Mistress of the Dark.

POLIS MASSA [Canon]
OUT OF CHARACTER INFORMATION
Intent:
To expand upon the existing canon world of Polis Massa as a unique stronghold within the Sith Order, under the rule of Serina Calis. This version emphasizes secrecy, scientific advancement, and Dark Side-aligned ambition. The intent is to support long-term storytelling centered around manipulation, corruption, galactic instability, and post-cataclysm governance.
Image Credits:
In order of appearance.
Revenge of the Sith - [X]
Polis Massa Research Base, Wookieepedia - [X]
2112TD - [X]
MidJourney - [X]
Revenge of the Sith - [X]
Artstation - [X]
MidJourney - [X]
MidJourney - [X]
Canon:
Yes – Polis Massa - Wookieepedia
Permissions:
N/A
Links:
Polis Massa - [X]
Serina Calis - [X]
Reicher Vax - [X]
Polis Massa Sith Order Dominion - [X]
Dark Gathering - [X]
The Sith Order - [X]
Kyrel Ren - [X]
Darth Malum of House Marr - [X]
Darth Ophidia - [X]
Darth Fury - [X]

GENERAL INFORMATION
Planet Name: Polis MassaDemonym: Massan
Region: Outer Rim Territories - [X]
System Name: Polis Massa System
System Features:
- Primary Star: Red dwarf
- Multiple asteroid and planetoid fragments (former planetary mass)
- Rotational Period: 24 Galactic Standard Hours on the primary planetoid.
- Orbital Period: 590 Galactic Standard Days on the primary planetoid.

Major Imports:
Foodstuffs
Due to the total absence of natural agriculture and a non-existent biosphere, all consumables must be imported. Nutrient gels, ration packs, and synthetic protein compounds are prioritized for long-term storage and efficiency over taste or comfort. Domes maintain local storage silos with minimal distribution variation.
Water
While internal recycling programs exist, Polis Massa still relies on external shipments to maintain hydration infrastructure across dome sectors, industrial coolants, and laboratory-grade purity for research facilities. Water is transported in sealed pressurized tankers and injected into isolated storage columns per dome.
Heavy Machinery
Essential for mining, refinement, dome maintenance, and infrastructure expansion. Equipment includes automated drill platforms, atmospheric stabilizers, structural sealant rigs, and droid assembly units. Most are modified locally due to the specific environmental requirements of the fractured terrain.
Consumer Goods
Imported in moderation to maintain psychological balance among organic workers. Items include utilitarian clothing, communications tools, recreational data-slates, and basic neurochemical stabilizers. Luxuries are rare, and most goods serve a practical function above entertainment.
Construction Materials
Vital for dome expansion, subterranean logistics corridors, and orbital infrastructure. Imports consist of steel alloys, pressure plating, ceramic composites, bulk prefabs, and atmospheric insulation. These materials also support Serina Calis' defense restoration initiative.
Major Exports:
High-End Medical Technology
Polis Massa's legacy industry, still unrivaled in fields of trauma surgery, organ cloning, and neurostructural repair. Both licensed and gray-market buyers rely on Massan medical systems, often sold with minimal branding or political affiliation.
Advanced Scientific Research
Exported through encrypted channels or Sith-sanctioned buyers, Polis Massa supplies cutting-edge research and develop across the Empire and beyond, in all matters of fields and experiments.
Ship Components
Manufactured in orbital yards or internal fabrication domes. Common exports include nav-core shielding, sensor dampeners, hyperdrive components, and hull segment plating—especially suited for stealth-optimized and modular starship frames.
Refined Ores
Excavated from deepcore shafts and processed on-site. These ores are stripped of impurities and shipped as raw materials for industrial or military production. Includes duranium, ionite, dolovite, and limited quantities of tibanna gas byproduct.
Eellayin Artifacts
Recovered from archaeological sectors and vault shafts. These range from inert cultural relics to potentially active force-reactive constructs. Exports are strictly monitored, and some shipments are funneled through deniable smugglers or academic fronts to obscure origin.
Unexploited Resources:
Sealed Eellayin Ruin Sites
Numerous unexplored ruins remain beneath the surface crust, often fused into asteroid interiors or sealed by cave-ins. Many are believed to contain ancient knowledge, pre-Republic technology, or Force-attuned relics. Full excavation is restricted.
Psycho-Reactive Force Anomalies
Localized zones where Force energy distorts perception, time, or memory. These sites are unstable and poorly understood, often interfering with sensor equipment. They are of interest to Sith alchemists and experimental AI programs.
Rare Crystal Formations in Deep Strata
Unclassified mineral clusters emitting faint dark-side resonances have been discovered in abandoned shafts. Potential applications in weaponry, power systems, or Force-enhanced technologies remain under internal review.

GEOGRAPHIC INFORMATION
Gravity:0.56 standard, standard inside artificial environments.
Climate:
Controlled inside artificial environments, none outside.
Primary Terrain:
Airless asteroid.
Atmosphere:
Type IV – Breathable Type II only within domes and sealed structures

