(Continuing from https://www.starwarsrp.net/ams/mundane-realities.5742/ )The silence that followed after the meeting was not comforting, nor was it oppressive—it simply existed, filling the space like a presence all its own, stretching across the smooth, polished obsidian walls, pressing against the towering ceiling, settling like dust in the air. It was the kind of silence that lingered, that sat heavy and unmoving, waiting for something.
Serina remained at the head of the long black table, her fingers idly tapping against its cold surface. A rhythm. Slow, methodical, but absentminded. The reports lay before her in neatly arranged stacks, the data projected in shimmering blue light across the table's surface. The numbers were still fresh in her mind—supply deficits, labor quotas, structural integrity reports, security assessments—but they no longer held her attention.
Her thoughts had drifted, spiraling outward in that strange, quiet way they often did when she was alone.
She should get up. Should return to overseeing the construction. Should be doing something.
And yet, she lingered.
It wasn't exhaustion—not physical, at least. She was meticulous in caring for herself, ensuring that her body was never a weakness. No, this was something else, something deeper, more intangible.
The weight of it.
She was not merely building a fortress. She was constructing something vast, something that would stand against time itself, something that would outlive her, stretching beyond her reach like the ripples of a stone cast into a still lake. Control. That was what it was. That was what she had spent her life chasing, shaping herself into something unstoppable, something that would never be controlled.
But control was a hungry thing.
It demanded everything.
She reached for her glass, finding only the faintest remnants of amber liquid at the bottom. She stared at it for a moment, watching how the light caught in the curved crystal, bending and refracting. The color reminded her of something—distant firelight, the glow of a forge, the dying embers of a star.
Then, before she could lose herself any further, the doors burst open.
The thunk of heavy boots against the obsidian floor shattered the quiet. Sharp, disciplined, military precision. The sound cut across the chamber like a blade, bringing her mind back into focus.
Serina did not startle. She merely turned her head, her piercing blue eyes flickering toward the source of the interruption.
House Calis Guards.
A trio of them, clad in their striking armor of yellow, red, and black, standing rigid in formation just beyond the threshold. Their helmets—reminiscent of warriors from the Old Republic—caught the dim lighting, the golden plates reflecting faintly. The black stripe running down the center of each helm gave them an air of severe finality, an unspoken authority.
Serina did not rise. Not yet.
She simply studied them, noting the faint tension in their posture, the way one of them shifted slightly, as if eager to speak but holding himself back.
That was unusual.
The House Calis Guard were trained. Disciplined. They did not rush.
"Speak," she commanded, her voice even, controlled.
The lead guard stepped forward, removing his helmet with a smooth, practiced motion. He was a man of middle age, his face weathered, marked by years of service. His expression was tight, his mouth set in a grim line.
Serina's gaze sharpened.
"We've found something, Lady Calis."
Her fingers curled slightly against the table.
"What?"
A hesitation.
That, more than anything, caught her attention.
He was struggling to explain.
"We… don't know," he admitted, his voice carefully measured. He glanced at the others, as if searching for the right words. "It was uncovered in the lower excavation site. The dig team was breaking through one of the Rakatan substructures when they found it."
A pause.
"They won't go near it."
Serina's expression did not change, but inside—inside, something shifted.
Not fear.
Not concern.
Curiosity.
Because what she had just heard was not rational hesitation. It was fear.
Not from the guards—not yet. But from the workers.
That was telling.
She stood, smooth and deliberate.
"Explain."
The guard exhaled through his nose, as if steadying himself.
"It's… ancient, Lady Calis. Older than anything else we've found so far. The markings—we don't recognize them."
Serina narrowed her eyes. "Rakatan?"
He hesitated. "Yes. But different. We sent for translators, but they—" He stopped, swallowing. "They won't stay near it."
Serina's head tilted slightly.
"Because?"
The silence that followed was thicker than before.
Finally—
"Because they say it's alive."
A flicker of something passed through her.
Not alarm. Not disbelief.
Something colder.
Something that thrilled her.
Serina did not believe in superstition. She did not cower before the unknown.
The Force was hers to command.
And history—all of history—was meant to be understood. Not feared.
And yet…
She had spent years studying ancient ruins, combing through the forgotten remnants of civilizations that had risen and fallen long before the modern galaxy had even begun to take shape.
