath the kindness, like the lowest note of a song not meant to be heard, only felt.

And then, a soft exhale.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

The final line was left hanging in the air. Not a seduction.
An offer.
A promise.

If Aliris wanted to reach for it.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

There was a somber expression as Aliris listened. The description reminded her a bit too much of herself in truth. Forgotten wasn't the word, but, something akin to it in her mind. What it was exactly she wasn't sure, but it wasn't a good feeling to have missing her friends like this. Feeling alone without them, or that she was somehow holding them back.

It was why she didn't reach out nearly enough.

"I.. Wouldn't even know where to begin to ask for help. There's not much that can be done. I'll heal over time, and eventually, maybe, I'll go out again properly."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina watched the shift in Aliris's face—the way her posture didn't so much collapse as settle, like a weight had quietly grown heavier without protest. That ache… it was familiar. Not loud. Not theatrical. But quiet, persistent. The kind that lived in people who hadn't given up, but had stopped expecting anyone to help them stand.

Serina didn't rush her response.

She let silence stretch first—respectful, unintrusive. Then, with a voice soft enough to be mistaken for sincerity, she spoke.

"That's the cruel thing about pain, isn't it?" she murmured. "It convinces us we're meant to carry it alone. That asking for help would somehow make it heavier instead of lighter."

She stepped closer—not too near, just within the space where someone would feel her presence rather than see it. Serina folded her hands lightly in front of her again, body loose, unconfrontational, her tone that of someone who knew loss but had survived it—and learned from it.

"But healing doesn't need to be something you do in silence, Aliris. You don't have to earn the right to rest, or to be seen, or to feel like you matter outside of usefulness."

She gave a small, tilted smile. A knowing one.

"I think the people who break themselves to keep others whole are the ones most deserving of gentleness. Of patience. Of someone who doesn't expect anything back."

A moment, then a breath. Controlled. Measured.

"And if you ever do decide to go out again—into the world, or just further than this kitchen—I hope you won't do it thinking you're alone."

She let her words hang with the gravity of someone placing a seed into the earth, not expecting it to bloom today. Just… knowing it would.

Then, with a slightly more casual tone—a little ease, a little levity, the way a friend might speak:

"You don't have to know where to begin. You've already started."

And then the smallest, gentlest tilt of her head—warmth in her gaze, not pushy, not insistent.

"But if it's easier… you could start by letting someone walk with you. Even if only for a little while."

She didn't say herself.
She didn't need to.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

Aliris's expression was as sorrowful as ever. It would be good to not walk this alone, but who could she even ask? She didn't want to bring her friends down, not after everything they'd gone through themselves, everything they'd climbed and struggled to achieve. People had their own problems, their own goals and desires.

She couldn't and wouldn't dare ask people to shoulder that for her.

".. I'll keep it in mind, to at least try to ind someone I can lean on. It's difficult though. No one wants to be a burden."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina's expression didn't shift right away. She let the sorrow sit. Let it breathe.

That was the secret, after all. Most people rushed to soothe. To fix.
Serina didn't.
She honored the ache.

When she finally moved, it was only to place a hand—delicate, gloved—on the edge of the table. A gesture so subtle it barely registered as intentional. Not a reach. Just… presence.

Her voice came low, warm, and threaded with the kind of softness people mistook for compassion.

"No one does," she agreed. "No one wants to be the reason someone else stumbles."

Then, quieter.

"But the people worth leaning on don't see it as weight. They see it as trust. As the privilege of being let in."

She looked at Aliris—not into her, not piercing, but understanding. With the kind of gentleness that made walls feel like unnecessary things.

"And I think," Serina continued, her tone carrying the rhythm of something quiet and true, "you've spent so much time trying to protect others… that you forgot being strong doesn't mean being closed."

She gave a breath of a smile, just enough to soften the moment—not to sweeten it, but to offer space.

"You don't have to find the perfect person. Just… someone who listens. Even a stranger."

She let her eyes drop for a moment to the cooling bowl of soup. Then back again.

"And if it makes it easier, you don't even have to call it asking for help."
"You could just call it… not being alone for a little while."

The words hung between them, not as a pitch, not as a plea—
But as a quiet possibility.

One Aliris could take or leave.

 

[Aliris Tremiru]

"Not being alone for a little while." Aliris took a breath as she mulled over the sentiment. It was.. A good one. Even a stranger could help to not feel alone if she was willing to talk. So far this woman had been, so.. She smiled. Just a little smile as she nodded her head. "I think I'd like that. I- don't know fully what it means or anything, but it'd be nice to not be alone for a little bit."

Darth Virelia

 

[Darth Virelia]

"Subtle glances and not so subtle undertones."

Tag - Aliris Tremiru


Serina's smile returned—quiet, warm, and unassuming. It didn't bloom like victory. It settled like comfort, like the slow, steady warmth of a hearth catching flame.

She inclined her head gently, as though Aliris had said something profound rather than vulnerable.

"That's all it ever has to mean," she replied softly. "Just... that you're here, and so am I. No expectations. No weight. Just presence."

Her voice was calm, almost reverent, and carried the soothing rhythm of someone who had spoken at the edge of grief before—and survived it.

She reached, not with her hand, but with tone—easing into the space between them without pressure, only presence.

"Some people think they need to be whole before they deserve company. But I've always believed we mend a little faster with someone beside us. Even if it's just for a few steps."

She tilted her head slightly, as though studying the lines of Aliris's face—not analyzing, not piercing. Just… seeing her. And letting that be enough.

"So, if today's one of those days where alone feels a little heavier than usual…"
"You don't have to carry it without someone beside you."

A breath. A pause.

"Even if that someone's just a stranger with a bowl of soup and a little time to give."

And then—one last look. Gentle. Certain. No pressure. No agenda.

Just the perfect illusion of safety.

"We can sit. Talk. Or not. I'm in no hurry to leave, unless you want me gone."

It was kindness in its purest form.
Or so it would seem.