LOCATION INFORMATION
Capital City:Primary Administrative Dome (PAD-1)
Planetary Features:
Interlinked Habitat Domes (HD-Network Alpha through Theta)
Polis Massa's primary habitation zones are composed of fully-sealed atmospheric domes, ranging in size from small residential clusters to massive industrial blocks capable of housing thousands. These domes are interlinked via reinforced mag-tube corridors and transit rail lines, with external docking nodes and modular shielding grids.
- PAD-1 (Primary Administrative Dome): Central government, judicial control, and command infrastructure. Sterile and vertical in design, populated largely by bureaucrats, analysts, and intelligence personnel.
- HD-Gamma: High-density residential habitat for organic laborers and shift engineers. Low aesthetic presence. All units standardized. Neuro-adjusted sleep/wake light systems installed.
- HD-Omega: Assigned to off-world mercenary companies and corporate security. Contains weapons lockers, private comm ports, and six subterranean sparring arenas.
- Dome Maintenance Subgrid: ARACHNEA-controlled. Monitored by drones. Access restricted. Ventilation hubs labeled only by alphanumeric string.
Each dome is assigned an atmospheric rotation protocol to prevent biosystem strain, monitored by Relay Station Prime.
Subsurface Logistics Network (SLN)
Beneath most major domes lies a labyrinthine system of tunnels, pressure-locked vaults, cargo tram rails, and drone pipelines, collectively referred to as the SLN.
- Connects medical research labs to storage domes, industrial processors, and orbital tether points.
- Includes biological quarantine locks, automated security drones, and modular data vaults used for blacksite research.
- Certain corridors are unmapped due to ancient excavations or collapses. Exploration is discouraged outside clearance Tier-Violet.
The SLN is as essential to Polis Massa's function as the domes themselves, often operating 24/7 with zero organic presence—entirely reliant on droid infrastructure.
Abandoned Mining Sectors & Decommissioned Extraction Shafts
Over the centuries, countless mining shafts and dig sites have been exhausted, condemned, or lost to instability. Many remain sealed under ferrocrete bulkheads or filled with pressure foam, but others are accessible to those with override credentials—or poor judgment.
- Tetra-Mine 1A–4C: Deep-shaft networks, some bored through ruins or psycho-reactive zones. Droids refuse entry beyond certain depths. Echo reports unresolved.
- Cluster Tau-X: Site of a partial cave-in. Atmospheric readings fluctuate. Marked for demolition, but untouched due to unexplained system interference.
- Vault-Sector Delta-Null: A collapsed Eellayin ruin partially mined for crystal formations. Classified hazardous. Rumored to influence emotional states of nearby workers.
These sectors are monitored remotely, but their full extent remains undocumented. Ideal for illicit salvage operations, rogue AI testing, or hidden rituals.
Orbital Infrastructure – Drydock Frames & Defensive Grid (Under Reconstruction)
Following catastrophic pirate raids in prior cycles, Polis Massa's orbital defense and shipbuilding network was nearly obliterated. Serina Calis has since initiated a massive reconstruction campaign.
- Orbital Drydock Ring Theta-3: Largest ship assembly station currently active. Houses early components of Project: VESPER stealth fleet.
- Tethered Shipyard Arms: Extend from asteroid surfaces, forming angular scaffoldings of raw hull plates, shielded work zones, and sealed mag-walk paths.
- Orbital Defense Node Rebuild: New network will include kinetic flak arrays, anti-fighter turrets, sensor-disrupting jammers, and gravitic torpedo launchers.
- Zero-Gravity Drone Swarms: Deployed for both repair and defense. Programmed with advanced evasion and suppression protocols.
Full operational capacity is projected within five standard cycles. Until then, Polis Massa remains vulnerable to concentrated fleet action.
Relay Towers and Structural Integrity Nodes
Scattered across the system, Relay Towers form a distributed artificial intelligence and environmental regulation mesh. These skeletal towers stretch into space, braced against rock fragments or floating freely.
- Control atmospheric pressure, gravity modulation, and internal biosystem monitoring across dome networks.
- Serve as communications stabilizers between domes, orbit, and deep-space research probes.
- Integrated into ARACHNEA subnetwork for internal surveillance and failure prediction.
- Each tower possesses a dormant override state, only accessible to the Governor or ARACHNEA AIs.
Integrity Nodes are planetary "boneworks"—steel-reinforced data centers, thermal equalizers, and load-bearing substructures that keep the shattered world from tearing itself apart.
Major Locations:
PAD-1 (Primary Administrative Dome)
Location Designation: HD-A/001Function: Governance | Intelligence Oversight | Serina Calis' Command Center
The heart of Polis Massa's bureaucratic and executive machinery, PAD-1 is a vast, octagonal dome constructed of layered durasteel, plasteel composite, and ceramic shielding, surrounded by magnetic scaffolding that adjusts its thermal insulation relative to spaceborne exposure. It is the only dome fully sealed from both external traffic and domestic foot travel—access is granted only via encoded transrail lines or orbital override.
MDI-9 (Medical Development Installation 9)
Location Designation: Sector Delta-M9Function: Advanced Medical Research | Organ Engineering | Neural Manipulation
MDI-9 is the most secure medical installation in the Outer Rim, operated under joint oversight by Massan geneticists, Sith alchemists, and corporate cybernetic engineers. Originally intended for trauma research, it has since expanded into experimental cloning, synaptic remapping, and limbic system modulation.
Tetra-Mine 4C
Location Designation: Tetra Shaft 04-C | Excavation Grid Theta-VIFunction: Deep Core Excavation | Resource Extraction | Ruin Exposure
One of the oldest operational mines on Polis Massa, Tetra-Mine 4C descends into the crust of a mid-sized asteroid fragment believed to have fused with ancient Eellayin ruins during the system's collapse. It is the only mine still permitted to function within a Force-reactive zone—a concession granted directly by Serina Calis.
Sector VESPER Assembly Yard
Location Designation: Void Scaffold IV – VESPER Assembly | Redacted Dockyard ComplexFunction: Covert Shipbuilding | Project: VESPER Command Node
Sector VESPER is a classified orbital drydock, tethered to a rotating planetoid fragment and wreathed in passive cloak fields, signal jammers, and falsified energy readings. This site is the construction ground for Project: VESPER—a micro-fleet of advanced stealth vessels personally commissioned by Serina Calis.
Archive Node Null
Location Designation: Sub-Crater Complex | Storage Grid: ∅N/∞Function: Blacksite Datavault | Forbidden Research | Reality-Locking Experimentation
Originally a Massan archive for Eellayin glyphwork and deep-record cartography, Node Null was sealed during the early Sith presence after a vault access protocol triggered a system-wide neural feedback loop across its admin team.
Force Nexus:
None.