She knew that some things were not meant to be forgotten.
And some things were.
Her fingers flexed slightly at her sides.
Then, without hesitation, she spoke.
"Show me."
The guards saluted sharply, spinning on their heels, leading her toward the excavation site.
Serina followed.
Her steps were unhurried—but purposeful.
Her mind was already moving, already anticipating, already peeling away possibilities like layers of an ancient tome.
Something had been unearthed.
Something old.
Something that had been buried for a reason.
Chapter II
The descent into the excavation site was marked by a stark shift in the atmosphere. As Serina followed the House Calis Guard through the carved tunnels beneath her fortress, she could feel the weight of something ancient pressing against the walls. The air was cooler here, damp with the scent of stone long buried, undisturbed for millennia. Faint vibrations hummed beneath her boots, almost imperceptible, as if the very ground still remembered the power that had once surged through it.The tunnel widened into a grand chamber, dimly illuminated by portable floodlights and glow-lamps hastily set up by the excavation team. A gaping fissure had been torn into the rock, exposing metal—not rusted or corroded like one would expect from something buried for eons, but pristine.
The walls, now fully unearthed, bore the hallmark of the Rakata.
Serina recognized their architecture immediately. Smooth, dark metal panels, arranged in strange, almost organic patterns, pulsed with faint traces of ancient energy. The symbols—Rakatan script, alien and jagged—glowed a dull amber, flickering in and out of existence like a dying heartbeat. The air itself seemed charged, thick with something unspoken.
The workers lingered at the edges of the chamber, refusing to step closer. They whispered among themselves, eyes darting toward the structure as if expecting it to move.
Serina barely noticed them. She had eyes only for the door.
It stood at the far end of the chamber, half-buried in rock, massive and sealed. Unlike the walls, its surface was scarred, as if something had tried to force its way inside—or out.
"Report."
Her voice cut through the murmurs. The lead engineer—Voss, the one from the meeting—stepped forward hesitantly. He was sweating. That alone was telling.
"It's a factory," he said, voice uneasy. "Or at least, it was. Our scans are incomplete, but the subterranean structure extends far deeper than we initially estimated. Much deeper. There's some kind of power source still active, but we don't know what it's fueling."
Serina turned to him, her expression unreadable.
"Have you opened it?"
Voss hesitated. "We… attempted to. The main door won't budge. The metal is unlike anything we've encountered—it resists cutting torches, plasma drills, even detonite charges. And there's something else."
He motioned to a nearby technician, who quickly brought up a datapad. The screen flickered to life, displaying a feed from their earlier scans. It showed the interior of the structure—at least, what little they could see through the small breaches they had managed to make in the outer casing.
What Serina saw made her eyes narrow.
Rows of machines.
Not modern machinery—not even ancient Sith or Old Republic technology. This was Rakatan. Twisted, organic-looking constructs, their surfaces blackened with time, yet unbroken.
And they were still active.
Faint pulses of orange light flickered along their surfaces, stretching through conduits like veins in a long-forgotten beast. The power—dormant, but alive—flowed through the structure in pulses.
A heartbeat.
Serina handed the datapad back. Fascinating.
The Rakata, the builders of the Infinite Empire, had mastered technology so advanced that even the Sith had struggled to replicate it. But the Empire had fallen. Their creations had been lost. Their factories, their armies, their weapons—all of it had faded into legend.
Yet here, buried beneath Rakata Prime, one of their factories remained.
And it still lived.
Serina turned back to the great sealed door. Her fingers flexed slightly at her sides.
She wanted in.
"Stand back," she commanded.
The workers obeyed without hesitation, scrambling backward. The House Calis Guards remained firm, but their stances shifted, their fingers resting near their weapons. They were disciplined soldiers, trained to be unshakable—yet Serina could feel their unease.
She didn't blame them.
Serina extended her hand toward the door, reaching out with the Force.
The moment her consciousness brushed against the structure, a shockwave of sensation struck her mind.
Darkness. Power. Memory.
The factory knew she was there.
A deep, thrumming resonance shook the chamber, the very air crackling with unseen energy. The amber lights on the door flared—not as a warning, but as an acknowledgment.
She pressed harder.
