Private The Governor's Burden.

[Serina Calis]

The Governor's Burden.
Location: Anoat, Serina's Private Laboratory
Objective: Learn.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Allyson Locke

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."​

The lab was everything Serina Calis had wanted.

And nothing she needed.

Built into the volcanic bedrock beneath Nefaron's fortress, the complex was a triumph of Sith architecture and quiet madness—curved walls carved from blackstone, humming containment tanks of green-silver ichor, altar-laboratories adorned in obsidian runes, and scrying lenses peering into the blackness beyond the material world. The air was thick with incense, with the sterile sting of chemical fumes, and the dark perfume of ritual oils—her own concoction.

It should have been a sanctum. A place of wild invention. Here she could have broken the Light upon her worktable, twisted Force healing into weaponized metamorphosis, or conjured something so exquisite and terrible it would make Jedi Masters fall to their knees in desire and shame.

But instead…

She sat beneath a low-reading light, her crimson-and-magenta armor peeled down to the waist, revealing only the silk-black undersuit that clung to her form. Her golden hair was loosely braided, strands falling across her cheek, uncharacteristically unkempt. Her legs were curled beneath her on the chair like a wayward disciple, and resting across her lap was a datapad that felt heavier than a sword.

The title glared up at her, white and pitiless.

Military Logistics and Supply Doctrine: Volume III, Strategic Resource Management in Isolated Sectors

Her jaw was clenched in a way she hadn't noticed, and her brow furrowed deeper with every line she read.

"In the event of complete communications collapse, planetary governors must rely on short-wave encrypted loop-nodes and pre-coded protocol chains to synchronize orbital and planetary supply lines…"

She blinked, slowly. Took another breath.

And read it again.

It didn't help. None of it helped. Not really.

She hated this.

Not the reading. Not the labor. She had loved learning once—before the lies of the Jedi. Before the discipline of the Temple turned her curiosity into leash and doctrine.

A part of her still loved it.

No—she hated what this meant. That she had to do this. That she couldn't be in the Forge Wing, synthesizing corrupted Light into viral blessings. That she couldn't be out hunting some poor Jedi Knight and folding their screams into crystal matrices. That she had to put down the brush of madness and pick up the pen of responsibility.

Because he had.

Reicher.

She could still see the faces of the six, ghosting at the edges of her vision. Men and women who had followed her adopted brother to hell and back, and now… handed everything to her like a broken heirloom.

Ten million souls. Eighty-three soldiers. A planet teetering on death, its atmosphere choked by asteroid dust and bureaucratic rot.

And they were hers now.

She wasn't built for this.

Or so they thought.

She closed the datapad for a moment, pressing it to her chest. Her fingers flexed around the metal frame. The breath she took was not calming—it was clenched, brittle. Her armor pulsed faintly beneath the folds of her undersuit, syncopated with her corrupted, phantom heart.

How long had it been since she'd felt anything but fury or desire?

No, that wasn't right. She felt something now.

A coil of grief.
A glint of loneliness.
A sliver of shame.

None of which had any place here. And yet… they remained.

She stood slowly, pushing the datapad to the side of the worktable. Her laboratory hummed around her, alive with stillbirths and possibility. Specimen tanks blinked lazily in dormant stasis. Vials of Force-reactive compounds shimmered against the darkstone shelves. Half-finished holocron schematics hovered quietly in the center console, like unborn thoughts waiting for her will to make them real.

And yet none of it mattered.

Because Polis Massa was bleeding.
And it was hers.

She walked across the lab, bare feet silent on the cold stone. A side shelf held a decanter of Amarellan redwine.

She took a sip.

Then another.

Then—

Back to the desk.

The datapad slid open again, the screen igniting with dull efficiency.

"While military triage operations are most effective with battalion support, it is the commander's responsibility to classify industrial sectors into vital, latent, or loss-expected…"

She scribbled a note in the margins.
Adjusted a logistic node projection.
Created a false reinforcement pattern to deceive pirates.

Again.
And again.
And again.

Hours passed. Maybe more. She didn't keep time here. The lab didn't recognize it.

But when the next page of the book opened with a diagram of internal fuel reclamation routing, something inside her snapped.

She stood abruptly, her chair groaning under the momentum. The wine glass shattered against the wall, the spill of red a too-perfect stain.

She walked to the far side of the lab, to a wall of clear duraglass. Behind it lay the beginnings of her true work: a suspended crystalline heart, pulsing with the essence of twisted Light. The pink and purple glow inside it danced like a lover's eye—willing, delighted, half-mad.

Her hand pressed to the glass.

She exhaled.

"Soon." she whispered, not to the crystal, but to herself. "Soon I will return to this. When the world has been made to bow to reason. When my people are not starving, or hunted. When I can create again."

Her voice trembled, but her will did not.

She returned to the desk.

Sat again.

And read.

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson had been assigned to uncover the comings and goings of Anoat. The planet's surface was dead or dying, its only heartbeat fueled by slavery. That alone was enough to condemn the world's governor, but Allyson wanted more.

Quietly, she worked her way through tunnels and other hidden networks. Her drones had picked up life signs and something else buried beneath the complex. It felt out of place, like it didn't quite belong to the rest of the decaying sprawl.

Under the cover of the night, Allyson slipped in and navigated carefully toward the lower levels. Light glimmered faintly at the end of a ventilation shaft. A hand reached up, pulling away the hardened leather eyepatch she stuffed into her jacket pocket.

The esper eye flickered to life with a low hum. A few blinks later, she had enough visibility to know someone was down there. Allyson had withdrawn from the Force as usual, masking herself from sight and sense alike. She was the Ghost of the Empire, a name she gave herself.

The Corellian thought it made her sound cool.

With practiced ease, she removed the screws from the metal grate and slid it inward into the shaft. Then, she lowered herself, silent as a shadow, into the laboratory below. She braced herself for the worst, some grotesque experiment, people alive or dead, twisted into something unholy. She wouldn't put it past the master of this world. But the lab was clean and near pristine.

It didn't feel like it belonged to Nefaron.

Landing softly, her boots made no sound as she moved through rows of labeled ingredients and delicate experiments. The low hum of fluorescent lights filled the space, only adding to the cleanliness. Whoever owned this place cared for it too much for it to be another outpost. She continued forward until a quiet, familiar voice reached her ears. Serina Calis

It was almost laughable. The irony of finding the girl here and talking to herself. Still cloaked in the Force, Allyson watched from the shadows, silently approaching. Serina was too focused on her work to notice.

Allyson tilted her head slightly, taking a small peek. An unexpected flicker of respect surfaced. At least Serina was taking her new role seriously. The wine-stained wall and shattered glass told the story of frustration and maybe anger. But it was Serina's words that intrigued Allyson most. What exactly did she mean?

She lingered until she was too close, close enough for the scent of worn leather and whiskey to bleed into the sterile air. Then she leaned forward, her breath brushing Serina's ear.

"Are you one of his minions, or is he yours?" Allyson murmured. She knew the girl would understand exactly who she meant. Maybe the spy was giving Serina too much credit. Or perhaps she just wanted to see how far a little ego-feeding would go.

As the words left her mouth, the Force cloak dropped. Allyson placed a hand on the desk, hovering over Serina's shoulder.

"Fancy seeing you here."

 

[Serina Calis]

The Governor's Burden.
Location: Anoat, Serina's Private Laboratory
Objective: Learn.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Allyson Locke

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."​

The words slipped through the silence like a knife between ribs. Soft. Measured. Inescapable.

