Private Iron Fist.

[Serina Calis]

Iron Fist.
Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Crush the would be 'pirates'
Allies: Kael Virex
Opposing Force: Daphne Ravanne
Tags: ???

"Crush them, make them suffer."​

The stars beyond the viewport were pale, trembling things—half-lost in the static fields of the asteroid belt where law and silence had once ruled. Now, the silence was broken. Now, flame had returned.

Polis Massa, for all its history of medical neutrality and sterile corridors, had found itself again drawn into war.

In the shadow of Fragment Sigma-4, Serina Calis stood amidst the low lighting and flickering holopanels of a forgotten command centre. The old bones of this place had once belonged to the Rebellion, then the New Republic, then a string of irrelevant governors who called themselves caretakers, then Reicher. They had polished the durasteel and swept the dust beneath the plating, but they had never commanded it. Not truly.

Now, it was hers.

The glow of crimson and violet played across her silhouette like warpaint, dancing in angular reflection off her ornate armor. She did not wear robes of comfort or vanity—her bodice was a forged declaration of dominance, the glowing heart-shaped crest at its center pulsing with the rhythm of corruption itself. Magenta veins traced their way across her sleeves and down her skirt panels, flickering in sync with the oscillating power conduits beneath her feet.

This was not the seat of a diplomat. This was a throne of sharpened edges and old iron.

The scent of ozone lingered in the room, mingled with the slow hum of outdated machinery that now roared with new purpose. Ancient communications arrays flickered to life—coaxed from their decay by her technicians—and above her, vast screens charted the movement of ships, both friendly and hostile. One string of crimson icons, shaped like fang-shaped vessels, pulsed along the outer fringe. Pirate signatures. Ravanne's fleet.

Daphne Ravanne.
The Pirate Queen of the Belt. The so-called Warlady of Wreckage.

Serina let her eyes trace the pirate formation. It was opportunism, nothing more—a calculated grab during the power vacuum left when Reicher Vax transitioned command to her. A window between strength and the promise of it. They had come like vultures to blood.

Serina did not tolerate such arrogance.

She turned, her cape whispering across the cracked floor. Its lining shimmered like the event horizon of a collapsing star—beautiful, but inevitable. Her hands came together in a slow clasp before her, fingers interlaced like the coils of a serpent preparing to strike. Her golden hair, loosed in soft waves, caught the light from a nearby monitor as though it were spun starlight.

Her smile, small and knowing, was carved in ice.

"This transition has let the Belt rot," she said, though no one else had spoken. "He treated this system like a hospital bed, not a throne room."

She stepped forward, her voice cool and composed, laced with the soft threat of inevitability.

"But now? Now, we purge the infection."

Behind her, aides and officers moved like ghosts through the command centre. They had learned already that Serina Calis did not shout. She whispered. She gestured. And ships burned for it.

She approached the central holo-platform. Her presence activated it with a pulse of violet—her connection to the Force laced into the technology like a hand through silk. The holoprojector buzzed, and a moment later, the spinning emblem of OPEX shimmered into the air.

Osseriton Peripheral Exchange.

Born from the bones of a failed Empire, sustained by war, and sharpened by survival.

The mercenary elite. Loyal only to contracts and credits.

Perfect.

The logo dissolved into a flickering figure—an armored man standing tall, helmet under one arm, flanked by rows of data feeds and comm filters. The OPEX transmission wasn't one of ceremony, but raw readiness.

Serina's smile deepened.

"Commander, shall I call you?" she said. "This is Governor Calis of Polis Massa. You've been contracted to do what this fractured system cannot."

She stepped fully into the projection's view, letting him see every calculated inch of her regality and ruin.

"The pirates led by Daphne Ravanne have taken control of multiple asteroid facilities on the fringe. Medical stations, sensor nests, forgotten outposts—they've turned them into guns and cages. I want them eradicated and the positions taken."

She paused, letting the word settle.

"You are not here to win hearts. You are here to make an example."