Through the Force, she could feel the factory's will. It was not sentient, not in the way a living thing was, but it had been designed to serve. The Rakata had built it for a singular purpose.
To create.
To manufacture.
To build weapons of war.
Serina's lips parted slightly. This was a prize beyond value. If she could control it, if she could bend it to her will—
The door shuddered.
The amber script flickered—then shifted. The runes reformed, rearranging, and for the first time in thousands of years, a mechanical hiss filled the air.
Then, with a slow, grinding motion, the massive door began to open.
The chamber trembled. Dust and rock crumbled from above as the ancient gears fought against time itself, peeling away the seal of ages. A deep, mechanical groan echoed from the depths beyond, the sound of something awakening.
The workers fled. The guards raised their weapons.
Serina stepped forward.
As the door fully parted, a wave of stale, cold air rushed out from within. The darkness beyond was absolute, broken only by the dim, pulsing glow of ancient consoles flickering back to life.
And then—
A single, massive shape loomed in the shadows beyond the threshold.
It was a machine. No—an automaton. Towering, twice the height of a man, its form obscured by time and dust. Its surface, once pristine, was now worn with age—but not broken.
Then—
A single, searing orange eye flared to life in the darkness.
A sound followed. Not words, not language—just a deep, reverberating pulse that shook the walls.
Serina stared.
Her heart did not race. She did not flinch.
Instead—she smiled.
"Fascinating."
Chapter III
The orange eye burned like a distant star on the verge of collapse, its searing light casting elongated shadows across the cavernous hall beyond the doorway. It was not the cold, sterile glow of modern technology, nor was it the calculated illumination of a tactical display. It was something older, something that pulsed like the last embers of a dying fire, flickering between life and oblivion. And yet, even in its faded, fractured state, the machine's gaze was piercing, its singular lens fixed unblinkingly on her.
The factory stirred.
The air was thick with a low, mechanical hum, resonating through the stone and metal alike. It was not the idle drone of dormant machinery but something deeper, more deliberate. It was a sound that carried weight, a sound that acknowledged the passage of time and the presence of something new. It was waking up.
Serina did not step back.
The House Calis Guards held their positions, their discipline preventing them from outright retreat, but she could feel their unease. The subtle shifts in their stance, the way their hands hovered near their weapons—they were soldiers, trained to face the unknown, but this?
This was something they did not understand.
The workers were gone. They had vanished the moment the factory had stirred, scrambling back up the excavation tunnels like frightened vermin fleeing a collapsing burrow. They had felt something—perhaps not the power itself, but the weight of it—and they had run.
Serina barely noticed their absence.
Her focus was singular, her thoughts a controlled whirlwind of calculation. She cared only for what stood before her.
For what lay beyond the threshold.
The automaton in the doorway shifted, dust cascading from its massive frame in a slow, silent avalanche. Its form, once obscured by time, was now revealed—sleek, elongated limbs of obsidian-black metal, polished yet etched with intricate Rakatan engravings that pulsed dimly, responding to the factory's newfound energy. Its frame was not purely mechanical, nor was it organic. It was something in between—a fusion of science and will, a relic from an empire that had long since turned to dust.
This was no mere droid.
No mindless construct, no assembly-line worker.
This was a guardian.
And it had just awoken.
Serina did not hesitate. She extended a hand, her fingers outstretched, reaching through the Force toward the machine.
The reaction was instantaneous.
A deep, electronic thrum rippled outward, shaking the very foundations of the chamber. The air vibrated with unseen currents of energy, the ancient conduits shuddering as the machine's engravings flared with cascading patterns of amber light, shifting, rearranging—recognizing.
Then—
A voice.
It did not emerge from a speaker. It did not reverberate through the air.
It was projected directly into her mind.
"WHO COMMANDS?"
Serina's fingers twitched.
It had spoken in Rakatan, yet her mind processed it effortlessly. Not because she had studied the language—but because the machine had forced her to understand.
It was testing her.
She straightened, lifting her chin slightly.
"I do," she said, her voice a blade honed to precision. "Serina Calis."
Silence.
The walls of the factory pulsed in time with the deep hum of unseen mechanisms. The ancient conduits flickered, patterns of amber luminescence flowing through them like dying embers reigniting into flame. It was as if the entire structure was listening.