"Are you one of his minions, or is he yours?"

Serina Calis didn't flinch. She didn't gasp or reach for a weapon. She didn't cry out or leap into a defensive stance. She simply… sat there, motionless, like a doll that had been wound too tightly and had finally run out of spring.

Her eyes, dimly glowing with the afterglow of long reading and dim lighting, tracked forward for a moment longer before she finally spoke, voice dry as the dust beneath Polis Massa's outer domes.

"Minion implies enthusiasm." Her lips curled into something not quite a smile. "So, I'll let you decide which version of the story tastes better."

She turned then—not sharply, but with the weary grace of someone used to being watched. To being hunted. A slow tilt of her head allowed the soft shimmer of magenta and crimson to dance across her cheekbones as she regarded the woman now leaning over her shoulder.

Allyson Locke.

Corellian. Infiltrator. Spy.

Serina had known the moment the scent hit her. Not the perfume or the oil of a weapon freshly cleaned. It was the leather, worn from years of ghosts passing through corridors where no one should be. Whiskey, faint on her breath—the memory, not the consumption. And intent—the kind that only someone like her could wear like cologne.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Serina gave a low, slow exhale, almost a chuckle. It wasn't humor. It was acknowledgment.

"I'd say I'm surprised, but your reputation's been knocking on my mind for weeks now." She leaned back slightly in the chair, allowing her hair to shift over one shoulder in a loose golden fall. Her fingers, stained faintly with ink and a light reagent dust, gestured lazily at the broken wineglass on the far wall. "You're late to the party. I already screamed at the ceiling. Cried a little. Brooded dramatically. You missed all the best parts."

She paused, studying Allyson's features—not just the physical, but what lay beneath. She'd seen her before, fleetingly, in the shadows of real power. The Tsis'Kaar mask meeting. The Kainite chamber of words and doctrine. And worst of all…

The Free Trade Council.

Serina's nose twitched slightly at the memory. That gathering of suits and sycophants had nearly drained her will to live.

"Honestly, if I never have to hear the word 'inexperienced' again, I'll count myself blessed."

She blinked, her mind resettling. Focus returning.

Allyson.

"Back in the Temple," she said, voice more thoughtful now, "they whispered about you. You know that, right? Allyson the traitor. Allyson the deep one. The Jedi who wore the mask of infiltration until the mask wore her. The Masters loved using your name when lecturing about identity loss."

Serina's expression didn't twist into mockery. No smug grin. No sarcastic edge. Just… curiosity.

"They didn't understand. You didn't fall. You dove. There's a difference."

A quiet beat. Then, more quietly:

"I respect it."

She gestured around the lab with a vague hand, the datapad still glowing faintly on her desk. "You probably expected something more... monstrous. Shackled test subjects. Alchemy in progress. Clones writhing in embryonic grief. That comes later. For now…" She picked up the datapad, tilted it for Allyson to see.

Military Logistics and Supply Doctrine: Volume III

"…I'm trying to figure out how to feed ten million people and keep eighty-three conscripts from collapsing under the weight of an empire that doesn't even remember this planet exists."

She let the datapad fall back into place with a quiet clatter.

"Didn't think this was going to be my Dark Side origin story. But here we are."

Another silence. She let it linger before lifting her gaze to meet Allyson's fully. Her voice softened—not weakness, but candor, rare and unguarded.

"If you've come to kill me, I'd at least ask you wait until I finish this chapter. It's not thrilling, but I do need to understand short-wave node failovers before the next asteroid crash takes out my east-side comms." A dry beat. "Again."

There was no tension in her muscles. No posture of defense or fear. Just calm resignation and a quietly burning will.

She tilted her head.

"So, Allyson… what do you want from me?" A pause, her lips twitching. "And don't say 'everything.' That line only works when I've had more wine."

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Serina was an interesting little soul. She painted with her words, hoping to catch the attention of masters. Unfortunately, her art was little more than finger painting, and the adults chastised her for trying to join their show. Allyson almost felt sorry for the girl, always swinging above her stature and her experience.

Still, it was admirable how she kept standing, no matter how often she was cut down. Allyson could respect that. While Serina watched her, Allyson watched back. There were small cracks in the mask. And Allyson wasn't sure if they were intentional or if Serina had found some humbling in her hubris. She didn't lower her guard, not yet. She'd keep reading until the picture was clearer.

Leaning closer, she listened, glancing at the datapad filled with charts and tables, which was something mundane but likely important.

Serina finally looked at her, cheeks slightly flushed. Either she was drunk, or she thought the Corellian was cute. Allyson, ever confident, assumed the latter. "That's unfortunate for me, then. I always aim to arrive fashionably late and make a proper entrance." She sighed, mock-dramatic, tilting her head as a smirk curled across her lips.

"Not fair," she added, her fingers ticking through the numbers as she spoke. "You decided to have a party for one instead of two." Still, she didn't move. She listened as Serina kept talking, stories from the temple. Allyson didn't care to hear these stories, especially not from someone so known for her melody and seductive choice of words.

Her brow arched slightly at the mention of the Jedi Masters, the same ones who'd fought beside her in war. The same ones who'd let her fall.

If Serina had been paying attention, she might have noticed the minor fracture in Allyson's polished mask. The stories were wrong. She hadn't fallen by choice. She'd been forced. They'd orchestrated everything behind her back and doubted her because she was the one who acted when they couldn't.

Allyson Locke, the leash-dog of the Jedi, was sent to battle monsters in the dark and expected to return sane. Whole. A slow burn of fury welled in her chest. Her life, her pain, her survival—just a cautionary tale. "They're wrong." Her voice was quiet. No cocky cadence, no sarcasm. Just truth. She didn't move. Just watched Serina's face, searching for a reaction, for anything real.

Her eyes dropped briefly to the faint stain on Serina's cheek. With a sigh, Allyson gently brushed her thumb across it. "Didn't those Jedi teach you how to wipe your face after a good cry and a bottle of wine?" She patted the desk, then pushed off from it, wandering lazily through the small laboratory as Serina continued to talk, something about not wanting to die before she learned how to manage a planetary government.

Allyson grabbed an empty test tube to examine it. "Nah, I'm not here to kill you. Honestly, didn't even know you were down here." Shrugging, she tossed the tube back onto the shelf. Allyson shook her head.

"I'm just here to poke at the corpse upstairs, but he's not giving me much." She sniffed near a splatter on the wall. "Oh? Corellian Red?" Her expression lit up with a glimmer of amusement.

"Everything? After a few glasses of wine?" The laugh that followed was genuine. It was funny. Allyson had spent her life reading people. She might know Serina better than the girl knew herself.

"Serina, you're a lovely girl, but I'd feel guilty suggesting that when you're still a virgin." She shook her head and picked up an empty beaker.

"You've probably never even been kissed. You know—the whole Jedi thing." She waved the beaker as if that made it all more casual, more harmless. Then, her tone sharpened slightly without losing its relaxed rhythm.

"So. What can you tell me about Nefaron?"

 

[Serina Calis]

The Governor's Burden.
Location: Anoat, Serina's Private Laboratory
Objective: Learn.
Allies: ???
Opposing Force: ???
Tags: Allyson Locke

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."​

The lab was warm. Not in temperature, not truly—it was cooled by precision climate control, kept sterile and crisp like any respectable place of creation. But in that moment, with Allyson's words still hanging in the air like smoke curling from a fire just begun, it felt… warm. Claustrophobically so.