The OPEX commander remained silent. Serina appreciated professionals.

"Your logistics chain will receive full priority status through local forces. You'll have all the fuel, munitions, and planetary clearances you require. No red tape. No oversight. Only results."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Let the Belt know that the reign of mercy has ended. Let them feel the consequence of chaos. I want the last of Ravanne's captains begging the void for her salvation—and I want you to deny them."

The transmission still held.

Serina tilted her head slightly and added, her tone near amused, "If this goes well, Commander... there will be more."

She gestured toward the stars—toward the Outer Rim, the Mid Rim, and the galaxy beyond. Her cape shifted like a curtain unveiling fate itself.

"Much more."

 

[Kael Virex]

Location: Dreadnaught-Class Cruiser, "Shield-Maiden" Communications deck
Time: 10:42 Local

"If this goes well, Commander... there will be more. Much more."​

Virex flinched—not much, just a simple movement. It was as if he were going to say something, but the words had been robbed. No... changed?
Virex was always a man of action. Even in the Guard, he left his words to tactical commands and—

"Director Virex, sir."

Virex lifted a hand toward the voice off-screen, extending a finger to indicate hold on.
"I look forward to our meeting, madame. We'll be there shortly to discuss strategy and the..."
He smiled slightly before masking it again.
"...finer details."

Bidding farewell to Serina Calis , Virex powered down the communications system and approached the technician who had interrupted. He inspected the man, who simply extended a data tablet, motioning for him to look. Virex scanned it quietly, setting down his helmet before running his off-hand through his hair. He took the tablet and began to scroll.

The tablet was filled with all sorts of data: inventory, fuel reports, delivery manifests, and—

"I see. Well, if the equipment has arrived, we may have the chance to set a better impression than I thought. Alert the troops to get ready. We'll jump soon."
Handing the tablet back to the man, he grabbed his helmet off the console and pulled it under his shoulder.
"Let's get moving."

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Location: Shield-Maiden's Hanger
Time: 12:44 Local

As the ship approached Polis Massa, Virex conducted last minute gear inspections. As had become habit, Virex lead a lot of the more 'actionable' operations from the front. Logistics could be handled by techs or civilians, but there was no hiding that the security wing of OPEX was the Director's pride and joy.
Kael was in the corner of the hanger leaning against a bench, before him laid a disassembled carbines, an offshoot of the ancient E-11 used by the first Galactic Empire; similar in design but internally it was as cutting edge as it gets. Silently- Virex began reassembling the weapon. It was lubed and clean, the sight zeroed perfectly. With a few quick manipulations the weapon was back in one piece.

Virex smiled at his work, conducting a quick functions check before slamming the power cell in and unfolding the stock. He wanted action, now he'd get some.

Virex's ears tuned in to the sound of the operatives a few meters away slamming their weapons into battery before approaching a shuttle. There was a loud alert noise from the ships speaker system before a message sounded. "All hands, Coming out of hyperspace now. Ships prepare to launch in 2 minutes." Kael looked around him, the news instantly sending a burst of energy across the bay as columns of elite operatives ran to assigned staging areas and technicians, mechanics, and flight crew scattered away from vessels with carts full of maintenance equipment. They had arrived, and now he had to make a good first impression.

Virex approached the rear of one of the Shuttles and climbed aboard, behind him slipped 4 of his most veteran operatives, all dressed in signature black fatigues and armor with company logo written across the chest. Virex buckled into a seat as the lights in the hanger outside shifted from the near-yellow hue of the old bulbs, to pulsing yellow. The sound of alarms began blaring as the hanger doors creaked and groaned, the sound of metal on metal before slowly and roughly beginning to open. The noise was so loud it nearly covered all the noise of the troops and service crew moving around the area.

"Sir, standbye for liftoff." One of the pilots stated over the shuttles speaker. The ship rumbled to life, shaking for a moment as the chopping of the engines started, slowly transitioning into a warping noise at full speed. The rear ramp folded in quickly, well greased and quite- save for the hiss of preassurization one it close completely.