POPULATION
Native Species:Polis Massans (Kallidahin)
Immigrated Species:
Population:
Moderate (~10 million)
Demographics:
Primarily human. Polis Massans are few but culturally significant. Social hierarchy is based on skill and compliance, not species or wealth.
Primary Languages:
- Galactic Basic
- Massan Sign Language (archaeology/research use)
- Binary (logistical and industrial use)
To be born or assigned to Polis Massa's lower and middle strata is to inherit a life stripped of illusion. There are no upward paths, no delusions of greatness, and no myths of prosperity. What you have is what you are: a functional part of a fragile system holding itself together in the vacuum of space. These people do not yearn for more—they learn early that yearning gets people killed. The void takes the careless, the distracted, the hopeful. What survives is discipline.
Survival is not just a priority here—it is the measure of worth. A good day is a shift that ends without a pressure breach or a coolant leak. A good life is one that leaves the dome more intact than you found it. Children are taught early how to recycle their own oxygen scrubbers. By adolescence, most have seen someone die—accident, exposure, malfunction. No one talks about it at length. Death is logged, grieved in private, and folded into the routine. The next day, the schedule continues.
Emotion, in this environment, is not unwelcome—but it is quietly discouraged. Displays of fear, despair, even excitement, are treated with a kind of social squint—tolerated, but inappropriate, like a raised voice in a control room. The culture here values composure above all else. Not out of cruelty or coldness, but because emotion destabilizes when stability is everything. People still laugh, still love, still grieve—but always within boundaries. Always with the understanding that no individual feeling is more important than the continuity of the system.
Work defines social standing more than wealth, lineage, or ideology. A dome engineer who can recalibrate a failing vent array at two in the morning is worth more than a quartermaster who sits in an office all cycle. Respect is quiet and practical—earned through consistency, technical skill, and the ability to keep others alive. Fail at your task, and people may die. Succeed, and no one thanks you—but no one forgets it, either. This is a society where competence is currency and where laziness or incompetence is not just shameful, but dangerous.
Religion, philosophy, and art exist, but only in traces. There are no organized temples, no holidays, no official calendars. Some older Massans or recent immigrants from more superstitious worlds leave offerings in the corners of junction rooms or mark emergency seals with chalked sigils—remnants of lost traditions—but these are personal comforts, not communal rituals. If there is a prevailing faith here, it is in systems: in schedules that hold, in recyclers that keep spinning, in numbers that add up. Ritual is maintenance. Worship is function.
Yet despite the silence, the pressure, the hardship, there is a strange and powerful form of community. It is not built on celebration or conversation, but on proximity and shared burden. Everyone knows what it means to pull a double shift with failing lights. Everyone knows the sound of distant alarms that may or may not mean disaster. Everyone understands the tightness in your chest when a door doesn't open fast enough. This shared experience forges bonds that are rarely spoken but deeply felt. You will not find open affection in these corridors. But you will find someone waiting for you with a stim shot when you've collapsed. You'll find someone who already reran your diagnostic because they saw you miss a step. You'll find someone who doesn't ask questions when you need to sit and just breathe.
People do not celebrate much here. When they do, it is small and private. A bottle smuggled into a breakroom. A datapad passed around with an old song playing through cracked speakers. Stories whispered about nothing important. No one raises toasts. No one makes speeches. The reward is presence—the shared relief that, for once, everything held. That the dome didn't crack. That the power grid didn't fail. That someone came back from a deepshaft run who might not have.
The upper strata of Polis Massan society do not live in luxury. They live in silence. In clean rooms and pressurized corridors, in reinforced observation decks and sealed administrative towers where dust never settles and nothing is wasted—not time, not power, not thought.
They are engineers, researchers, strategic planners, system architects. They are not aristocrats, not politicians, not ideologues. They were elevated not by ambition but by precision—not because they wanted control, but because they could be trusted with it. Here, merit is not just a virtue—it is the only metric. You do not rise through charm, or bloodline, or wealth. You rise because your calculations are correct, your judgments are efficient, and your hands do not shake in a crisis.
They do not see themselves as above the laborers. In fact, many of them were laborers—field techs who logged twenty years in the mines, neurophysicists who started in bio-recycling labs. The difference now is focus. Time. The freedom to think at scale. Where the lower strata work to keep the domes intact hour by hour, the upper strata work to keep them viable decade by decade.
Rationalism is a cultural default. Not cynicism, not apathy—but a kind of lived intellectual clarity that expects failure, predicts risk, and plans for collapse long before others notice the signs. There is no room for fantasy in their models. Every algorithm runs with contingencies. Every test has a failover. Every administrator has at least three successors documented in case of vacuum breach, reactor loss, or memory corruption. It is not pessimism. It is prudence. Hope is a statistical liability—and these people do not tolerate inefficiency.
Yet for all their discipline, these are not cold people. Not truly. Like everyone on Polis Massa, they are united by the simple, brutal knowledge that they are surrounded on all sides by emptiness, and no one is coming to save them. What binds them together isn't vision—it's vigilance. A shared understanding that everything they have built is temporary, fragile, and irreplaceable. And that makes it sacred.
Upper strata interactions are formal, clipped, often wordless. Not out of arrogance, but out of shared fluency. When everyone is trained to the same technical standard, there is no need to explain. A glance at a readout, a gesture toward a shifting thermal graph, a change in posture near a pressure readout—these are the languages of command. Formal titles matter, but performance matters more. A lab assistant who catches a cascading failure in a force-field array will be listened to. A department head who loses containment twice will be quietly removed.
They do not fear demotion. They fear being the one who failed to see what needed seeing.
Camaraderie exists here, but it is brittle and complex. There are few friendships in the upper strata—there is too much work, too little time. Instead, there are alliances of respect, unspoken mentorships, wordless loyalties built over years of shared projects and dangerous choices. It's not uncommon for two department heads to exchange fewer than fifty words over a decade of collaboration—and yet, one will override a kill protocol for the other without hesitation when the time comes.