Serina didn't respond at first.

Not when Allyson joked about arriving late. Not when she called it a party for one. Not even when she commented about her cheek. Serina had allowed the touch—that was enough of a response.

But when the beaker clinked lightly against the shelf and Allyson spoke of love...

That was when Serina Calis stopped pretending she didn't feel.

She didn't look at Allyson. Not yet. Her head tilted downward, golden hair falling like soft curtains over her face as she pressed her fingers to the edge of the datapad, holding so still it could have been prayer. Her voice, when it came, was quiet—not gentle, not weak. Just… low. Tethered by a trembling composure.

"You know… I've been called a lot of things. Weaver. Liar. Seductress. Pretender. Pretty little parasite." She smiled faintly, bitterly. "But no one ever led with virgin before."

A beat. Too long. Her thumb dragged across the polished surface of the desk.

"…You're not wrong," she whispered.

There was no venom in her voice. No edge. Just something softer. Sadder.

Still not looking at Allyson, she continued.

"I was eighteen when I met her. Quinn. You wouldn't know her, and if the galaxy's kind, you never will. She was everything I was taught as a Jedi not to crave. Everything I… still do."

Her breath hitched once—quiet, fast.

"I thought she saw me. Not just Serina Calis, not the clever girl, not the Jedi with dangerous ideas. Just me. And for a while, I believed that was enough."

A tremor crept into her voice, barely audible. She swallowed hard.

"She kissed me once. Or maybe I kissed her. I was too stunned to tell the difference. It was clumsy. It meant everything. And then—"

Serina laughed.

It wasn't bitter. It wasn't cruel. It was quiet. Defeated.

"I don’t want to talk about it."

She wiped her cheek, fingertips brushing away what shimmered too faintly to be tears. No sobs. No collapse. Just the graceful precision of someone long accustomed to grieving in silence.

She leaned back again, the chair creaking gently, and tilted her head to finally look at Allyson. The corruption was still there, coiled behind her eyes. That licentious edge, the way her presence pulled subtly, slowly, like gravity draped in velvet. But now it was tempered by something achingly human.

"I don't mind that you said it," she said, voice steady once more. "But I do mind that you think it's because I was a Jedi."

A pause.

"I left the Order because I wanted everything. Power, belonging, intimacy, control. I wanted the galaxy—not just to study it behind a lectern. But the problem with wanting everything," she gestured to herself, arms wide, "is that you learn what you're not allowed to have."

Another pause. Her voice lowered—resonant now, as if reaching down into some dark place she both feared and adored.

"I could kiss someone. I could seduce, take, devour. I've learned how. But I'll never have that. The moment. The look. The unspoken trust. I could take their body, but I'll never have their soul. Because no one gives their soul to something like me."

She turned her gaze back to the desk, hand brushing aside the datapad as if it no longer mattered.

"I think that's the worst part of being who I am."

Silence again. For a while, it held.

Then—she inhaled, straightened her shoulders, and forced a smirk back onto her lips. Her voice, though not entirely recovered, regained its familiar curve.

"As for Nefaron…"

The shift in topic was welcome. Necessary.

She rose from the chair, slow and fluid, and stepped closer to Allyson. Her cape trailed behind her like a tide pulled by unseen moons. Standing beside the Corellian now, she let her fingers glide lazily across the edge of a nearby control panel, brushing it with half-interest.

"Nefaron's what happens when the Dark Side wins too many times and forgets how to lose. He's not a governor—he's a husk with authority. Brilliant, cruel, methodical. He doesn't rule Anoat. He owns it. Every soul on this rock is coin to him. Suffering is his investment strategy."

She glanced sidelong at Allyson, the heat in her gaze flickering back to life.

"He's not my master. He's my reminder. That no matter how far I fall, I can still choose what kind of monster I become."

She leaned in slightly.

"And what about you, Shadow? Still wearing your mask? Or did someone finally teach you how to take it off without cutting away the skin?"

There was no mockery in her voice.

Only respect. And curiosity. And perhaps, beneath it all…

…a quiet wish that someone like Allyson might understand what it's like to want everything, and still end up with almost.

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson listened, almost nodding along with everything Serina was saying. She knew she was a virgin; the girl carried herself as such - always bordering those flirtatious words with an escape. Allyson knew the types; they used the words to draw in their prey and then strike. Once, she was like that, never sealed the deal - but there's always one that makes you do it. Force your hand, and after that, you're hooked. She didn't say much else, only listened to the tale of the sad girl and the one she apparently loved? Desired?

The Corellian looked towards Serina as she finished. There was pain there, but that's what young love was. It was always painful. Still, Allyson remembered her tormentors, one being Arisa Yune and the other Kaili Talith. Both women were on the opposite side of what they wanted from Allyson. It sucked feeling in the middle, but the choices she made happened for a reason. She wouldn't be standing here today if she didn't make them.

She continued to listen, and it seemed that was all Serina wanted or needed. Just someone who would listen to her mewlings, she was still a child at the end of the day. Serina was still too young to deal with the cards she was being dealt with. Allyson remembered the lesson Madelyn taught the girl; it was important, and it was probably best that she got it when she did. If someone else who had gotten fed up with the girl taught her that lesson - it might have been the last lesson the blonde learned.

Placing the beaker down carefully, Allyson looked to watch the former Jedi move. Serina had that look about her, the grace of a noble and a trained fighter, and Allyson sighed softly. She remained silent, though, despite wanting to speak—the question she asked was finally being answered. The hum of the cybernetic eye coming to life echoed in her mind. The moment Serina spoke, Allyson collected the evidence she needed, the bits and pieces of the operation slipping through her loose lips.

Unfortunately, it was cryptic and personal. Nefaron seemed to have some semblance of control over her - Allyson would dig, but perhaps later when she's developed a better rapport with the girl.

Serina had drawn closer, but Allyson didn't move. She wouldn't give the girl the satisfaction of making her uncomfortable. Instead, Allyson looked back into Serina's gaze and browsed at the question. "My mask?" Allyson echoed as she chuckled softly.

"You know as well as I do there's no removing a mask that has been worn as long as mine has without losing pieces of yourself." Her tone was playful, keeping in the same cocky cadence she always had. It wasn't until a small realization of the meaning behind the words that Allyson's gaze turned dangerous.

An unspoken threat until her lips moved again, "It's best not to press too hard trying to find the one who has traced their finger along the curve of my mask, claiming the pieces that come with it." Serina knew, and Allyson knew who question was pointing at. If anyone in the Empire had seen enough, it was the blonde woman in front of her.

At the Kainite meeting and the Free Trade meeting, she had seen who the Corellian accompanied, and despite the mask they both wore, some subtleties, if one was looking, were hard to miss.

"It would be wise," she said softly, "to forget everything you think you know about me, Calis… if we're to remain friendly."

Then, a shift. That cocky smile returned, charming and sharp.

"But if you're curious about anything else—ask. In return for your answer about Nefaron."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."

Tag - Allyson Locke



Serina stood still.

The silence after Allyson's final words lingered like the last swirl of wine at the bottom of a glass—dark, slow, dangerous if you weren't careful. The lab around them was humming again, gently now, as if even the machinery knew to hold its breath.

"Forget everything you think you know about me."

The words replayed in Serina's mind like a whisper behind the eyes. The warning wasn't barked or shouted. It was soft. Measured. And that made it worse. The kind of warning that came from someone who knew exactly how far they'd be willing to go, and how much they'd lose on the way. Serina recognized it.