The Transport lifted off from the pad and entered space. Pulling out of the hanger , two 7-95 model 807 (a modern reproduction) fighters pulled up, escorting the ship. Before long, the pilots were communicating with the base. Virex stood up as the ship set down on the platform, as the ship stopped, the ramp lowered. Virex took a deep breath, adjusted the straps on his chest-piece, and stepped off the ramp onto the pad.

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[Serina Calis]

Iron Fist.
Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Crush the would be 'pirates'
Allies: Kael Virex
Opposing Force: Daphne Ravanne
Tags: ???

"Crush them, make them suffer."​

The landing pad was stark and quiet as the shuttle made its descent, save for the rhythmic pulse of status lights embedded into the platform—red and violet alternating in deliberate pattern, like a heartbeat carved in code. Polis Massa had no true weather, no sky. Just sterile air and the ancient hush of the void beyond reinforced transparisteel domes. But here, in this moment, it felt like the eye of a storm was arriving.

The platform doors hissed open.

And from the far side of the wind-swept deck, Serina Calis approached.

She emerged like a vision out of myth, haloed by the ambient lighting that cast her silhouette in a shimmer of violet and magenta. Her deep hood framed her face in shadow, lending her an air of enigma, but nothing could conceal the weight of presence that walked beside her. Not guards, not aides—presence. The very air around her bent in reverence.

Her hair, long and golden, spilled in soft waves from beneath the hood, catching each gleam of artificial starlight like it had been blessed by a thousand suns. Her armored bodice clung to her like a second skin, formed in sharp, lethal lines that suggested both seduction and slaughter. A glowing heart-shaped crest pulsed at her chest with an eerie rhythm—violet, then deep crimson, then back again—like it fed off the power in the room. Or perhaps... off the corruption where her heart once lay.

Her boots clicked crisply as she walked, the long, angular folds of her cape trailing behind her like the train of a sovereign executioner. The magenta runes and Sith-etched patterns across her gauntlets seemed almost to whisper as she passed, ancient and hungry.

She stopped precisely at the foot of the ramp, as Director Virex descended.

Her piercing blue eyes, bright as ice under starlight, met his without flinching. No blink. No movement.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was command, distilled and absolute.

"Director Virex," she said at last, her voice a low, honeyed drawl lined with something harder—something that cracked like obsidian beneath silk. "On behalf of Polis Massa… welcome to the seat of power forgotten."

She didn't offer a hand. She offered presence—the kind of presence that made one question if they were in the presence of royalty, or something altogether older. Something darker.

"I was told you were a man of efficiency. The sort who lets the gun speak in the absence of doubt." Her eyes briefly scanned his armor, the OPEX insignia, the poise of the veterans behind him. Then, a smile. A small thing. Sharp at the corners.

"I admire that."

She turned with the gesture of a dancer, gliding rather than walking, and her voice carried without strain as she spoke over her shoulder.

"Come. I've prepared a situation room for our war council. You'll find it… comfortable, in its own way. Everything on Polis Massa is surgical, after all."

As they moved from the landing pad into the corridor of polished durasteel and flickering wall-lights, her tone dropped into something more personal. Intimate. Dangerous.

"There's something about rot, don't you think? The way it seeps into sterile places. The way it wears a mask." She glanced at him sidelong, the smirk returning. "Most people think of corruption as a symptom. I've come to think of it as... liberation. A truth too many systems fear."

They entered a lift. It hummed as it descended into the inner command chambers. Serina placed her hands behind her back, posture perfect, elegant.

"You'll soon learn, Director, that I'm not here to preserve this place. Not as it was." Her voice turned quiet. Intentional. "I'm here to weaponize it. To turn this system from a hospital... into a crucible."

Her eyes closed for the briefest moment—just enough to suggest reflection, even reverence.

