Understood

Posted on Wed May 6th, 2026 @ 5:29pm by Hesk Scivo & Darth Serus

2,844 words; about a 14 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IX: The First Verse
Location: Armoury, Red Raptor, Docked at the Dunari's Delight Station, Mayagil Sector
Timeline: Day Seven, Evening

The cabin was smaller than he remembered. Not physically, though - the dimensions had not changed. The bulkheads remained fixed, the same narrow span between wall and console, the same overhead panels, the same recessed storage compartments designed for efficiency rather than permanence. It was the perception that had altered, the space now presenting itself as constrained, reduced, as though its function had finally revealed its limitation.

It was a vessel designed for smuggling, to avoid detection and slip around, barely a home or weapon.

Darth Serus stood at the work surface without shifting his stance for some time, his gaze resting not on the components before him, but on the edges of the room itself. The corners were too close and the ceiling felt too low. Even the silence carried a different quality.

The Red Raptor had once been sufficient. On Nar Shaddaa, it had been acquisition - a means of rapid escape and an opportunity, taken from Grogga the Hutt not as a prize, but as a necessity. After leaving the Jedi Order, it had become a tool, a mechanism by which to hunt the Cult of Axion and safely secure their discoveries. It had served its purpose with reliability, its systems maintained through improvisation, its limitations offset by adaptability and modernisation, where possible.

That paradigm no longer held.

His attention shifted back to the work surface. His ocular assembly lay in ordered dissection, its components arranged with deliberate spacing that reflected neither familiarity nor comfort. The casing had been opened cleanly, though not without resistance, the seam bearing the faint evidence of force rather than proper access. Internal filaments extended outward in a delicate array, their structure precise, their purpose clear, their integration into his own physiology still imperfectly understood.

He had not yet had the chance to truly understand, so he was taking the opportunity. Today's sparring with Bomoor in the hangar had made plain his need to better understand and engage with the equipment and prosthetics now sustaining his existence and mobility - but he was no engineer, mechanic or doctor. The Human had never doubted his ability to engage with that level of detail or sophistication, but it had never appealed to him - had never felt truly necessary against his strength in the Force and his faith in those he knew and trusted.

That was not going to be sustainable. The people he trusted was a dwindling figure, and had been for some time. Bomoor remained stalwart - but he keenly felt the absence of Amare, and of what the Cult has subjected to her. He was confident she was alive. Even if Axion thought him dead, the pleasure in breaking his apprentice would be too great, too useful, for the egomaniac to resist.

The metallic socket that sat where his right eye once did remained dark as he considered and worked. The implant still lay before him, inert, its internal architecture exposed and awaiting reintegration. Without it, the right side of his vision was incomplete. Depth flattened and spatial certainty was inferred rather than confirmed. It was barely sufficient for controlled work - it was not sufficient in motion.

The display field compensated where the body could not, projecting a stable interpretation over the physical components before him. It was an inelegant solution, but it allowed continuity of function whilst he was left with his singular eye. Ironically, he noticed was starting to have some reliance on the additional precision the implant provided when in use, as much as a part of his was sickened by that fact, of not having his own true vision intact - but the implant was far from perfect, and he was still constantly frustrated by unexpected delays, or the systems not fully responding to the complex network that had been established between the intrusive implants and his brain.


His gaze settled on the inner ring assembly as his hand resumed its work, the tool he was using guided with careful, deliberate pressure. Each adjustment was minute, almost imperceptible, yet he tracked them precisely, even as his mind replayed the battle with his friend earlier.

Serus had seen, sensed, anticipated Bomoor's movements before they resolved - that had not been the problem. The photoreceptor had registered trajectory, depth, and correction faster than his organic perception ever could, in fact. The Force had reinforced it, presenting the outcome as clearly as it had in any duel before, especially as his familiarity with Bomoor's form provided an even greater insight. The solution had been present, fully formed - ready to seize.

But, his body had not followed.

The delay had been fractional, but also decisive and unacceptable.

The alignment ring shifted beneath his control. The projection flickered in response, a brief distortion in the overlay as the system recalibrated. He held it there, deliberately, observing the error rather than correcting it immediately. The discrepancy was not random. It was patterned and repeatable. And, therefore, correctable.

The implant was not failing, but was outpacing him, better suited to a binary mind than an organic Humanoid one. Serus' hand stilled for a moment, the tool suspended above the assembly as the conclusion formed with greater clarity. The body he inhabited now did not lack capability. It possessed it in excess, supplemented, reinforced, extended beyond its original design - butut it did not yet operate as a single system.

It would.

The organic eye corrected instinctively, the implant imposed structure, the neural pathways between them negotiated rather than obeyed. It was a like a conflict within him, still unresolved. That was not who he was going to be, in mind or form, any more.