Because it was the kind of threat she'd once hoped someone would deliver to her.

And no one ever did.

She didn't answer right away.

Instead, she paced a slow half-step, letting the sound of her boots settle between them. The lab lights flickered slightly as they passed over her armor—crimson kissed with violet shimmer—each motion a mixture of grace and exhaustion. Her hands, still laced with the faint smudges of ink and alchemical dust, came to rest lightly on the edge of her desk.

She studied Allyson now—truly studied her. Not with hunger. Not with challenge. With a kind of tired fascination, like an artist looking at a painting and finally seeing the layers beneath the varnish.

Her voice, when it came, was low again—hoarse, from disuse and disillusionment.

"You wear your warning well," she murmured, "and you don't have to worry—I know when to step back from a line drawn in blood."

She glanced down, brushing the datapad aside with the back of her hand. It slid away in silence. Then she looked back, the corners of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile, not yet.

"You think I don't know what a mask is?" she asked, more rhetorical than mocking. "My whole life has been costume. Velvet words. Painted eyes. Lies layered over hollow truths. I seduce because it's the only way I've ever gotten anyone to listen."

Her hand rose, pressing over the center of her chest, where her corrupted heart throbbed beneath synth-flesh and ritual-carved underskin.

"I don't get to fall in love, Locke. I don't get to have a tragic paramour or a lover who ruins me for anyone else. I get to be wanted, sometimes. Worshipped, occasionally. Feared, always."

A breath.

"But not known. Never that."

She stepped closer again—not because she had to, but because she needed to. There was a gravity here. Between two women who had made themselves into things that couldn't go back. No longer Jedi. Never truly Sith. They wore their scars with pride and poison alike.

Allyson didn't move.

That was fine. Serina wasn't trying to unnerve her.

She was trying to understand her.

"You're right, by the way. About the mask. About how taking it off means losing pieces of yourself." Her voice dropped a notch, almost a whisper now. "I wonder how many pieces we have left. More importantly, who's been collecting them."

Her fingers toyed with the edge of her own sleeve. Then, a shift—not fake, but something like remembered instinct.

The seductive rhythm returned in her voice. The way it curled around syllables like smoke. The faint flick of lashes, the soft gleam of her mouth when it finally pulled into a smirk.

"But as for curiosity…"

She leaned in, not close enough to touch, just enough to let proximity do the work. That subtle warmth that passed between two living bodies on the edge of decision. This was Serina feeling comfortable, sliding back into her usual grace, no longer worried for what was to come. Her tone slipped into something velveted—languid, like ink sliding over satin.

"You're a very dangerous woman, Locke. That alone is worth the asking."

Her eyes gleamed—pale blue flecked with glints of soft, unnatural violet.

"So yes," she said, softer now, "I'm curious."

Then she straightened again. No dramatic flair. No whispered promise.

Just honesty.

"You can ask whatever you like."

She paused.

"…But I won't lie to you. Not unless I absolutely have to."

And somehow, that felt like the closest Serina Calis could come to trust.

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson watched her carefully. The woman had touched on a dangerous subject—one that could endanger someone Allyson deeply cared about. Despite the complicated nature of their relationship, a certain Minister had quietly garnered the Corellian's trust and affection. Even Serina's subtle hint toward that relationship was enough to ignite a sharp flash of protective anger in the spy's chest. A metallic tang filled Allyson's mouth as if tasting blood on the tip of her tongue. For a brief moment, she wanted nothing more than to silence the girl completely. Still, as quickly as the impulse arrived, it faded.

Regaining a measure of composure, Allyson let her shoulders relax again. Her eyes, however, remained locked onto the armored figure who seemed convinced her honeyed words would get her somewhere with the Corellian. Perhaps if Allyson had been younger, less experienced, she might have been swayed, but now those soft words fell on deaf ears. She made a careful mental note of Serina; this was the second or third subtle attempt at influence, and though it was novice, Allyson could see how others might become enraptured by the young woman.

It would be a lie to deny that Serina Calis was attractive—but when one was experienced enough to look closely, the veil became obvious. Allyson listened carefully nonetheless, nodding slightly to acknowledge the hardships Serina had endured and those she still faced.

Yet the conversation circled inevitably back to masks, and the pieces of oneself shared, stolen, or lost. Allyson raised an eyebrow at the younger woman's words, recognizing the romanticized and knowing undertone beneath them.

"Dangerous?" Allyson echoed, amused by the choice of words. Though she knew well enough that many considered her dangerous, she hadn't anticipated that acknowledgment from Serina. After all, the girl danced among powerful Sith, serenading and influencing them. Seeing her at the Kainite meeting had made that clear enough. A faint, playful smile appeared on the Corellian spy's lips. "Whatever do you mean?"

Curiosity was indeed dangerous—especially when it involved a spy who was, at heart, a traitor. Allyson sighed softly, tapping her chin in mock contemplation. "Since you seem determined to stay at the center of this conversation," she began lightly, noting how Serina had opened herself to further questioning. "Fine. I'll play your little game."

She ignored the woman's proximity, instead leaning into it, having already demonstrated her comfort with breaking boundaries of personal space. As Allyson closed the distance, Serina Calis received a taste of her own medicine. The Corellian's voice dropped to a low, enticing whisper, the words brushing delicately against the younger woman's ear:

"Tell me why one of the Dark Councilors is associating with Nefaron. What's their role, and why would they bother protecting him?" Allyson smiled faintly, angling her head even closer, so close that the threat—or perhaps the promise—of her lips lightly grazing the edge of Serina's ear became real.

"Tell me where all the slaves went and when they left the planet." Her voice dipped lower, still edged in soft menace. "Tell me everything."

Allyson withdrew, smoothly stepping aside as her tone returned effortlessly to its usual confident cadence. "Do that," she concluded with a satisfied smirk, "and I'll answer anything you ask with equal honesty."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."

Tag - Allyson Locke



Serina Calis didn't move when Allyson leaned in.

Not when her words slipped across her ear like a blade made of breath.
Not when that sultry whisper delivered questions like honeyed poisons.
Not even when her lips lingered, threatening to brush against her skin with the weight of unspoken promises or looming threats.

She stood still—not frozen, not stiff, but anchored. Her corrupted heart beat slow, molten and viscous in her chest, a black sun that radiated not warmth, but possession. Serina did not fear the closeness, at least right now. She welcomed it. Craved it, even—because it meant someone had finally stepped inside the garden.

And gods, how she loved her garden.

When Allyson finally pulled back, delivering that smug little coda wrapped in confidence and razor-sharp calculation, Serina blinked slowly. She let the moment breathe—let the weight of the question settle into the floor between them, like blood soaking into obsidian.

And then she turned.

Graceful as always. A slow pivot on her heel, like she were turning pages in a book rather than facing a seasoned spy. She crossed the room—not away from Allyson, but around her, orbiting like a star caught in mutual gravity. Her armored fingers trailed along the edge of a silver beaker as she passed it, collecting a glimmer of soft magenta light in its rim.

"You're good," she murmured, voice low. Velvet and dusk. "I'll give you that. Charming. Tactical. You wield your intimacy like a blade—sharp, clean, practiced. Almost makes me want to learn from you."

She turned her head over her shoulder, a hint of playfulness returning to her voice.

"Almost."