"I was born into a galaxy that pretended to be sane. Balanced. Jedi, Sith. Alliances, Empires. All lies. Layers of philosophy wrapped around the same diseased heart. I chose to cut it open. To see it for what it is."

The lift doors parted with a hiss.

Before them sprawled a command chamber—vast and hexagonal, dark metal walls lit only by the flicker of projection maps and data-feeds. The central dais displayed real-time fleet movement: pirate vessels, known staging points, sensor shadows. The digital heart of a war yet to begin.

She turned to him now, fully.

"Ravanne is a symptom. A relic in the wrong time, snarling over scraps like the mangy wolf she is. She took advantage of weakness. But now she will be made into a lesson."

She raised her hand. A holo-image burst into existence beside her—a cluster of asteroids turned fortress. Pirate ships blinking into formation like a blood-smeared web.

"This is your battlefield. I've supplied intel. Staging zones. Known escape routes. The previous administration kept meticulous records… which they were kind enough to misplace in my favor."

Serina approached him slowly now, stopping just within his space—but not quite touching it.

"Lead your men, Director. Hunt them. Humiliate them. Break their little empire in the rocks. And when it's done..." She leaned in, voice just above a whisper. "Leave her to me."

There was heat in her voice now—not passion, not exactly. Something deeper. Something ravenous.

Because Serina Calis did not just want Ravanne dead.

She wanted her undone.

"Do this well," she added, withdrawing with a smirk. "And we will speak again—of contracts, of reach, and of what a mercenary company might become under the right… patronage."

With that, she turned to the central control throne—an elevated seat wreathed in purple glow, ringed by neural interfaces and encrypted channels.

She sat, slow and deliberate, crossing one leg over the other as the dais responded to her presence. Status lights aligned. Data flows opened. Power pulsed beneath her.

Serina Calis was not just Governor.

She was the Queen in the shadows. The hand behind the throne. The future in bloom—twisted, glorious, inevitable.

And with OPEX at her side?

The war had just begun.

"Any practical questions?"

 

[Kael Virex]

"Any Practical Questions?."

"Yes Ma'am" Virek paused for a moment, just slightly long enough to almost ask himself internally, then continued "How many hostiles are we expecting?"
Kael was never one to waste time, it wasn't like him, so he was simply trying to gather the information needed.

Not that it was out of the question, but the deployment of a few hundred troops on such short notice may not bear well for a good first impression. Enough of that however- Virex continued to look at the woman. He noted from the room, this facility appeared to be sterile; it was too clean almost, and the 'throne' she sat on surely inferred a status that he did not have. Even in the empire he would never have such aspirations

In the pause between words this facility was quiet, not silent on account of the ambiance, but pretty damn close.

There was tension in the air, Virex adjusted his slung weapon. It wouldn't release any of the ambient tension, but maybe some of the physical on his shoulder. Oh- he thought to himself.

"If I may." Virex pulled the flap from his satchel open, stepping towards the terminal and pulling a data spike from the bag. He inserted it into the terminal, all of the data regarding the mission was instantly transferred through the ether to the Shield-Maiden.

Once the upload was complete, he detached, step back. and awaited a response.

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Serina Calis

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[Serina Calis]

Iron Fist.
Location: Polis Massa
Objective: Crush the would be 'pirates'
Allies: Kael Virex
Opposing Force: Daphne Ravanne
Tags: ???

"Crush them, make them suffer."​

The spike clicked into place with a hollow chime—one that echoed unnaturally in the stone-silent chamber, bouncing off the darkened walls like a warning shot muffled by velvet. The data was received instantly, lights flaring to life across the terminal bank with quiet pulses of deep magenta and blue. Serina's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched the readouts feed into the system—sector overlays, encrypted channels, topographical detail, OPEX unit logs.

Efficient. Predictable. Precise.

Virex stepped back.

Serina Calis shifted.