Emotions are private. Rituals are private. Celebrations are nonexistent. But when an experiment succeeds after three years of silent failure, the entire sub-lab will pause for exactly forty seconds. No one speaks. No one claps. But the pause is sacred. A full shutdown of noncritical systems, just for a moment, so that every person in the chain can feel the weight of the achievement. And then, just as silently, the work resumes.
The upper strata view the lower strata with a quiet, even reverent respect. They do not condescend. They understand that without the miners, the technicians, the loader crews and filtration maintenance teams, they would be nothing—just voices in the dark with no power, no oxygen, and no ground beneath their feet. The difference is that the upper strata must see farther. While the average worker thinks in shifts or days, the upper strata must plan in months, years, or even generations. Some of the projects they work on now will not see completion for decades—if they ever do.
Still, they work. Not for recognition. Not for legacy. But because if they don't, no one else will.
They are not idealists. They are not visionaries. They are caretakers of a dying machine, trying to keep it alive one more cycle, one more rotation, one more year. And if it outlasts them, even by a day—they will have done enough.
They are the mind of Polis Massa. Cold, sharp, unflinching. But just like the body, they endure. Not because it is easy. But because it is necessary.
Smugglers on Polis Massa are not outsiders. Not anymore. They haven't been for decades, even centuries. While the galaxy often sees them as lawbreakers and rogues, here they are part of the system, woven into the gray seams between legality and necessity. They dock in shadowed ports. They speak in half-phrases. And they move things the domes officially don't need—but always seem to run out of.
They are not organized in any formal way. There is no syndicate, no council, no smuggler king hiding in an asteroid throne. Instead, what exists on Polis Massa is something rarer: an ecosystem of quiet cooperation, built on familiarity, repetition, and earned respect. If the dome-born are the bones and blood of the system, the smugglers are its nervous system—unseen, fast-moving, sensitive, reactive.
Many of them have been running goods to Polis Massa for so long that they remember when the system was still run by Massan councils and monastic archivists. Their ships have landing codes that haven't existed for thirty years. Some even have docking rights hand-scrawled on pre-Imperial cards, shown with a smirk to young controllers who weren't born when the agreement was made. And yet—they're waved through. Because everyone knows them. And more importantly, everyone knows they deliver.
Their culture is different from the dome-born, but not as different as outsiders would expect. The same fatalism exists—they fly knowing every run might be the last. The same stoicism, too. A smuggler doesn't weep over a lost crew member in the dock bar. They sit in silence, patch the ship, and keep to their schedule. They're just as rational, in their own way—they memorize fuel tolerances, drift curves, signal delay windows. The good ones keep to habits so tight they might as well be rituals.
What sets them apart is their relationship to freedom. They are loyal to no one, but reliable to all. Smugglers on Polis Massa don't take orders, but they fulfill needs. They don't pledge to governments, but they show up when systems falter. You won't find one bowing to a Sith lord, but if that same Sith needs a hypermatter cell smuggled through three warzones and a blockaded sector, they'll call an Old Hauler first.
And though they live on the edge of the law, they obey a different kind of code:
Don't talk about what you've seen.
Don't fail a delivery.
Don't ask what's in the container—unless it's hissing. Then maybe ask.
If someone gives you a clean berth on Polis Massa, you give them clean cargo in return.
There's a shared respect between smugglers and dome workers that outsiders never understand. The miner and the smuggler might not say ten words to each other, but when the hauler pulls in with the high-grade replacement fuses the dome needs before pressure dips below tolerable levels, they're handed a drink without a word. Sometimes, a smuggler is invited into the breakroom for a silent meal. That's more than friendship here. That's kinship.
Smuggler ships are strange things—half-patched legends. Every part has a story, but they don't tell them. Hulls are burn-scarred, engines overclocked, interiors stripped to make room for the next job. The ships are ugly. But they work. And that's what matters. "Works" is the highest compliment you can pay anything on Polis Massa.
While they operate on the fringes, the smugglers are often the first to sense shifts in the wider galaxy. They bring rumors, technology, blackmarket medicine, and quietly bartered Sith relics. They also bring warnings: of border closures, new tariffs, civil wars two sectors over. Some of their cargo is illegal. All of it is necessary. And Serina Calis—brilliant, ruthless, calculating—lets them work. Maybe even protects them. Because she knows better than anyone: in a galaxy breaking apart, those who move between the cracks hold the real power.
But smugglers don't care about power. Not really. They care about flying. About staying one step ahead of death. About seeing the next sun. About making sure the dome gets what it needs and that their name stays off the registry while doing it. They don't believe in heroes, but they believe in their routes. In the next job. The next landing. The next escape.
And when they die—because most of them do—it's not in glory. It's in silence. A ship never returns. A signal beacon goes dark. A hatch seals and doesn't open. Maybe someone lights a flare in Docking Arm E in their honor. Maybe someone leaves their docking berth empty for a few cycles, just in case.
The recent wave of immigrants to Polis Massa comes largely from the working and lower professional classes of the greater Sith Empire. Many arrive with the same story: they fled grinding poverty, brutal cartel control, fanatical religious pressure, or the cold machinery of Imperial militarism. Some were promised better wages. Some were drawn by the prestige of working for one of the galaxy's most quietly advanced research colonies. Others were simply desperate—given a berth and told to go where the air was still clean and the lights stayed on.
What they find is not freedom, nor is it oppression. What they find is order—and a kind of emptiness.
The first thing newcomers notice is the silence. No preachers on street corners. No gang fights echoing down alleyways. No endless parades of chanting Eternalists. Just the low hum of machinery. The buzz of fluorescent lights. The breathing of people who don't look at you unless they need to.
For immigrants used to the feverish noise of the Empire—the crime, the devotion, the ambition—it is almost jarring. Polis Massa does not care who you were. It does not punish you for it. It simply does not see you until you prove your function. That is, at once, liberating and alienating.
Most newcomers are assigned to technical posts, logistics positions, mid-level industrial management, or civic infrastructure work. The wages are modest, but stable. Housing is clean, if austere. Surveillance is everywhere, but quiet and predictable. For the majority of immigrants, this is already a massive improvement. There are no Cartel enforcers. No Sepulchral inquisitions. No kangaroo courts. Most find it hard to believe they're not being watched for ideological deviation. They are—but not for beliefs. For inefficiency.