Another pivot. She moved to the edge of a workbench, leaning forward to rest both hands against the surface, her silhouette casting long shadows against the walls. The light caught the curve of her cheek, the faint shimmer of violet crawling on her armor like velvet promises, and when she finally spoke again—her voice was all satin and steel. Seductive, yes, but measured. Dangerously intelligent.

"You want to know about Nefaron," she said. "And you want more than rumors or whispers. You want the skeletons before they're buried."

She looked over her shoulder again, eyes catching Allyson's. Direct. Unyielding. The seductress and the strategist finally aligned.

"Let me preface what I'm about to say with a disclaimer—this is speculation. But I know the game well enough to recognize the players when I see them."

A pause. Her tone shifted—still smooth, but quieter now, the edge of reverence creeping into her cadence. The kind of voice used in temples. Or war councils.

"Nefaron is building something. That much is obvious to anyone who's spent more than a week in his shadow. The fortress here isn't just a fortress. It's a cradle. For monsters. For soldiers. For ambition."

She turned back toward Allyson, her hand moving in lazy, graceful gestures like she were conducting an orchestra of forbidden knowledge.

"I know who walks his halls. Tsis'Kaar agents. Not all of them overt. Some… I've seen before. At meetings that reeked of secrecy and cloaked daggers. The kind of operatives that don't just 'observe'—they engineer. That's not conjecture. That's experience."

Her lips curved.

"Darth Malum."

The name dropped like a stone into still water.

"He's the only one who could afford to shelter Nefaron. He's bled people, lost agents, lost face. Kainites have boxed him in, the hatred runs deep. The Emperor barely tolerates him, because I don't tolerate him. The other Councillors are sharpening their blades, as Sith do. So… he's made a deal."

She moved again, drifting slowly, gracefully, until she was standing just in front of Allyson. Not close enough to touch—but close enough to command attention. Her voice was low, like music played just for two.

"Nefaron gives him what he needs—an army. A reputation. The illusion of momentum. In return, Malum keeps the old corpse off the leash, so long as he follows a few important Empire-wide mandates. Such as…"

She let the next word drip from her tongue.

"Slavery."

Her smirk returned—sharp this time. Knowing.

"You asked where the slaves went? I don't know exactly. But if I were Malum, and I wanted to polish my populist crown while keeping my alliance intact, I'd do the obvious thing."

She stepped past Allyson, trailing a hand along a nearby stasis tube as if petting a sleeping beast.

"I'd make the slaves vanish—quietly. Sell it as liberation. Take credit. Put a win on the scoreboard for the 'Voice of the People' while quietly ensuring Nefaron stays in compliance."

She turned, folding her arms beneath her chest, one brow raised.

"It plays well. Everyone wins. Until they don't."

She began to pace now, her words gaining a rhythm—like a prophetess speaking in tongues none dared translate.

"Nefaron's ambitions don't stop at fortresses. He wants a Legion. A third one. The one Malum couldn't pull off. He'll gather allies, crush pirates and Jedi alike, grow his myth in the border sectors. He'll finance his army with blood and plunder, not bureaucratic approval."

She glanced sidelong at Allyson.

"And when he's ready—when he's bloated with success and brimming with belief—he'll cross the border."

Her hand gestured sharply, pointed.

"He'll pass through Polis Massa."

Serina's voice dipped—low, almost reverent now.

"He thinks I'll open the gates. That I'll smile and nod as he brings his Legion through my space. Or maybe through Saijo. I hear it's quite… vulnerable these days."

The statement hung there. Intentionally.

"I would never suggest that something tragic happen to Saijo," she said, her tone still soft, almost innocent. "But if such a tragedy were to occur—well—it would certainly destabilize Darth Fury's hold. Perhaps even invite restructuring. Perhaps even… benefit the Sith Empire by ensuring that traitor forces could not use it as a staging ground. Maybe it would ensure internal peace."

She smiled—genuinely this time, but with a new dogged fire in her eyes. A fire that threatened to consume all, but yet left enough comfort to say, I haven't said I would do it.

She then continued.

"A Kainite peace. A peace our, mutual acquaintance would likely find more acceptable than the alternative."

Allyson would know exactly who was being referenced. Madelyn Lowe

"And then Nefaron reaches Terminus. Strikes at Jutrand. Makes his bid. The Emperor dies."

A long pause.

"And that's when he dies too."

She turned again, walking to the far side of the lab. Her fingers traced the edges of a map burned into a glass tablet—regions, sectors, routes.

"Malum will betray him. At the apex of the campaign. Declare himself the savior. The stabilizer. The Emperor the people deserve."

She tapped the map gently.

"Call it what you like. The Great Game. A long con. A so called 'necessary evil'. But that's the outline, Locke. If I'm right."

She turned slowly, her armor gleaming dully in the sterile light.

"And I'm always right."

A long silence followed. Then, her voice dropped again—quieter now. Softer. Almost mournful.

"I don't know where I sit in it yet. Nefaron wants me as his shadow queen. The woman who poisons stars and bends borders. I want something else. I want…"

She trailed off, intentionally.

Then smirked. The mask never slipped off.

"Ah. But that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

She stepped forward again, face unreadable, eyes alight with something dangerous.

"Now it's your turn, Allyson."

She leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. A dangerous whisper.

"Do you think she'd love you the same if you weren't useful to her?"

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Serina was frozen; her reaction was predictable. She knew the game of seduction, but she never truly understood it. Allyson had given her a taste, just a brief moment, of what it was like to be the prey. At this point, Allyson kept her distance. She didn't want to be near the girl. Already, she felt filthy and guilty being so close to someone who wasn't her.

Allyson did her best not to roll her eyes. The compliments were unnecessary, but she could see why Serina did it. Praise was part of the game. Butter the prey up before they were dragged over the grill or a pit of coals. Allyson folded her arms as she listened, not allowing the velvet words to take hold. Allyson felt her attention fade; she grew bored of the girl and her attempts. But she changed the subject at the right time; as Allyson was prepared to leave, she spoke of what the spy wanted.

When attention was back on the girl, she began to posture to take center stage in her grand play. Allyson sighed softly and waited for the show to finally begin.

Serina took full advantage of having the Corellian's attention. Every word dripped with information as it bled from her lips. Allyson was surprised that the canary sang so easily - with little convincing. Allyson found herself hanging on every word, wondering what more information she wanted to reveal. Was the girl so desperate to be heard she'd spill her secrets?

It was suspicious. Allyson felt the edge of what was happening, and she pulled back. Everything that was being said had been prefaced with an assumption. Serina was smart. She wondered if the girl knew that she was being recorded, which would make sense for this performance. Everything was on the table, even something she hadn't asked for.

Saijo.

Allyson raised an eyebrow; upon hearing the world's name, she drew little strings tying Serina's words and her potential intents. Seeing the girl make a move wouldn't be out of the realm of possibilities. After Madelyn had skewered her like a worm on a hook, the girl seemed to have more bite to her. The playful cocky grin curled into something a bit more dark as she chuckled. Serina had given up Nefaron and Malum in the same breath without a second thought.

Something more was at play, and the girl wasn't as foolish as she had come off.

Or so Allyson thought till she was met with the question. It was one she had often wondered but refused to think about. Nothing changed from her demeanor, but it took everything in the Corellian to not drive the dart tip of one of her arrows through the girl's throat. She wanted to make her choke on the question she asked. Again, the metallic tang of iron hung on the tip of her tongue. It lingered longer as Allyson exhaled and raised both of her brows.