The throne she occupied was no mere seat—it responded to her, adapting with each movement. The magenta-tinted lights behind her adjusted with a faint pulse as her armored form leaned forward, casting jagged shadows across her face, the crown-shaped crest on her bodice glowing brighter now. Her hands, clawlike in their armored gauntlets, moved to the edge of the interface. She tapped three fingers against the display once, lightly, as if rapping on a coffin lid.

The room dimmed as the central holomap came alive.

Her voice followed.

"Current projections place Ravanne's splinter fleet at thirty-six confirmed vessels," she said. "Two frigate-class. Twelve gunships. The rest are smaller—interceptors, modified freighters, mining haulers retrofitted with slugs and torpedoes. Think of it less as a navy and more as a scavenger flock... drunk on stolen fuel and overstretched confidence."

She rose from the throne now, slowly, like a tide rising. The armor around her hips and thighs gave soft metallic whispers with each motion, her cape unfurling behind her like the wing of something vengeful. She approached the central dais.

"Personnel strength on the asteroids themselves—well, that's trickier. We've intercepted bursts of encrypted chatter— slicing couldn't crack them clean, but we extrapolated rhythms. Based on mass shadow readings, thermal outputs, and what I'm told are 'gravitational anomalies consistent with reinforced bunker clusters'..."

She turned and gave a perfectly blank smile. The kind that could only come from someone who had rehearsed such smiles to hide ignorance.

"...we estimate anywhere from three hundred to seven hundred hostiles spread across five primary installations."

She tapped the map again. Five asteroids lit up, red rings encircling them.

"Asteroid V-714 is the largest. Former refueling depot for med-evac shuttles. They've turned it into a comms tower and firebase. Expect point-defense turrets and shield overlays patched together from three generations of scavenged tech. Most of it's barely holding—one concentrated strike should punch through, assuming your men aren't... allergic to improvisation."

The faintest flicker of amusement.

"Asteroids E-2 and E-3 are more concerning. Evidence suggests heat shielding patterns consistent with modular hangars. Ravanne's likely storing her remaining strike craft there. Hit them early, and you may force her into premature deployment."

She walked the perimeter of the holodais slowly, letting the readouts rotate and follow her. As she spoke, it was clear: Serina didn't have a soldier's mind, but she understood how soldiers moved. Not because of charts or briefings. But because she watched.

Because she learned.

"There are also civilian technicians who once staffed the deep observation posts on F-9 and D-12. They went dark two days ago. Their comm logs show no evidence of defection. If they're still alive, they're hostages. If they're not, they're decorations."

She paused.

"And I don't particularly like decorations."

The lights shifted again—this time bringing up projections of known pirate officers. Grainy images flickered in and out of focus.

"Ravanne's inner circle is composed of former Free Traders, defectors from GADF auxiliary fleets, and one particularly unpleasant former Republic field commander who now calls himself 'Commodore Lash.' He's the one you'll want to shoot in the back—he only survives battles he starts."

Serina came to a stop across from Virex again. This time, there was no veil of charm. No dance of intrigue. Just the two of them—and the weight of war coiling around their words.

She let the data speak for a beat longer. Then, softly:

"You asked how many hostiles you're expecting."

A smile crept back, predatory and precise.

"Enough to make a display. Not enough to threaten you."

A pause.

"And that's where you come in, Director."

She stepped back from the dais, hands folding neatly behind her lower back. The cape settled in place. She inhaled, her chest rising slowly beneath that radiant, corrupted crest.

"I have… a certain appreciation," she said, and her tone shifted again—softer, almost reverent now. "For soldiers. For mercenaries. For those who fight not because a doctrine commands it, but because they choose to master violence. In a galaxy full of puppets dancing to hymns and hollow oaths, it's the warriors who know they're damned who interest me most."

She tilted her head slightly, her golden hair shifting like flowing silk across her shoulder.

"You serve no throne but the one your men choose to build with their own blood. That earns you my respect. And my resources."

Her eyes, twin sapphires of veiled hunger and calculation, locked on his.