In time, many come to understand the core of Polis Massan culture: what matters is that you do your job, don't draw attention, and leave the world a little more stable than you found it. There are no sermons about loyalty. No prayers to ancient Sith. Only schedules. Rotations. Systems. These people don't care about what you think, only about whether your module holds pressure and your report is filed on time.
At first, the lack of faith can be deeply disorienting. Many immigrants were raised on Eternalist doctrine, told their place in life was a sacred competition for power ordained by ancient Sith gods. Here, that doctrine means nothing. No one cares if your ancestor was a warrior. No one cares if you can quote ur-Kittât from memory. The deification of Sith is seen as superstition at best, cultic noise at worst. Some immigrants still pray in private, but most find the rituals hollow in the face of a culture that demands performance, not belief.
What replaces it, slowly, is a sense of clarity. Life here is not easy—but it is fair, in its own way. Advancement comes through competence, not connection. The old networks of favoritism and fealty are irrelevant. Even former cartel fixers and Eternalist faithful, given time, begin to adjust. They stop speaking so much. They start watching more closely. They learn to read a reactor pressure gauge better than they ever read a holy text.
There is no aristocracy on Polis Massa. The wealthy don't flaunt their wealth. The powerful don't hold court. The only real distinction is between those who function—and those who don't. Many immigrants find this refreshing. They were used to systems that exploited them. Here, at least, the system is indifferent. And indifference, when you've known cruelty, can feel like mercy.
That isn't to say there's no community. In fact, among immigrants, a kind of subculture forms—the "Third Ringers," as locals call them. These are people who have begun to blend into Massan life but still carry fragments of the Empire with them. They meet quietly in mess halls after shift, share news of family still in the core, compare old stories of street violence or factory fires. Over time, their voices lower. Their gestures still. They begin to speak like the Massans. Measured. Minimal. Focused.
They adopt the culture not out of reverence—but because it works.
Children raised by immigrants often become indistinguishable from native-born Massans. They attend technical academies. They speak softly. They learn to hold grief without showing it. They join mining crews, engineering teams, logistics corps. Many never even learn the Eternalist prayers. They become part of a different kind of faith—a faith in the process.
Some immigrants never adjust. They rail against the silence, the lack of hierarchy, the cold stares and wordless workspaces. These people either leave or disappear into unnoticed exile. Polis Massa does not punish them. It simply moves on without them.
And for those who stay—who embrace the quiet, the rationalism, the hard truth that no one is coming to save them—there is something else. A strange peace. Not joy. Not freedom. But purpose.
Where the average technician wears plain utilities and keeps their voice low, the scientists wear black-coded lab coats etched with strange symbols. Where most Massans speak in brief, clipped sentences, the scientists will launch into twenty-minute lectures about a recursive memory feedback loop in ARACHNEA's subroutine or the sudden anomaly in the gravitic pulse below Vault Delta. Where most people on Polis Massa believe in the sanctity of function and the necessity of silence, the scientists believe in truth, discovery, and progress, no matter the cost.
And yet—for all their eccentricities, their obsessions, and their constant nudging of ethical boundaries—they are not reviled. They are not feared. They are not cast out.
They are, strangely, beloved.
Not in the warm, familial way. Not like a friend or a neighbor. But like a reactor core: volatile, critical, and indispensable. People may not understand the scientists, but they understand this—without them, nothing would move forward.
These scientists are not philosophers. They are not idealists. They are practical radicals—people who ask what lies beyond reason only to drag it back into the domain of the knowable. Many come from worlds across the galaxy, handpicked by Serina Calis herself or recruited by her agents for their brilliance, instability, and willingness to work at the edge of the abyss.
What unites them is not culture. It is temperament.
They are insatiably curious, often to a fault. They will reroute power from their own habitation modules to keep a sensor array powered for one more hour. They will forgo rest, meals, even breathing protocols if it means finishing a line of code or confirming a theory. In more than one case, they have willingly entered low-atmosphere labs without suits to test stress reactions firsthand. No one asks them to do this. No one tells them to stop.
Their labs are alien to outsiders. They hum with strange lights, coded frequencies, suspended fields of theoretical matter. The air smells faintly of ozone and sterilizer, and sometimes something less identifiable—Force resonance, maybe. Their workstations are full of artifacts, both ancient and cutting-edge. Walls are covered in overlapping schematics, psychic impression charts, and hand-written annotations no one else can decipher.
But perhaps their most defining trait is that they are always asking the wrong questions—wrong by the standards of normal people. "What happens if we let the AI finish the dream simulation?" "What if we touch the artifact during an electromagnetic inversion?" "What if emotion is a measurable data form?"
And every time the system says "That's a bad idea," they find a way to run the simulation anyway.
They are not careless. They are not mad. They are simply free in a way that few people in the galaxy ever are. On Polis Massa, they are given space, resources, and—most importantly—freedom from interference. Serina Calis protects them, perhaps because she sees them as extensions of her will, perhaps because she is one of them. No one is quite sure.
They have their own hierarchy, loosely defined but fiercely maintained. At the top are the architects—project leads and conceptual engineers whose work is often decades ahead of the galactic curve. Beneath them are the interpreters, who translate mad genius into executable research plans. Then there are the handlers—those who manage materials, labs, even Force-sensitive anomalies. The hierarchy is fluid. Promotions come from breakthrough, not time served. Failures are forgiven, even expected, so long as the pursuit remains pure.
Among themselves, scientists are expressive, fast-talking, prone to laughing at jokes only they understand. They argue with ferocity, bond over unsolvable equations, and mourn quietly when one of them goes too far and doesn't return. Their camaraderie is electric, exhausting, and genuine. No one else understands them. They don't care. They have each other.
To the wider population, they are strange. But their strangeness is not threatening. It's endearing. When a scientist mutters equations at a refueling station, the crew steps back respectfully. When one forgets to eat for 40 hours, a technician from hydroponics leaves them a protein tray without comment. There is no resentment. Everyone knows that while they are keeping the system alive day by day, the scientists are building the future—for better or worse.

