Private Waiting for Trouble.

[Serina Calis]

"Home, sweet home."

Tags - BB-610



There was something truly insulting about being stood up in the very gardens you used to sneak into as a child.

The sun above Chandrila was just as she remembered it—gentle, refined, not at all like the cruel, overbearing light of Coruscant or the vindictive heat of Rakata Prime. No, the Chandrilan sun was polite, tasteful, almost apologetic in its warmth. It filtered through the leaves in soft dapples, casting elegant shadows over the stone paths of Hanna City's outer park district.

Serina Calis strolled beneath an arch of blooming ivy, cloak draping behind her like a noble's sigh, heels clicking with regal certainty. Her armor—because she never truly left home without at least some armor—was subdued beneath a long, high-collared coat, crimson piping etched into the seams like veins of restrained violence. Chandrila had always been about appearances, after all.

And Serina was the queen of appearances.

Still, as she passed her third identical bench beneath her third identical ornamental cherrywood tree, she sighed. Loudly. The kind of sigh that deserved orchestral accompaniment. Perhaps something tragic with strings.

"Six months, and not a single damned upgrade to their garden layouts," she muttered aloud, drawing a disapproving look from a passing elderly couple who were far too scandalized by her very existence to pretend otherwise. She graced them with a sly smile that said yes, I do murder people with the Force, thank you for noticing.

It had been exactly 47 minutes since her contact was supposed to arrive. A 'discreet' meeting arranged through several intercepted transmissions, coded holoposts, and—most annoyingly—a rumor trail through the more subversive bookstores of Hanna City. The target: a recluse who allegedly had access to Old Republic black-site archives buried beneath Chandrilan soil.

Naturally, this meant she was now loitering by a koi pond and seriously considering drowning someone in it.

Her fingers drummed on the datapad tucked under her arm.

"No call. No message. Not even a threatening note left on a park bench," she said, arching a brow as if the Force itself might owe her an explanation.

Children played nearby, squealing as a duckling chased them in manic glee. One waddled too close to her boot, and Serina stepped back with the grace of someone avoiding a thermal detonator.

"Absolutely not, I am not getting feather-gunk on my boots. I don't care if your ancestors built the Senate dome."

It wasn't all bad, though.

Chandrila, for all its pristine peace and tree-obsessed architecture, was still home. The scent of fresh soil after last night's rain, the distant, dignified hum of repulsor traffic above—none of it reminded her of the Jutrand's cold, dry stone or the stifling air of warships where ambition reeked off every corridor like a bad cologne.

Here, things moved slowly. Too slowly, perhaps. But in that languid pace was something she'd missed.

She took a long breath.

"...Ah yes, anxiety and mild pollen allergies. The sweet scent of nostalgia."

Turning a corner near a stone fountain shaped like some extinct water beast (one she vaguely remembered pushing a cousin into), she checked her chrono again. 51 minutes. Her left eye twitched.

She'd give them nine more.

Nine was a power number. Three threes. Elegant. Balanced. An expression of control in a galaxy that seemed designed to test her limits every single day.

 

[BB-610]

​

| LOCATION: Hanna City, Chandrila |
| TAG: Serina Calis |


Chandrila had pleasantly surprised him, all things considered.

There lacked a busyness to its capital that the droid had come to expect from life in Coruscant. The streets were plentiful, having passed a great many faces, but they were never crowded, never unorderly — a perfect balance that kept the city lively without the suffocating smog of jet engines or the distant, ongoing drudgery that droned away until it had etched its sordid sound in the backrooms of one’s mind.

It wasn’t that BB-610 disliked Coruscant; that planet had been the first that allowed him to settle down, the first to have granted him a sense of normalcy. No, the astromech had just grown rather fond of nature, marvelling at the smorgasbord of vibrant hues that painted the flora around him, equal parts fascinating and beautiful.

Order was another thing that tickled his droidbrain something fierce, though that was owed in large part to his programming. BB units were designed with starship management in mind, after all, and it was an itch he’d never truly managed to shake. Whether it be the embellished interior of a dreadnaught or the orderly will of the Jedi, BB-610 had spent a lifetime surrendering to that itch.

Hanna City scratched it oh so very nicely.

A gentle breeze carried the distinct scent of petrichor, flirting with a pinch of wayward seasalt whilst skies of amber offered a comforting warmth. With the idle humbuzz of his motors, BB-610 meandered around the parkside, rolling past passers-by that took no notice of him.

He’d been tasked with the locating of a holocron housing some of the galaxy’s most sacred texts — old Chandrilan recipes for an upcoming birthday. Valery had always loved her baking. The library seemed a good place to start, he thought.

“Hey there, li’l guy,” boomed the voice of an encroaching man, looking no older than forty, “you lost?”

The droid’s whirring thrummed to a stop, head swerved along the upper curve of his chassis. BB-610 crept backwards, gaze fixed on the man inching towards him. His words appeared genuine; a faux concern, perhaps, as whatever guise he’d enlisted had been betrayed by twitchy lips struggling to rein in a wry smile.