"You'll have orbital data, encrypted access to planetary shield timings, priority over two resupply corridors, and full tactical override on interior drone feeds. I'll have my advisors liaise with your operations officers—just... remind them not to bore your men with theory. They're academics. Very excited."

She exhaled, then gave a gesture—a short flick of her fingers that carried the weight of finality.

"Get your men into position. Strike hard. Leave no doubt. This isn't a skirmish, Director Virex."

She turned to the map one final time.

"It's an audition."

The violet crest at her chest flared brighter now—just for a second, as though feeding off the gravity of her will.

 

[Kael Virex]

"Get your men into position. Strike hard. Leave no doubt. This isn't a skirmish, Director Virex."
"It's an audition."

Virex nodded lightly- no words, just body language. He reached to the brim of his helmet and tipped it lightly, almost in a strange form of salute, and then turned around.

Virex made his way towards the ship, once again noticing the sterile interior of the station—strange. He floated up the steps before climbing into the back of the shuttle. Before long, the Z-95s had come around, and his ship lifted off the pad and back into space towards the shield maiden.

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`
-OOC: Delay caused by personal situation, will post when possible, expect consistency in a little over a week.

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[Serina Calis]

Iron Fist.
Location: Polis Massa

OOC NOTE: sorry for the wait XD, been busy as hell, will get out the pirate captain post tomorrow for the combat to kick off, just been busy IRL and over boarded on threads!

Objective: Crush the would be 'pirates'
Allies: Kael Virex
Opposing Force: Daphne Ravanne
Tags: ???

"Crush them, make them suffer."​

The silence returned the moment Virex's boots left the platform.

Serina Calis stood alone at the edge of the command chamber, the hiss of the lift's departure receding behind her like the last breath of something ancient. The violet and crimson lights of the war map cast jagged shadows across her form, illuminating her in staccato pulses like the heartbeat of a dying god.

She didn't move.

Not at first.

Not until the echo of the shuttle's engines faded into the vacuum beyond the dome, and the stillness grew thick enough to cut.

Then, slowly—so very slowly—her fingers unfurled at her sides.

"An audition," she murmured aloud, but not to herself.

To the chamber.
To the dark.
To the Force.

Her voice, sultry and quiet, carried like a commandment into the bones of the ancient structure. The throne responded with a low thrum, the neural filaments brushing the floor like ghost tendrils, slithering back into their sockets. The dais dimmed. Only the central projection remained: the Belt, spinning in silent anticipation.

She turned her head, just slightly, as though listening.

"You heard him, didn't you?"

No answer came. But she smiled all the same.

"A man who thinks in ranges and formations. Who sleeps with action under his tongue. Oh yes, Virex will do just fine."

Her steps echoed as she descended from the dais. She moved like oil on water—graceful, unnatural, untouched by friction. The cape whispered behind her like a second voice, its rune-lined edges trailing across the floor in arcs of forgotten dialect.

Two aides stood at attention near the chamber entrance, waiting in silence as trained. She passed between them like a blade through breath.

"Summon my advisor," she said, still not looking at them. "The one with the broken accent and the obsession with supply ratios. I want our forces on standby—ready to move the moment OPEX opens a breach."

She paused at the threshold, hands clasped lightly behind her back. Then, in a quieter tone:

"Begin preparations for reconstruction of V-714. I'll be turning it into a forward command bastion."

One of the aides blinked. "Governor, that asteroid was—"

"I know what it was," Serina cut in, her tone still soft. "We're going to show them what it will be."

She turned her head enough to let her eye catch the shimmering light of the control room. "You see… every empire worth its salt begins with a throne. But a crucible—"

She smiled again. It didn't reach her eyes.

"A crucible leaves survivors forged in loyalty."

Without another word, she swept from the room, vanishing into the corridors like a shadow given breath. And as the lights dimmed behind her, the system waited—on the edge of flame, on the edge of war.

Ravanne didn't know it yet.

But her Belt?

It had already been broken.