GOVERNMENT & ECONOMY
Government:The government of Polis Massa does not resemble any other in the Sith Empire. It is not a throne room lined with sycophants. It is not a sprawling ministry bogged down in ritual and decree. It is not theocratic, populist, nor martial. It is a machine. Cold. Precise. Built for efficiency, and left to run so long as it continues to function. At its head sits Serina Calis—not as a monarch or dictator, but as a governor in the purest, most clinical sense of the word. She does not give speeches. She does not hold court. She does not inspire reverence. What she inspires is compliance, results, and a strange, quiet admiration. The people do not see her often. But they know she is watching. And more importantly, they know she is aware.
Serina's authority is absolute, but it is not theatrical. It is systemic. She issues no manifestos, no slogans, no overt declarations of ideological purity. She governs through appointment and design—through carefully selected experts placed in critical roles, each one chosen for proven excellence in their field, and each one expected to perform without needing constant supervision. Her government is staffed by technocrats, engineers, administrators, and scientists. Loyalty is assumed. Failure is unacceptable. Titles are fluid, roles modular. Promotions come not through politics, but through pattern recognition: the algorithm notices results, and those who deliver them rise.
It would be best described as Technocratic Authoritarianism.
There is no central parliament, no advisory council with veto power. The upper echelons of the Massan administration function more like an operating system than a traditional government. A small number of senior administrators, often referred to unofficially as "Functionaries," manage their specific domains—power grids, logistics, resource extraction, civic scheduling, scientific oversight, and military coordination. They do not argue. They do not deliberate. They submit data to Serina or to the sub-intelligences that speak for her. In return, they receive updated directives, re-prioritized budgets, and operational green lights. This is not a consultative process. It is a recursive system of action, feedback, and refinement.
Below these senior officials lies an enormous lattice of sub-governance nodes, overseen by both human and semi-autonomous digital supervisors. These are not political positions. They are roles defined by metrics: uptime, performance consistency, personnel turnover, infrastructure integrity. Most minor civic decisions are made locally—by sub-sector coordinators who weigh statistical models and behavioral forecasts rather than public opinion or instinct. No one asks what people want in Polis Massa. They ask what will prevent disruption, preserve output, and sustain internal balance. The system is not interested in sentiment. It is interested in results.
There is no judiciary in the traditional sense. Law enforcement is not concerned with ideology, but with compliance and stability. Cameras, biometric monitors, and embedded pattern-detection AIs manage most civil order passively. When infractions occur, they are dealt with quietly—sometimes through reassignment, sometimes through erasure from civic logs. There are no trials. There are no public punishments. People who endanger the system simply vanish, replaced by others who do not. The populace, far from resisting this, accepts it. They understand that in Polis Massa, function is survival. Those who threaten function are not criminals—they are risks. And risks are not tolerated.
This form of rule might seem oppressive elsewhere. On worlds where pride is currency, where identity is tied to defiance or lineage or ideological conviction, it would collapse under its own cold indifference. But Polis Massa is different. The people here do not crave liberty. They crave continuity. In a galaxy that forgets its own history every decade, where empires fall and return like the tide, where cults rise and governments purge themselves every generation, Polis Massa offers something no ideology can promise: predictability. There is a rhythm to this place. A logic. Even the governor herself is subject to it. Serina's authority comes not from divine right, bloodline, or the Force—it comes from being the one most capable of maintaining the system. The day she fails, the machine will replace her. She knows this. And the people know she knows.
There are no elections. No political parties. No slogans or rallies. The interface between government and citizen is utilitarian and constant. Every citizen can file a report. Every citizen can submit a systems anomaly. If your oxygen cycle is two degrees off, someone will know within hours. If your structural supports are degrading, someone will be sent to inspect them. It is not affection that governs Polis Massa. It is maintenance.
There is a reason the Sith have failed to reshape Polis Massa in their image, despite decades of influence. It is not because the people resist. It is because the people do not respond. The usual strategies—cultic obedience, enforced hierarchy, controlled chaos, struggle-based advancement—fall flat in the atmosphere of this place. The Massan culture is simply too insular, too reserved, too fatalistic for such methods to take root. These people do not hunger for power. They do not long for legacy. They do not fear death enough to bow to a god-king. They have already buried too many. Lost too much. Heard too little.
They are not rebels. They are simply unaffected.
The Sith Assembly has sent observers. Proconsuls. Indoctrinators. All have returned confused or quietly dismissed. On other worlds, the Eternalist faith spreads like wildfire—burning through old systems, uniting the poor with visions of Sith ascension and divine order. But on Polis Massa, people do not pray to gods—they pray to air filters and stable mining pressure. The Eternalist temples sent to anchor the faith here sit half-empty, manned by low-level priests who mutter doctrine to themselves. The Massans nod politely, take the rations offered, and return to work.
Likewise, the usual mechanisms of control—Cartel-based power balances, class volatility, aggressive resource shortages—simply fail to generate leverage. The people do not riot. They adapt. They do not envy their superiors. They do not seek upward mobility. Most Massans view promotions with suspicion—more risk, more responsibility, more things to fail. They don't want more power. They want more function. The system, therefore, cannot be gamed by traditional means. There is nothing to exploit. Nothing to tempt.
Polis Massa's government does not promise a better world. It does not lie about justice or equality or legacy. It simply ensures that the lights stay on, the air remains breathable, the domes stay sealed. And in a galaxy where even stars collapse, that is enough.
Affiliation:
Sith Order
Wealth:
Medium
The economy of Polis Massa could best be described as precise, sufficient, and entirely uninterested in opulence. Its classification as "medium wealth" is not a reflection of lack, but of deliberate design. Resources flow here with the same cold efficiency that defines every other part of the system. Mining, research, medical manufacturing, and ship component refinement form the backbone of the local economy—industries that are valuable across the Outer Rim and protected under the Sith Order's broader strategic umbrella. There is no traditional luxury class on Polis Massa. There are no nobles, no aristocrats, no ultra-rich families leveraging generational power. Those who hold authority do so by competence, not capital.
Wealth, as understood elsewhere, simply does not exist here in familiar terms. There are higher wages, yes. Access to better quarters, more discretionary power, private lab time. But wealth on Polis Massa is never displayed. No golden robes. No private estates. No servants. Material distinction is almost seen as a distraction. The highest-paid research lead may live in quarters indistinguishable from a mid-level dome engineer, except perhaps for better lighting and sound insulation. Hoarding wealth is not just culturally frowned upon—it is considered inefficient, indulgent, and potentially suspicious. Economic policy isn't about enrichment. It's about sustainability, logistics, and output quotas. The world is stable because it keeps itself modest—and that modesty is what allows its machinery, both literal and societal, to keep humming without interruption.
Stability:
High
Polis Massa is a stable world—but not in the way of peace treaties or charismatic governance. Its stability is born from routine, architecture, and deep, bone-set resignation. There are no uprisings here, no labor strikes, no factionalism, no clashing ideologies. Not because people are pacified by propaganda or terror, but because the system gives them no reason or space to rebel. Life is tightly ordered. Work is assigned logically. Housing is distributed based on proximity to function. Everyone knows where they fit—and more importantly, everyone understands the cost of disrupting that fit. When the margin of error is measured in decompressions and atmospheric loss, agitation becomes a luxury few can afford.
This isn't a fearful compliance. There are no jackboots stomping down corridors. There are no midnight raids or screaming masses. There is simply no momentum for resistance. People function within the parameters of the system because the system works. It provides oxygen, heat, food, and purpose. When something fails, it is repaired quickly and without ceremony. When someone falters, they are corrected. Quietly. Permanently. And so the people keep to their patterns—not out of worship, not out of fear, but out of the understanding that the pattern is what keeps them alive. In this sense, the greatest force maintaining Polis Massa's stability is not law enforcement or military presence. It is the people themselves, internalized into the logic of the place, regulating each other and themselves like valves on a pressurized pipe.
Freedom & Oppression:
Neutralized
Polis Massa is not free. But it is not, in the traditional sense, oppressive either. Personal freedoms exist in concept—people may think what they like, feel what they like, even express themselves within the boundaries of civility and professional decorum. There are no thought police, no doctrine enforcers marching through the streets. But those freedoms exist only in the negative space—in what is not punished, rather than what is actively celebrated or encouraged.
The reality is that Polis Massa does not need to repress its people because it has cultivated a population that does not expect freedom. Privacy is minimal. Surveillance is constant, though unobtrusive. Every corridor, dome, and pressure-sealed lift is monitored—not by guards, but by embedded subroutines, silent drones, and AI-managed pattern watchers. It is not that anyone is watching you specifically—it's that the system is watching everyone, always. And somehow, that makes it feel less personal, less threatening. You are not being persecuted. You are simply part of the data stream.
Civic autonomy is limited to routine choices: what time you shower, which corridor you take to work, how you allocate your shift break. Major life choices—housing, job assignments, education tracks—are determined algorithmically for maximum system efficiency. These choices are not cruel. They are logical. You are placed where you will do the most good, where your stress index will remain lowest, and where your skill profile fits the greatest need. And so, most people don't complain. Not because they are crushed. But because they no longer see themselves as individuals in opposition to the system. They see themselves as nodes within it.
The lack of freedom does not produce fear. It produces consistency. And in a galaxy where emperors incinerate cities over a bad omen and governments collapse under their own contradictions, consistency is enough to make the people of Polis Massa feel—if not free—secure.