"I thought we decided to stay away from this topic if we were going to be friends, Serina?" Allyson smiled as she shook her head once. She closed her eyes as her attention was brought up, and she sighed. "Fine, if you want this answer so badly," Allyson shrugged, keeping her tone the same and almost playful as she settled on the truth.

"She looks at me like a Forger looks at their hammer." Allyson nodded, continuing. "Useful, solid - something she can rely on when the pressure is on, and the heat's unbearable. I'm what she grabs when it's time to break something or reshape it." Allyson laughed slightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose. Doing so, she found the composure to push down her bubbling emotions - keeping them quiet and hidden behind the mask.

"When the job's done, she hangs me back on the wall—I only matter when there's work to do." The words were easy to say; they were about someone, but they weren't about Madelyn Lowe . As much as the woman tried, Allyson could tell she could feel there was something more—even when she was screaming and threatening the Corellian's life.

"I don't think she means to do it. To be fair, she probably doesn't see it. But I'm a tool, one that she can rely on. I'm the useful tool she trusts to not break."

Allyson exhaled, almost irritated that she had to explain this to the girl. She, of all people, should know tools and their masters. Serina, herself, was a tool and a master of tools. Either way, she hoped it was the last time the girl brought this subject up.

"Satisfied? Now, Why do you bring up Saijo?"

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."

Tag - Allyson Locke



Serina didn't answer right away.

Not because she didn't have a reply. No, the answer was ready—coiled beneath her tongue like a serpent basking in the warmth of its own venom. But something in Allyson's words made her… pause. Just for a moment.

There it was. The quiet pain. Folded beneath the practiced smirk, behind the cocky quips and the unflinching calm of someone who had bled too much to show red anymore. Serina saw it. She recognized it like a sister recognizing her reflection through shattered glass. And for a fleeting, awful heartbeat—she pitied her.

But pity was a weak thing. And Serina had no room for weakness anymore.

So she leaned in.

Not physically. Not this time.

She let her voice carry the weight instead—each syllable a coiling whisper, laced with velvet, acid, and something deeper. Something that moved.

"A tool," Serina echoed softly, pacing in a slow arc around the spy again. "That's what she sees. That's what you think she sees."

Her steps were slow, careful. A predator not stalking, but evaluating. Her fingers dragged idly along the wall's edge, the light glinting against the phrik claws hidden in her gloves.

"But you don't break," she murmured. "You bend. You yield. You endure."

She turned sharply then, facing Allyson once more.

"I wonder," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Do you want to be used, Allyson? Or do you want to be owned?"

The question was delivered without venom. Without irony. It was clinical. Almost… sacred.

"Because there's a difference," Serina continued, stepping forward with slow grace, her voice darkening with seductive reverence. "A tool is meant to be functional. Dispassionate. Replaceable. But something owned? That's different. Something owned is cherished. Cleaned. Kept safe. Used… but never discarded."

She stopped now, just in front of Allyson once more, though her gaze had softened—not in affection, but in dangerous clarity.

"You say she doesn't mean it. That she doesn't see what she's doing. Maybe you're right. But maybe she sees it all, and just… can't admit it. Because if she did, if she looked too closely, she'd realize how much of herself is already tied to you."

A beat.

"And maybe that's what scares her."

But she didn't press. Not further. Not now. Allyson had drawn a line in the dirt with that confession. Serina, if nothing else, knew when to press and when to step away from the wire.

So she turned.

Back to her desk. Back to the datapad.

And now… to Saijo.

She had spoken softly before, carefully—like the girl who always had something to prove, wrapped in mystery and venom-laced lace.

But now?

Now she spoke like a Sith.

"You want to know why Saijo must fall?" she began, voice steady. Cold. Not cruel, but clinical. Certain. Her hand dropped to the edge of the table, knuckles pressing into the alloy as she leaned forward, armor groaning softly beneath the strain of truth untethered.

"I'll tell you."

She raised a hand, flicking the datapad to life again with a short motion. This time, the map of Saijo returned—but more than that. Orbital telemetry. Transmission fragments. Supply manifests. Construction orders from ghost subsidiaries. The screen bloomed with data, faintly tinged in red warning tones. Serina turned it toward Allyson.

"There are ships. A lot of ships. Coming and going from Saijo under falsified civilian designations. Silent convoys. Armed cargo. Weapon cores routed through outer-sector clearinghouses with barely enough redaction to make them feel legal."

She swiped again. The map zoomed into high-resolution scans of orbital docks.

"See these? These aren't merchant-class haulers. They're modular hulls—military retrofits. No beacon transmissions. Passive comms only. No registration flags. That's covert military build-up, Locke. The kind you only do when you don't want people knowing you're getting ready to punch someone in the throat."

Serina stood upright again, letting the map flicker and hum softly beside them. Her expression was blank—not vacant, but stripped of performance. Her voice didn't rise in anger. It didn't dip in seduction. It simply was.

"Do you know what Fury's saying? 'It's a fortress world. This is what fortress worlds do.'"

She gestured toward the screen.

"But not like this."

She turned away for a moment, as if ashamed of what came next—or perhaps, too exhausted to add charm to it.

"The Tsis'Kaar will use Saijo, if not already. I know their doctrine. Their desperation. They'll lean into Fury's ego, twist that paranoia into justification. They'll say it's about preparation. Containment. Deterrence. But it won't be. It will be pretext. An excuse to act without oversight."

Her eyes flicked back to Allyson's.

"You've seen it too, haven't you? The Empire bleeding at the edges. Malum scrambling to keep relevance. He doesn't want power, Allyson—he wants a narrative. And you better believe that the moment Saijo becomes a problem… he'll sell it as salvation."

A slow inhale. The datapad dimmed. And now she leaned back against the desk, arms folded—not to protect herself, but to brace herself.

"And me?" Her lips twitched, a bitter smile that never reached her eyes. "I'm the loose end."

She looked to the ceiling now, as if she could see through the stone to the poisoned stars above.

"When Reicher governed Polis Massa, he did so with imperial blessing. The Tsis'Kaar funded the shipyard here. You know that. They paid for it. Built it under the guise of war, of the Third Legion."

Her voice grew sharper. The burn began to bleed in.

"But then Reicher retired. Or whatever sanitized excuse they gave."

Her voice cracked—not from emotion, but fury suppressed through control. Her shoulders tensed. Her hands clenched behind her arms, nails pressing into armored flesh.

"And he gave it to me."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

"I'm everything the Tsis'Kaar despise. They built this shipyard. But I control it. They can't take it by decree. So they'll take it by circumstance."

She turned now, fully, eyes locking with Allyson's again. That fire was back—not the kind that sought attention or admiration, but the kind born in women who refused to be erased.

"They'll wait for me to falter. They'll whisper that Polis Massa is vulnerable. That it's under-defended. That I've failed as governor. That my eccentricities, my 'moral flexibility', have made me unfit."

Her mouth was a hard, straight line now.

"And then they'll swoop in. Claim it under imperial interest. Reassign it. Turn it into another cold monument of Tsis'Kaar utility. No vision. No ambition. Just another fortress draped in the robes of order."

She turned her gaze away, shoulders slowly lowering. The rage ebbed—but it did not vanish.

"That's why Saijo must fall," she said finally, almost to herself. "Because if it doesn't, then I do. And if I fall, Polis Massa falls with me. And when that happens, they win. Not the Sith. Not the Empire. Them. The jackals with knives in the dark."

She looked back one last time.