Then—
"NOT RAKATA."
A low, reverberating churn echoed from deeper within the factory, the sound of gears and machinery awakening for the first time in thousands of years.
Then—a second eye flickered to life, distant and buried deeper within the darkness beyond.
More were waking up.
Serina did not waver.
"No," she admitted, her voice even. "But I am your superior now."
The automaton shifted—not aggressively, but curiously.
For something that had been buried beneath the surface for countless centuries, it was not hostile. It did not attack, did not lash out.
It was assessing.
Calculating.
"YOU… CLAIM… AUTHORITY."
The factory rumbled in response.
The power that had once been fractured and scattered now surged through the structure in disjointed pulses. The walls shuddered as dormant systems flickered back to life, their displays still corrupted but reorganizing, struggling to remember what they had once been.
And yet—
It did not reject her.
Serina exhaled slowly through her nose.
That was telling.
The Rakata had ruled through will, through dominance. Their technology obeyed only those who proved worthy.
And Serina—
Serina was nothing if not worthy.
She stepped forward.
Not cautiously. Not hesitantly. With purpose.
Past the House Calis Guards. Past the threshold. Past the stale, dust-laden air that had not been disturbed in millennia.
The guardian did not stop her.
Instead—
It stepped aside.
The guards tensed, their weapons half-raised, but Serina barely noticed.
Her attention was elsewhere.
The interior of the factory stretched before her, its scope far grander than she had imagined. The main hall was vast, cavernous—larger than any known Rakatan ruins she had ever encountered. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, vanishing into darkness where massive metal beams twisted into intricate latticework, forming the skeleton of an empire long buried.
Rows of inactive war machines lined the hall, their sleek frames suspended in cradles, their surfaces layered with dust and time.
Some she recognized—Rakatan battle-drones, their unsettlingly organic frames still intact despite their age. Others…
Others were something else.
Serina's gaze swept across the walls, taking in the inscriptions. Ancient symbols, etched deep into the blackened metal, their meanings unclear—but she could feel them.
The power that thrummed through them.
This was not just a factory.
It was a forge.
And it was not dead.
She stepped forward, slowly raising a hand, pressing her palm against the nearest control panel.
The metal was cold.
But beneath it, she could feel something pulsing.
Through the Force, she could sense its purpose.
This place had been designed to build.
To create weapons.
To manufacture war.
She inhaled, a slow, measured breath.
And for the first time in years, a new thought crept into her mind.
What if I didn't just control this place?
What if I made it work again?
The possibilities unfolded before her, vast and endless.
This was not a dead ruin.
The machines were dormant, not destroyed.
The power was fractured, not extinguished.
She could restore it.
She could bend it to her will.
This factory—this remnant of a forgotten empire—could become hers.
Serina's fingers curled against the panel.
A slow, deliberate smile flickered across her lips.
And in the darkness—
The machines waited.
Chapter IV
The holoprojector's glow pulsed softly, casting shifting blue light across the dark walls of Serina's war chamber. The schematics of the Rakatan factory sprawled before her, an intricate and alien lattice of power conduits, manufacturing bays, and ancient control systems. The factory was awake—partially, at least. It had begun to breathe again, but its lungs were still filling, its heart still weak.Serina stood before the display, arms folded, her mind an ever-moving current of calculation. Across the table, Voss and Miren watched her carefully, both aware that every piece of information they provided was being weighed, measured, and dissected within her mind before she even responded.
Miren, ever the pragmatist, was the first to break the silence.
"Lady Calis," she began, adjusting the controls on the holoprojector. The display shifted, highlighting three primary sectors of the operational floors. "We've confirmed that the factory is capable of producing three categories of war assets, even in its current incomplete state. However..."
She hesitated.
Serina's gaze flicked to her. "However?"
Miren exhaled slightly. "Production is going to be excruciatingly slow. Even with what little we've restored, we estimate it will take an immense amount of effort and resources to even get the factory to twenty-five percent efficiency. Right now, we're operating at... maybe five percent."
Serina's fingers tapped lightly against the obsidian table, her expression unreadable.
"Elaborate," she ordered.
Voss took over now, stepping forward and zooming in on the first production category. The holoprojector shifted, displaying the skeletal remains of ancient, long-dormant assembly lines.