BB-610’s warbling reply had a distinctly discomforted tone. He shook his head, inquiring about the library’s whereabouts with polite enough clicks and clacks of binary.

“No, no, I think you are,” the man insisted, one hand seeming to fish for something in his pocket. Instinctively, the astromech recoiled, though a second set of legs behind him had introduced themselves with the dull thunk of his body before he’d managed to flee.

“You look real expensive, cutie,” came the voice of a Mirialan, her words hushed and far more performative. “We better take you home to your master.”

BB-610 adamantly refused, squeaking in protest, and it was only from the faint shimmer of metal beneath sunlight that he noticed the restraining bolt before it was too late.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Home, sweet home."

Tags - BB-610



Serina had just reached the stage of existential questioning that came after nine minutes and zero appearances. The stage where one began to idly wonder if their contact had died, defected, or worse—taken up holistic farming in the Outer Rim. She had been preparing a list of increasingly dramatic responses to this insult—beginning with minor bookstore arson and ending somewhere around personally uprooting a historical statue—when a sound caught her attention.

Not a scream.

Not a blaster bolt.

No, it was the faint, metallic squeak of protest, followed by a warble that tickled something in her memory.

She knew that tone.

It was the sound of a droid trying very hard not to panic.

Her gaze swept toward the source: two organics—standard issue troublemakers by the look of them—were hunched over something small, round, and unmistakably adorable. A BB unit. Polished, well-kept, gleaming in the midday sun like a chrome pearl dropped into the filth of a thief's hands. And they were doing the unthinkable.

Attaching a restraining bolt.

Serina was already moving before conscious thought fully caught up. Her pace was calm—measured, predatory in the most diplomatic way possible. Because clearly this was her destiny today. If her contact wouldn't show, she would settle for punishing the galaxy's dumbest would-be droid-nappers.

She cleared her throat.

Loudly.

Like someone summoning the Force not for violence, but for the grand spectacle of very public scorn.

The man turned, looking halfway between confused and annoyed, like someone caught mid-crime and trying to pretend they were simply gardening. His companion, the Mirialan, offered the world's least convincing smile.

"Oh! Uh, hey there, we were just—"

Serina held up a hand.

The kind of gesture that said: You have approximately three seconds to stop speaking before I permanently alter the trajectory of your jawline.

She smiled. It was the kind of smile that suggested diplomacy and violent telekinesis were equally on the table.

"Is this your droid?" she asked sweetly.

"Uh… well…"

"That was not a difficult question," she interrupted, stepping forward now, her boots making soft, menacing music against the stone.

"Look, lady, this thing was—"

"I adore droids," Serina said, with the tone of someone describing their first crush and also their favorite instrument of destruction. "I have names for them. Conversations. Tea parties. And do you know what else I do with droids I find in distress?"

The two paused, as if unsure whether they were part of a hidden camera program or a slow-motion execution.

"I kill the people who tried to steal them," she finished brightly. "But don't worry—painlessly. Depending on your definition."

A slight breeze caught her coat, flaring it dramatically.

The man raised his hands. "Hey, look, we don't want trouble—"

"You've already got it."

The Mirialan began to backpedal, muttering something about misunderstanding and mistaken identity, but Serina merely waved a hand. The Force moved with her—gentle, invisible, and all-consuming. The restraining bolt snapped off the droid like a popped cork.

She turned her full attention back to them. "Now. I suggest you walk away, swiftly and with gratitude in your hearts that I'm on my vacation."

Both took the hint.

They bolted.

Serina watched them go, then turned to the BB unit, kneeling down so she was at its level.

"Well, aren't you just the most precious little orb of engineering I've seen all day?" she cooed, as the droid chirped back excitedly. "Do you belong to someone, or are you currently in a rebellious solo arc? I won't judge. I'm very into those."

 

[BB-610]

​

| LOCATION: Hanna City, Chandrila |
| TAG: Serina Calis |


The restraining bolt clung to him like a tumor, feeding his droidbrain an endless stream of terrible ideas. BB-610 fidgeted, but his chassis refused to budge, allegiance begrudgingly sworn to the malicious software grafting itself into his code for a perverse courting.

The astromech heard footsteps, photoreceptors dotting one of many tool-bay disks informing him of an approaching woman. BB-610’s central optic remained fixed on his newfound masters, a prisoner within his own body.

It was as nightmarishly claustrophobic as it sounded, peering out through a lens he no longer felt was his.

The woman seemed Imperial, notably young; she spoke with an air of confidence, eyes brimming with thinly-veiled contempt for his assailants. She straddled the fine line between friend and foe, and it would be cause for concern, the droid mused, were he unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of such a calculated gaze.

Her words went registered, a poignant sweetness to the orders masked as suggestions. BB-610 was unsure of what to think, though he couldn’t quite tell how much of that was due to the bolt repressing the ability to do so.

Nevertheless, he watched with guttural glee as the two were scared off. The droid would have giggled were he able to. The woman—thankfully—saw to that in due time.

With a satisfying pop, the restraining bolt was pried off. A disgruntled, synthetic scoff met the air, head jerking with all the grace of a puppy shaking itself dry. It was an apt enough comparison, really.