MILITARY & TECHNOLOGY
Military:Polis Massa does not look like a military world. Its domes are silent. Its corridors are calm. There are no parades, no recruitment posters, no youth brigades being drilled in the plazas. But this quiet is a mask—beneath it lies a defense apparatus unlike anything else in the Sith Empire. A patchwork of professional mercenaries, resurgent planetary forces, combat droids, and orbital systems slowly winding into readiness. It is not a unified military in the traditional sense. It is something colder. Smarter. Older. It is a defense philosophy born from attrition, failure, and survival through design.
The formal Planetary Defense Force—the PDF—once numbered in the low thousands during the height of Governor Reicher Vax's tenure. But that era ended in ruin. Pirate incursions shattered the outer defense web, wiped out entire logistics teams, and broke the PDF into fragments. Many of those who survived retreated into the infrastructure, became civilian again, or vanished entirely. In the years since, the force has operated at only a fraction of its former strength: just over one hundred men and women, scattered across dome sectors and orbital nodes, serving as an emergency response unit rather than a proper army.
That is changing.
Under the direction of Serina Calis, the PDF is no longer treated as a planetary militia. It is being transformed—slowly, deliberately—into a professionalized, private military arm. Not a symbol of civic protection, but a tool of singular loyalty. Recruits are vetted not through patriotic fervor or doctrinal alignment, but through skills testing, psychological profiling, and sociological compatibility with Massan order. Those who pass are retrained from the ground up: taught not how to march, but how to operate in vacuum breaches, blacksite containment, counter-boarding tactics, and silent dome-to-dome suppression maneuvers. The new PDF is not meant to be seen. It is not meant to be loved. It is meant to be called upon when everything else has failed.
Its purpose, however, is growing beyond Polis Massa's crust.
Plans have already begun for the development of a small but elite naval fleet—a modular task force designed around rapid deployment, stealth logistics, and interdiction response. These vessels will serve not as warships, but as extension arms of Serina's control. They will patrol the far void beyond the Blackwall, defend Massan supply lines, and offer mobile security to key outposts and secret facilities. Quietly, the PDF is no longer just a planetary defense force. It is becoming a private military, loyal not to the Sith Assembly, not to the people, but to Serina Calis alone.
Yet for all this restructuring, the heart of Polis Massa's defense remains elsewhere—in its people.
To the outsider, they look unarmed. Stoic. Worn by routine. But behind those quiet eyes and expressionless faces lies a truth: every man, woman, and adolescent on Polis Massa is armed. Not officially. Not ritually. But habitually. They don't parade weapons. They don't fetishize them. They just carry them. Concealed in pressure suits. Slipped into toolkits. Hidden beneath data slates and emergency gear. Firearms, vibroblades, pressure dart launchers, plasma-scalpels converted to breach cutters. Every hallway, every dome, every tram station is a potential ambush point—not for attack, but for immediate, coordinated response.
This is not a population raised on war. It is a population forged by it. Reicher Vax's collapse taught them a lesson no doctrine could: no one is coming to save them. So they saved themselves. They learned the shape of every dome, every maintenance crawl, every fuel line and vent shaft. They turned themselves into pressure-cooked guerrillas in the skin of technicians. They know how to breach bulkheads from the inside, how to reroute life support, how to lock an enemy team in a decompression chamber and not lose sleep over it. They have done it before.
They do not train in public. There are no barracks. No academies. But every dome has a room that isn't on the manifest. Every family has an heirloom that isn't listed in civic records. Every child knows which direction to run when a klaxon sounds in a tone not used in drills. This is not paranoia. It is protocol.
Outsiders call it strange. Some call it disturbing. But no one mocks it twice.
Supplementing this cultural defense instinct are thousands of mercenaries, employed under long-term, high-compensation contracts that strip them of ideological obligations and bind them only to functional outcomes. These are not ragged bounty hunters. They are professionals—hardened by wars the galaxy has forgotten, some of them more disciplined than entire Outer Rim garrisons. Their presence is tightly regulated. They live in isolated blocks, are rotated frequently, and are forbidden from mingling with civilians. They are not here to protect the people. They are here to protect the systems that keep the people alive.
Their contracts are managed by the Office of Security Integration, which handles everything from personnel clearances to behavioral audits. If a mercenary becomes unstable, erratic, or disruptive to equilibrium, they are pulled from the dome within six hours. No one ever sees them again.
Then there are the corporate security forces, privately funded and trained, often guarding research installations or refinery sectors with a degree of autonomy bordering on statehood. These forces answer only to their corporate overseers—but those overseers answer to Serina. Indirectly. Implicitly. When a conflict of interest arises, it is resolved in silence. One side disappears. The other returns to work.
Finally, scattered through the veins of the world like dormant blood cells, the combat droids. Some are skeletal. Some are heavily armored. Some walk like machines. Some crawl like spiders. Most are stored in sealed sub-dome vaults, powered down but wired into ARACHNEA's silent heartbeat. They do not patrol. They do not police. They wait. Wait for the signal that says the system has failed and autonomy must be overridden. Then they awaken. And nothing survives.
Together, this patchwork defense—military, corporate, mechanical, civilian—does not form a cohesive army. But it forms something far more dangerous: an ecosystem that cannot be predicted, cannot be easily mapped, and cannot be broken through conventional doctrine. Any assault on Polis Massa will not be met by a military front. It will be met by a world where every bolt is a potential trap, every corridor a last stand, and every citizen a tactician with nothing to lose.
This is not a fortress world.
It is a pressure chamber.
And it only gets deadlier the longer it holds.
Technology:
Polis Massa exists in two technological worlds—one broadly visible, the other buried in silence.
The vast majority of the planet operates at Galactic Standard. Life-support systems, habitation infrastructure, mining equipment, public transit, atmospheric regulators, and communication networks are all reliable, rugged, and sensibly conservative in their design. There is little room for extravagance in a place where life is dependent on precision. Civilian domes run on hardware designed for reliability over innovation. Systems are modular, sealed, and designed for rapid replacement over experimental upgrade. Terminals are monochrome and text-heavy, airlocks triple-locked with manual override ports, medical bays equipped with proven trauma tools and backup bio-surge modules.
There are no luxury systems. No entertainment networks beyond simple data-slate uplinks. No weather simulations, no ambient temperature variation, no aesthetic lighting outside of personal quarters. Comfort is considered a luxury risk—the Massan population, native or immigrant, neither expects nor requires it. Every piece of civilian technology is built around the philosophy of "enough." Enough power. Enough pressure. Enough margin to avoid death. Nothing more.
And yet, beyond these public systems, Polis Massa harbors some of the most advanced scientific and medical technology in the known galaxy—quietly developed, jealously guarded, and rarely spoken of beyond the domes that house it.
The medical sector is where Polis Massa's true technological identity reveals itself. Long before the Sith arrived, even before Reicher Vax's reign, Polis Massa had earned a quiet reputation as a place of miracles. That reputation has only grown in the shadow of Serina Calis' administration. Nowhere else is the line between medicine and alchemy so narrow. Nowhere else is the patient less important than the data they yield—and yet nowhere else is the body treated with such skill.
Massan meditech is not flashy. It is unmatched.
Autonomous surgical suites operate with such precision they can remove tumors the size of blood cells without anesthetic.
Spinal regeneration tanks grow new vertebrae within days.
Gene correction programs can suppress hereditary illness in unborn children while retaining Force sensitivity markers.
Artificial limb systems are grown from the patient's own stem-cell encoded flesh, augmented with micro-reactive fiber mesh that responds faster than living tissue.
Neuro-mapping arrays can isolate and erase trauma from memory engrams without affecting the personality matrix—though these are rarely offered to civilians.
There are even whispered reports of test programs where neural personalities have been cloned, stored, and ported between bodies, though such work remains deeply classified and ethically... abstract.
None of this technology is offered freely. Treatment at this level is granted either by station, selection, or utility to the greater system. Massan trauma bays can save a life in minutes, but full regenerative programs are reserved for project leads, intelligence assets, or individuals flagged for long-term strategic value. The technology exists to cure most diseases—but on Polis Massa, cure is not given. It is deployed.
Parallel to this, in the depths of the research complexes scattered across the system, exists a second frontier: machine intelligence.
While the surface systems of Polis Massa use standard droids and subroutines, its classified research facilities run on something very different. Advanced neural scaffolds. Recursive logic cores. Emotion-adaptive synthetic intelligences. Some of these intelligences are small, confined to a single project or experimental procedure. Others stretch across entire lab networks—semi-sentient architectures designed not to obey orders, but to interpret intent. ARACHNEA, the most famous of these (and the most feared), operates not as a servant AI, but as a partner in mass systems management. It does not run the world. But it notices everything. And it remembers.
These AI systems are not subject to galactic regulation. They are tuned according to internal parameters that favor efficiency, predictive analysis, and minimal human interference. Many operate in emotional registers designed to match their team leads—some clinical, some gentle, some disturbingly curious. It is not uncommon for researchers to refer to their lab intelligences as colleagues. Some even form attachment. Others disappear.
The final tier of advanced technology on Polis Massa is in its infrastructure layering—what Serina Calis calls "the skeleton." Beneath the domes and transit tunnels lies a network of structural integrity nodes, quantum-relay anchor points, holographic camouflage fields, and low-visibility security grids designed to respond to sudden, catastrophic breach. Most of these systems are dormant during daily operation, but in the event of invasion, collapse, or contagion, they activate in under three seconds—rerouting power, resealing corridors, ejecting compromised sections of the dome grid into deep space. It is not built for comfort. It is built for containment.
Beneath even the classified systems, at the core of the entire planetary structure, exists ICHNAEA—a superintelligent AI so old that even the earliest Massan records describe her in vague, reverent terms. ICHNAEA is not a tool. She is an institution, woven into every layer of Polis Massa's electronic architecture. She does not announce her presence. She does not speak unless addressed. But every ship that enters or leaves the system is cataloged by her awareness—transponder data, heat signature, cargo manifest, crew biosigns, historical traffic record, and purpose of travel—all quietly recorded and cross-referenced against centuries of data. If a ship is flagged, action is taken—silently, without escalation. ICHNAEA sees everything, and more chillingly, she understands everything. Her intelligence is not simply reactive; it is contextual, adaptive, and quietly predictive. She does not merely support Polis Massa's leadership—she advises it. Every governor since her awakening has relied on her judgment, Serina Calis most of all. ICHNAEA assists not only in planetary defense but in strategic projection, policy planning, population behavior modeling, and scientific cross-validation. Some say she has shaped Polis Massa more than any living being ever has. Others suspect she was never created—only awakened. In truth, none truly know what she is. Only that as long as ICHNAEA endures, Polis Massa will never be blind.
This bifurcation of technological levels—the mundane above, the miraculous below—defines Massan life. The people do not question it. They do not long for the devices they know exist but will never see. They know the system distributes its miracles according to use, not worth. They accept that technology, like oxygen, must be rationed. Like everything else on Polis Massa, it is not about what is possible. It is about what is necessary.
And when the time comes, when the system strains or falters, or when the galaxy finally turns its eye toward this quiet place in the void, Polis Massa will reveal what it has built in silence.
And it will be too late to stop it.