He resumed his work and the correction he applied was not to the lens itself, but to the translation relay beneath it, a subtle adjustment that reduced the speed differential between input and interpretation. It degraded the implant's peak precision by a marginal degree, but it would improve his ability to process it and rely on it - make it feel more real and organic.

There was a moment, brief and contained, where the reality of him somehow diminishing the peak capacity of the implant registered in his mind. This machine provided clarity his natural sight had never required; magnification, filtration and segmentation. It rendered the world in layers that could be isolated, analysed, controlled. He acknowledged that, but the value was secondary. He needed this to work.

His grip tightened fractionally as he secured the component in place, locking the adjustment into the system whilst his respirator continued its steady filtration, each breath measured, regulated, corrected before imbalance could form. Even that was not entirely his own. It was imposed, stabilised, also enforced by systems that had been integrated rather than grown.

The respirator was worse, though. The ocular implant could at least be removed, dissected, adjusted and understood. This thing remained fixed to him almost constantly, wrapped across the lower half of his face in cold artificial structure, its unseen linkages buried through throat, jaw and chest. Even when inactive in function, he was aware of it. The pressure against damaged flesh. The faint vibration of regulated airflow. The way it enclosed him.

It concealed expression as effectively as armour. That had utility, he had concluded. His old half-smiles, irritation, exhaustion, amusement - all of it now filtered through an artificial voice that emerged cleaner and harsher than his own had ever truly been. At times, hearing it speak still produced a momentary and instinctive sense of unfamiliarity, as though another entity had answered in his place.

Worse still was the understanding that his true voice was gone. Not hidden or diminished. Gone. Truly and wholly gone, little more than a crackling, debilitating whisper left in its wake. The dying voice of Thane.

The same was true of simpler things, too. The sharp burn of spiced ale. The taste of strong tea or cooked meat taken fresh from heat and oil rather than nutrient processing and careful filtration. Such considerations were beneath him now, he tried to assure himself - they were trivial against survival and power, yet their absence lingered with irritating persistence precisely because they had once been effortless. They had been enjoyable, an indulgence that brought lustre to life, even beyond the Force and victory.

For a brief moment, something tightened unexpectedly behind his remaining eye. Moisture threatened to gather there, as it had in the medical bay on the station days before.

Serus' jaw hardened beneath the respirator and the sensation passed.

Irrelevant.

The Sith Lord's gaze lifted briefly from the assembly, settling once more on the enclosing walls of the cabin. The same panels and bulkheads - the same vessel that had carried them from Nar Shaddaa through exile, through pursuit, through the dismantling of Axion's enclaves.

It had truly worked - for what he had been.

Serus then looked back to the implant. The conclusion required no sentiment: the ship, like the body, like the tools in his hand, had not failed. It had merely reached the limit of its intended function. A smuggler's vessel could be refined, concealed, made faster and more resilient - but it would remain what it was. A thing designed to evade, and had no more intention of evading.

The implant was lifted from the work surface, its outer housing cool against his touch. It did not resemble an eye. There was no softness, no instinctive imperfection, no trace of life. It was an instrument. And yet, as he brought it towards the metallic socket set into the ruined right side of his face, he registered the absence of it as something approaching need. The interface seated with a faint mechanical response. Internal contacts aligned in sequence, each connection registering before the red light came alive.

It was not like an eye opening, though. It was simply there, abrupt and absolute, a crimson point burning into existence. Vision returned as activation, not awakening. The cabin fractured into layered interpretation, depth imposed too sharply, distance collapsing and expanding at once.

Darth Serus remained still.

The organic eye resisted in this moment, as he noticed it always did, whilst the implant imposed itself and his brain worked to resolve the conflict. For a moment, there were two cabins. He forced them closer and the distortion narrowed, his vision settling.

Only then did the Telos Holocron answer.

Muted gold and blood-red lines crawled across its surface as the projection formed. Darth Plagueis emerged, taller than the space should comfortably allow, his long Muun features rendered in spectral precision. This time, he wore his own respirator. It enclosed the lower half of his face in hard, clinical structure, its presence neither concealed nor explained.

Serus regarded him without turning fully.

"You choose an instructive form."

"Not form," the Plagueis gatekeeper replied, his voice faintly compressed, refined even through the apparatus. "Reminder."

Serus' gaze returned to the work surface.

"Of frailty?"

"Of refusal." Plagueis moved closer, his presence cutting through the narrow confines of the cabin without resistance. "Flesh interprets injury as interruption. The superior mind recognises it as revision. You have acquired systems that do not yet understand they are yours."

"They will."

"If you cease preserving the authority of what you were."

Serus' fingers rested against the work surface. A brief temptation to clench his fist arrived - and passed. "I will not become machinery."