BB-610 straightened himself out, the luxury of free will so kindly handed back to him. This stranger—evidently Force sensitive—had earned his attention, swerving himself to her side as she crouched before him.

He cried out with the excited wobble of his chassis, singing her praises with whistles and chirps galore whilst a rising cacophony of droidspeak tripped over itself beneath plentiful thank you thank you thank yous. Not before long, he was tracing circles around her, his front ultimately booping against hers as though that aforementioned puppy were giddy for walkies.

In direct response to her query, he shook his head no; it wasn’t strictly a lie, truth be told, so you’ll have to forgive the mild misunderstanding. Valery had always insisted that the two were equals. BB-610 wasn’t property, he wasn’t her droid — he was family just as much as any of her children were, as far as he was concerned.

Recoiling an inch, a tool-bay disk hissed open, one of several compartments sliding out to expose its contents, something promptly mirrored by an adjacent disk. BB-610’s utility arm emerged, plucking what appeared to be a snippet of cherry blossoms he’d helped himself to shortly after his arrival.

The droid cooed, arm outstretched as to offer the woman his flowers. He deemed it only fair, given how much she’d helped him.

With much bubblier bweeps, he introduced himself as Bee, tailended by the courteous bow of his head. Perking back up, the astromech continued, a jovial string of tweets announcing his pleasure in meeting her.

 

[Serina Calis]

"Home, sweet home."

Tags - BB-610



Serina didn't move at first.

She simply watched him—this darling, beeping little marble of metal and mannerisms—spin circles around her with unrestrained joy. She could feel the rush of his programming cascading back into control, like a thousand strings once pulled taut suddenly set free to dance again. The buzz of liberated subroutines hummed faintly against her senses, the subtle rhythm of circuits returning to something resembling autonomy.

There was something breathtakingly innocent about it.

And Serina Calis had always had a weakness for innocence.

Not in the crude way that most assumed when they whispered about her proclivities in backroom council halls and behind soundproofed doors. No—this was different. This was fascination. Obsession. The kind a viper might have with a songbird. Not for hunger. But for the melody itself.

She knelt again as Bee—how charmingly quaint—came to a stop before her and extended what, to her absolute astonishment, was a tiny bouquet of pilfered cherry blossoms. The gesture was so profoundly earnest, so impossibly kind in its composition that for a moment, just a flicker, the world around her dulled.

Her fingers reached out and took the flowers like they were sacred—thumb brushing the edge of a petal. It was warm from the sun. Or maybe from him.

"You," she said softly, "are entirely too sweet for this galaxy, Bee."

The blossoms were twirled gently in her hand, and then—suddenly—she stood again, the movement fluid and seamless, not a speck of dust allowed to cling to her coat. She looked down at him, those red-ringed eyes glinting in the amber light, and her lips curled into something slow and serpentine.

"Now, I don't make a habit of rescuing lost little droids in public parks," she continued, tone light but edged like a stiletto slipped beneath a velvet cushion. "But you, darling, are an exception to so many rules, I suspect."

She spun the cherry blossoms lazily between her fingers as she stepped forward, inviting him to follow with nothing more than a tilt of her head and a hint of mischief.

"You're clever. I can see it in the way you move. You think like someone who's had to hide how intelligent they are, haven't you?" She gave a soft laugh, almost a purr. "Stars above, I know that song all too well. That particular aria of restraint."

A pause.

Then she leaned in—not close enough to intimidate, but just enough to let the artificial glow of her eyes catch his reflection in her irises.

"You're far too independent for the leash you were almost given. Not a servant. Not a tool." Her smile deepened, slow and indulgent. "No, no. You're something far more delicious. A little piece of goodness in a world starving for it."

Serina straightened then, and began walking, her words trailing behind her like perfume.

"But the thing about goodness…" she mused aloud, "is that it tends to get itself eaten alive."

She stopped, waited for him to catch up. When he did, she cast a sidelong glance down at the droid she absolutely wasn't smitten with. Not at all. Certainly not planning how to preserve this encounter in memory, replaying the generous little bow and the gentle click of petals being offered.

"It's not safe for you here. Not alone. Not now."

Her voice lost its silk just long enough for a sliver of steel to glint beneath it. The restraint bolt had been no coincidence. This wasn't some random mugging.

"I have a ship. Modest. Comfortable. And I happen to know the kind of encryption those two ghouls were using. You're not the only one with secrets, Bee."

She tapped the side of her temple, as though to imply more than her mind should ever rightfully hold.

"If you want, I'll help you. Find what you're looking for. Protect you. Whatever it is, I've got time. And I adore helping things that sparkle."

She gave him a conspiratorial wink.

"But only if you promise to keep calling me darling. I think I quite like that."

And with that, Serina Calis—the devil in silks, the mistress of whispered betrayals, definitely not a Sith governor—began leading one very good droid toward a future he wouldn't soon forget.

She didn't know what the holocron was.

She didn't care.

She just knew that anything this sincere, this pure, this free, was something she would never allow the galaxy to snuff out without her permission.

Or her indulgence.