"I will not be swallowed by another's strategy. Not again. Not when I've finally built something that is mine."

She stepped forward, and this time there was no smirk. No mask. No licentious lilt. Just a woman—young, brilliant, and terrifyingly aware of the world sharpening its blades against her throat.

"I'm not asking you to agree. I'm not asking you to help. I'm just making sure someone understands."

And her voice dropped—just enough to be mistaken for reverence.

"Something will burn, Allyson. Not because I want to. But because someone has to know the match wasn't lit out of hate."

A pause. A breath. A final whisper.

"But because it was the only way to keep the dark from consuming everything else."

A beat.

"When she talks about loyalty, do you think she means the kind that can be shared?"

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson let the anger simmer in her chest. Once again, Serina insisted on pawing at the one thing she'd explicitly warned the girl to leave alone. It seemed the answer she'd given hadn't been satisfying. Still, Allyson maintained her composure, listening carefully, absorbing every ounce of information Serina shared.

Serina spoke first, and Allyson's lips tightened sharply at the initial question, did she want to be used or owned? Serina wasn't entirely wrong; being used implied disposability, while ownership suggested something valued and precious.

From what Allyson could glean from the former Jedi girl, it was clear Serina didn't fully understand the nature of her relationship with the Minister. Her hands tightened reflexively, and her frustration began to fracture the carefully maintained mask she wore.

In their quiet moments together, Allyson knew she was precious. She wasn't just used, she was cherished, rewarded, praised. Madelyn might have attempted to keep the Corellian firmly outside her emotional walls. Still, Allyson felt undeniably owned in the rare, intimate spaces where those barriers fell.

Before she could stop herself, Allyson answered plainly. "You and I both know the answer to your first question." She smiled thinly, recognizing that Serina's probing was driven by a curiosity deeper than mere political intrigue.

"Owned," she admitted openly. "If I had to choose, I'd rather be an owned tool." Allyson shrugged slightly, acknowledging her place within the galaxy's hierarchy. Yes, she was a tool meant to be wielded, then discarded once she'd served her purpose.
But at least this time, she had chosen her place.

Serina moved on to Saijo, and Allyson mulled over the information carefully. It was an intriguing window into the younger woman's mind—especially her fixation on Malum. Allyson had only encountered him once; aside from his posturing and titles, he seemed hardly the threat others imagined. Still, she would dutifully report what she'd learned.

Tilting her head, Allyson smirked playfully. "My stars, you're obsessed," she teased lightly. "What did he do—break your heart? Choose another girl over you?" Glancing upwards, Allyson pretended to ponder deeply. "Or maybe he didn't even notice you at all." She blinked innocently, her tone kept deliberately casual, as if teasing a younger sibling or a friend.

"Saijo is essential as a shipyard for the Empire...what exactly do you hope to gain by provoking this, Serina? The Tsis'Kaar is silent. They don't hold the Assembly's majority; they wield no real power." Allyson pinched her nose as she sighed heavily.

"All you're doing is painting a target on your own back. You say you don't want to lose Polis Massa, but what happens if they discover you're behind this chaos? Don't be foolish and fall prey to paranoia born of your own recklessness."

Allyson wanted to shake sense into the girl. Serina was drowning in needless suspicion, convinced that unseen enemies were circling when she wasn't yet significant enough to warrant such fears. The entire plan reeked of a misguided attempt at political posturing. Saijo, as far as Allyson knew, was vital to the Empire. Serina's plan would only weaken their position.

"I'm begging you to reconsider this, Serina. You're too young to fall on your blade." Her words were sincere until Serina inevitably returned to questioning Madelyn Lowe once more.

The anger surged anew, becoming increasingly difficult to contain. Allyson's body visibly tensed. Serina's constant poking at Madelyn's loyalty scraped painfully beneath Allyson's skin. She exhaled sharply, struggling to hold back the rare fury threatening her break her composure.

"Her loyalties are none of my concern." Allyson's fists tightened, nails digging into her palms. "I choose to be loyal to her, as I've told you before. I am simply her tool for the work she needs done—that's all this relationship is. She pulls the leash, and I follow."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."

Tag - Allyson Locke



Serina Calis did not respond immediately. She didn't laugh. She didn't sneer. She didn't lean in with some well-practiced purr or offer some half-lidded glance that promised flirtation or danger.

She just stood there, looking at Allyson Locke with an expression that was—finally—free of theater.

It was just a girl. A woman. A being who had seen too much, known too little, and lived in the constant state between ascent and collapse.

The air in the lab hummed with the soft murmur of life support and cooling systems. Somewhere in the corner, a readout blinked—her forgotten studies on planetary food distribution left half-finished, eclipsed by the titanic weight of reality.

"I'm not trying to mock her," Serina said at last, voice low. Steady. A calm tide rather than a storm. "Or you."

She walked—slowly, deliberately—to the far end of the room, where a long vertical slab of transparent durasteel stood embedded in the wall. Behind it, suspended in faint stasis light, hovered the twisted generator of her lab. A malformed thing, beautiful and broken.

It throbbed gently in pulses of crimson, reacting to her presence like a wounded pet.

"I know what loyalty looks like," Serina said quietly, hands clasped behind her back. "I know what it costs. I saw it every day in the Temple—Padawans giving everything to Masters who saw them as tools, not students. I saw it on Polis Massa, where workers labored in silence just to keep breathing. I see it in you."

She turned slightly, enough that Allyson could see her profile bathed in the faint glow of the heart.

"But I can't be that," she said. "I won't."

A pause.

So long it was discomforting.

"I wasn't made for leashes."

Her gaze lowered, and when she spoke again, it was not with disdain or arrogance—but something rawer.

"I want to be the one who decides. The one who never has to ask permission. I want control—not just over a system, or a sector, or a shipyard. Over everything."

She turned back now, fully facing Allyson, arms still folded but posture open. Honest.

"Not because I think I deserve it. But because someone has to have it. And I'd rather it be me—than leave it to someone who just wants the crown to feel tall."

Her tone softened, more thoughtful.

"Do you know what it's like to look at every possible future and see none that include you unless you carve your name into the bone of history?"

Her voice didn't crack. It didn't have to.

"I see my own death in every path, Allyson. In every dream. Whether it's a knife in the back, a saber through the ribs, a virus released in my lungs. I see it clearly. And I don't fear it. But if I'm going to die… I want to die having won it all."

A pause.

"I'm losing. I know I'm losing. I don't have allies. I don't have factions. The Sith whisper about me in passing, like I'm a curiosity or a child playing in the dark with her adoptive brother's toys."

She stepped closer again—not to seduce, not to manipulate, but to connect.

"But here's the thing."

Her eyes gleamed—not with power, not with pride, but with truth.

"I might already be dead. I might already be done. And I'm okay with that."

Another step. Her gaze hardened. Her armor whispered against itself, like wind in an abandoned corridor.

"But if I have anything left—anything—I'm going to use it to carve out a moment of peace for the galaxy I've been forced to inherit."

Her hands opened slightly, as though showing something invisible between them.

"Because that's what this is, Allyson. It's inheritance. A broken empire. A dying dream. An eternal war dressed in new colors. And every one of us—me, you, Madelyn, Malum, Nefaron—we're all just picking over the bones, pretending we're still building something."

Serina looked up again.

"But I am building something. I'm trying. Even if it's small. Even if it's wrong. Even if it ends in fire."

A beat.