"No," Plagueis said. "You will make it indistinguishable from yourself."

The photoreceptor adjusted, refining the projection's outline. The organic eye followed a fraction behind - a discrepancy remained.

"Then define the remaining failure."

Plagueis did not hesitate. "You diminish the instrument to preserve the mind. That is not mastery. It is preference," he said.

Serus' jaw tightened beneath the respirator, but the sharp tone of the communications system interrupted any additional diatribe. He did not look towards it immediately, as his gaze remained fixed on the schematic and Plagueis regarded him in silence.

The comm pulsed once more and Serus exhaled slowly through the respirator, almost an affectation that required active resistance agains the forced processes of the respiratory attachment.

"I will approach you if I require insight," he said, and waved with his hand to dismiss the Muun facsimile back into the ancient repository, as he turned towards the strategy room to answer this anticipated call and activated the central holotable.

The image resolved into the tall, severe form of Hesk Scivo. This Muun - alive but untouched by the Force - stood within a far more expansive environment than a freighter, the edges of his surroundings lost to shadow and controlled light, suggesting both distance and deliberate presentation. His posture was composed, but not relaxed. His hands were held together at waist level, fingers interlaced with measured precision.

For a fraction of a moment, neither spoke.

Scivo's gaze moved across Serus' form, taking in the respirator, the altered posture, the stillness that had replaced the more fluid presence he had once known. The ocular implant, of course, did not go unnoticed.

"You are still alive," the Sith said. Although he had been confident of this, he did not put it past the Cult to have found a way to target the broker at the same time as the Red Raptor, to make their apparent victory more 'complete'.

Scivo inclined his head by a marginal degree.

"As are you, my lord." A pause then followed, shorter than the first. "The facility on Sleheyron is in no way recoverable," Scivo continued, his tone precise, devoid of embellishment. "The cascade failure started by your conflict rendered containment impossible. All primary production infrastructure has been lost."

Serus did not respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on his ally, unblinking.

"What remains," he said at last, "is more valuable than what was lost."

Scivo accepted this without hesitation.

"Undervos Holdings has transitioned accordingly. Our arrangement with Zorbo the Hutt has stabilised further. Synthspice production in our enterprise has ceased, but in its place, we have entrenched a network of exchange around information, access, selective distribution of remaining assets, and his consortium continues to identify and target any erstwhile Axion-aligned activities."

"Maintain that position," Serus replied simply.

Scivo inclined his head once more.

"There are... opportunities," Serus added. "GalactaWerks' position within the Third Republic is beginning to fracture. Their overextension has not gone unnoticed - and it is... more important than Axion." He paused just momentarily at they final comment, for both of their benefits. "You will initiate contact with TRIO Agent Valla." The instruction was delivered without preamble.

Scivo's expression did not change, but something behind it sharpened. "A direct alignment with Republic interests?" He asked.

"Centrality interests," Serus corrected. "An inevitable alignment." Serus stepped slightly to the side of the console, the movement minimal but deliberate, as though repositioning himself within the space of the conversation rather than the room. "GalactaWerks is losing its utility and there are those in the Republic seeking to replace it. We will be among them." He paused for a moment as he let his instruction settle, waiting to see if there was any challenge or further comment around the recent turn of events, of their changing relationship and the more obvious change in Serus' own appearance - but Scivo made no show of being bothered, or perhaps even interested. "Lady Syrella's position on Lantilles will be leveraged, if necessary," he added when no query or comment rose from the Muun financier, making brief reference to the Half-Botham the Sith had engineered the rise to power of, courtesy of the assassination of Miriam Yaxley. "Ensure the channel is opened and maintained."

"It will be done."

Scivo still did not question the instruction. Perhaps he had evaluated this, accepted it and adjusted to it already - perhaps he had even expected this, in some way, aware of their defeat but survival at Sleheyron. If it had diminished Scivo's faith in the Sith or their arrangement, he did not show it. Even tgroydb the Force, there was no betrayal of hesitation or concern.

Serus watched the process without visible reaction before speaking again. "You will also amend all formal designations."

Scivo's eyes finally narrowed by the slightest fraction but he still said nothing.

"You will refer to me as Darth Serus in all dealings, and work to amend accessible records to this new designation for 'Thane of Caanus'."

The words settled with a different weight than those that had preceded them.

Scivo, this time, seemed to be giving this new decision more thought, his calculating mind undoubtedly working the numbers and probabilities of this new gambit, of this much more formal return of the Sith in galactic affairs. Even Scivo, a banker and not a student of arcane philosophy or matters of the Force, recognised the implications of this decision. Even so, after a few pregnant seconds, he inclined his head once more, more deeply than before.

"Understood... Darth Serus."

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