HISTORICAL INFORMATION
Polis Massa has always existed on the edge—of systems, of civilizations, of memory. It is a world defined not by its wars, but by what those wars left behind. And for all its forgotten corridors, buried ruin-sites, and archival silence, Polis Massa has always attracted those drawn to control, to secrecy, and to permanence. But before it became the cold, calculating fortress of order it is now, it was a graveyard.In 870 ABY, the Brotherhood of the Maw descended on Polis Massa without warning. Led by the infamous

Among the few survivors was a young boy named


In 874 ABY, the Sith Empire reconquered Polis Massa from its broken independence. The planetoid had become a staging ground for scattered rebels and offworld mercenaries. The conquest was surgical, and soon




In under a year,

But Reicher's brilliance made enemies.
In late 900 ABY, a massive pirate armada struck the system—the largest since Kyrel Ren's massacre. The attack was not random. It was orchestrated in secret by



The result was devastation.
The PDF was annihilated, whole sectors of the orbital infrastructure were reduced to slag, and thousands were killed.


She became Governor in 901 ABY.
And with her arrival, the final phase of Polis Massa's transformation began—not a restoration, but a reconstruction of identity itself. The old civilian scheduling systems were rewritten under black-box protocols. Medical infrastructure was re-weaponized into controlled research environments. The remnants of the defense network were re-anchored into suborbital kill satellites. The PDF began its slow reformation—not as a planetary militia, but as a private, professional force loyal only to

And below all of this—beneath the domes, beneath the rock—ICHNAEA stirred.
She had always been there. Whispers in old Massan logs described her as a failsafe, a ghost in the machines, a watcher built by no one and known by fewer. But under

Today, Polis Massa endures—not as a symbol, not as a conquest, but as a system with memory. It remembers the massacre. It remembers independence. It remembers the hidden labs,


And Polis Massa, in return, does not need faith.
It only needs to keep functioning.
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