"So if Saijo must fall, it's not because I want to flex my power, or provoke Malum, or make some grand point. It's because I have to protect what's mine. Because he will come for me. Because the moment I misstep, he'll claim my shipyard, erase my name, and tell the Assembly I was a rogue governor with delusions of grandeur."

A bitter smile curled at her lips.

"And he'll be right."

She looked to Allyson now—really looked.

"You don't have to agree. You don't even have to like me. But I hope… I hope you understand."

She took one last breath and added, quietly:

"You chose your leash. I chose the knife."

And in that moment—without charm, without seduction, without the armor of pretense—Serina Calis looked more resolved than she ever had before. A creature not of passion or hatred, but will.

Unbreakable. Beautiful. And terribly, tragically, alone.

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson said nothing.

She noted the shift in the girl's voice—her authentic voice, the other a postured facade she wore like armor. Allyson listened, as she always did, reading between the words, watching the subtle adjustments in Serina's expression with each emotional beat. Some of it was real—things Serina believed. The rest? Delusion painted as truth.

For all her certainty, Serina didn't understand the galaxy's ebb and flow. Not really. She was still just a child—unguided, left to her own devices. She hadn't been taught to struggle; she'd been handed things. Her idea of hardship was a scratch compared to the scars of those who had truly bled. Allyson knew that type. She'd been that type.

Handed the galaxy without understanding where her boundaries should have been. Praised as a prodigy. Told her very existence was a gift from the Force. That she was born to change the galaxy.

But Allyson had seen what fate did to chosen children. In one selfish moment, she watched her people die. Her existence hadn't saved them, and Corellia's birth hadn't diverted her fate. She couldn't stop what was coming.

She'd learned to see past herself, to see the larger picture. Something Serina hadn't done. In her mind, she was the galaxy's savior. But she wasn't.

"No one needs you," Allyson said quietly, her voice flat and cold, stripped of the playful cadence she usually wore. "You deserve nothing. You've earned nothing."

She shook her head.

"I don't know who told you—or let you believe—that you matter more than anyone else in this galaxy, but you don't. Like the rest of us, you're a cog in the great machine."

Her stare was sharp, unwavering.

"You see death at every turn because that's your fate. That's my fate. That's the fate of everyone. And nothing—nothing—makes you special enough to defy that. Not even the Dead God himself can avoid death."

The tightness in her chest grew, and the frustration wasn't aimed at Serina—not entirely. It was for whoever had let her believe this lie. Let her cling to it.

"You're not the savior of the galaxy. And the things you claim are yours? They aren't. They belong to the Empire. The people. Not you. You own nothing. You didn't even build those shipyards." Allyson's voice sharpened, her words cutting like glass.

"Your brother built Polis Massa. Not you. So don't stand there and act like you're building anything. You're just throwing a tantrum because no one sees you the way you see yourself." She felt her voice rise, not in anger but exasperation.

"Instead of this childish fit, maybe be something. Prove you're more than a lost little girl playing dress-up. Prove you're worth something."

Serina needed to hear this. She needed to understand that the path she was on would get her killed long before she could become the woman she could become.

"You're just another delusional padawan, lied to by the Jedi. And when you left them, you thought you were better—but you're not. They were wrong about you. And so are you."

Allyson's jaw clenched, her fists tightening at her sides. She could still hear Serina's last words about the leash.

"We all wear leashes," Allyson said, voice low. "The difference is—I gave mine willingly."

She took a step closer, eyes sharp as flint.

"You? You hang yourself with yours—thinking it's a blade."

 

[Serina Calis]

"I will save them—not for virtue, but because they are mine."

Tag - Allyson Locke



Serina didn't move.

Not at first.

Allyson's words struck not like lightning, but like cold, slow poison—dripping into the marrow of her bones, seeping into the deep hollows of who she was. Each sentence was a scalpel, clean and precise, cutting away layers of identity with clinical detachment. And Serina… let it happen.

Not because she agreed. Not because she submitted. But because she knew there was nothing she could say that would matter in that moment. Nothing that would make her truth register to someone already certain of their own.

So she stood there.

Staring.

Eyes wide, lips parted just slightly—silent, like the wind before the eruption.

Inside, it was chaos.

Every piece of her—every stitched seam and scarred thought—rattled. No one needs you.
The words echoed through the hollow corridors of her mind, louder than they had any right to be.

She had heard it before. Whispers in the Jedi Temple. Cold looks in Sith council chambers. The slow exhale of disappointment every time someone realized Serina Calis would never be what they wanted.

But this was different.

This came from someone she respected.

From someone who she thought… understood.

Her fists clenched at her sides, the blackened fingers of her gauntlets trembling slightly as if her body were considering violence her mind already rejected. Her armor pulsed faintly, violet veins of corrupted dust glowing with the rhythm of her too-slow, too-powerful, however non-existent heart.

Her lips parted once—just once—as if she might speak.

But instead, she closed her eyes.

A long breath followed.
Controlled.
Measured.
Devastating.

When her eyes opened again, they were glassy—but not wet. No tears. She was beyond tears.

Her voice came, brittle with restraint.

"Get out."

It wasn't a whisper.

It wasn't a scream.

It was a verdict.

She didn't look at Allyson anymore. Not directly. She looked through her, past her—as though the woman no longer occupied this room, but some distant hallway already vanishing behind closing doors.

"Leave."

There was no venom in her tone. No heat. If anything, her voice had grown cold. The kind of cold that settles on bodies already dead. The kind that fills tombs no one visits anymore.

"You said your piece," she continued, turning her back now—not in dismissal, but in exhaustion. In collapse. "So go."

She walked to the far side of the lab, fingers trailing along the durasteel desk like a metronome trying to find tempo in a symphony that had ended. She stopped at the edge, where the stasis orb still hovered in its crystalline sleep. Her hand lifted. Pressed gently against the glass.

The violet glow warmed slightly beneath her palm.

"I don't need your approval," she said. "I never did."

Her voice was quieter now. Not for drama. Just fatigue.

"But I wanted your understanding."

The words hung in the air like a dropped blade—sharp, still, and irretrievable.

She exhaled.

"And now I don't want anything from you."

She didn't turn back. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't burn the room in fury or hurl curses like daggers. She didn't need to.

She had been wounded.
Not mortally.
But enough.

"Close the door behind you."

 

[Allyson Locke]

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

Allyson put her hands up defensively. Obviously, the cold words were meant to give advice from someone who had experienced the girl's pain. Taking a step back, Allyson dropped her arms and placed them into the leather jacket's pockets.

"Fine," there wasn't more she could say, and the Corellian figured it would only make matters worse if she did. With the glistening eyes, Allyson realized that the words cut deep - maybe she should have held back.

Sighing, she covered her face with an open palm as she continued to step back. "I'm sorry." Words that she didn't think she'd say but seemed appropriate.

"I said what I said because I do understand. I get what you're thinking and what you think is right for what you want." Allyson kept her distance despite wanting to shake the girl, hoping to shake whatever grip her mind had on her.

"I get it, I understand you—I just wish you could understand what I was trying to tell you." Allyson sighed once more and looked to the way she had come. It was the only exit that would keep her safe from Nefaron and his shambling guard.

"I'm not your enemy, Serina, but it's okay if you want me to be." Allyson stood on a small crate and began to climb into the shaft. One last moment, Allyson stuck her head down and looked at the girl. "It sucks to be alone, so just survive till you can find someone who you can actually trust."

With that, Allyson left, realizing she needed to work on some of her delivery if she would try and give advice again.