"The first sector we've brought online is dedicated to war droids. The Rakatan factory was clearly designed to produce autonomous combat units, though the exact designs appear to be... flexible." He glanced at Serina, as if choosing his next words carefully. "It seems that the droids built here are not bound to a singular template. Unlike modern droid foundries, which follow set blueprints, this facility is capable of... designing."
Serina's lips curled slightly, just a hint of a smirk. "Meaning?"
Miren keyed in another command. The projection zoomed in on what appeared to be a partially reconstructed control interface—the terminal that dictated how war droids were assembled.
"Meaning, Lady Calis, that you will dictate their form," Miren explained. "The factory doesn't come preloaded with a catalog of models—it's a blank slate. You'll have to manually create or modify the designs yourself. The system will assist, but it will not simply give us ready-made units."
Serina nodded slowly. That made sense. The Rakata had not needed preset schematics—they had created war machines as they saw fit, on demand. This factory was not meant for mass production in the traditional sense; it was meant for innovation, for adaptation, for war without stagnation.
"Slow production means what, exactly?" she asked.
Voss folded his arms. "At present capacity? If we fully commit resources, we might be able to produce a single droid prototype every couple of weeks. If we attempt to mass-produce a small force? We're looking at months, even for a minimal deployment. The assembly lines are functional, but they are not optimized—not yet."
Serina absorbed this, her face betraying no emotion.
"Next category," she said.
Miren switched the projection, shifting the display to a different section of the facility.
"The second category is weapons and armor," she said. "This sector of the factory appears to have been designed to produce personal armaments and defensive systems, but—like the droid foundries—it lacks preset templates. The factory will require design input before it can begin fabrication."
Voss interjected, rubbing his temple as if the sheer complexity of the system was a weight on his mind. "It's not as simple as pressing a button and getting a blaster or a blade. The production system will require detailed schematics—or at the very least, raw conceptual frameworks—before it can begin manufacturing anything."
Serina narrowed her eyes slightly. "Meaning I will need to craft these weapons myself before it can build them."
"Exactly," Miren confirmed. "The factory won't allow us to replicate existing weapons. We tried feeding it standard plasma rifle designs, but the system rejected them. It appears to demand something new—or at least, something that aligns with its own logic. If we want weapons, we'll need to design them from the ground up."
Serina exhaled slowly, turning the thought over in her mind. This was not a limitation—it was an opportunity. The Rakata had designed this factory to create weapons beyond what had existed before, to craft innovations rather than imitations.
She found that... satisfying.
"And production speed?" she asked.
Miren shook her head. "Not much better than the droids. A single weapon prototype will take days, maybe a week, depending on complexity. Mass production is out of the question, at least for now."
Serina accepted this with a slow nod.
"Final category."
The display shifted once more, highlighting the most complex and heavily damaged sections of the first operational floors.
"Light vehicles," Voss said simply. "This was the most difficult section to restore, and it's still barely functioning. The factory has a designated production line for combat vehicles, likely for ground operations or planetary skirmishes."
Serina's gaze flicked toward him. "How much functionality do we have?"
Miren exhaled. "Very little. The entire sector is running on emergency power, and it's clear this was not meant for producing massive war machines. No tanks, no walkers—not yet, at least. The system is capable of creating light attack craft, but, again—"
"I must design them myself," Serina finished.
Miren nodded.
Voss gestured toward the lower sections of the map, where the data was still blurred, incomplete, unknown. "And this is just what we have access to now," he said. "The deeper levels are still a mystery. If the Rakata had sections dedicated to larger-scale production, it would be further down. What we have now is only the surface."
Serina studied the projection, her thoughts unfolding like a web.
Three categories.
War droids. Weapons and armor. Light vehicles.
A factory that did not simply manufacture, but required ingenuity. A facility that demanded design, creativity, innovation.
Serina's fingers curled lightly against the edge of the table.
Slow production. Tediously slow. But she could fix that.
The Rakatan systems were old, but they were not static. They could be repaired, optimized, rebuilt.
A month ago, the factory had been a buried corpse.
Now? It was breathing again.
And soon—it would roar.
Serina lifted her gaze.
"The control interface," she said. "Show me how to access it."
