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Ah, the Sith. How tiresome. The same five or six lines about power and control and the meaning of life and death, the same repeated sermons stolen from men who were better poets than they were warmongers. No one likes a preacher for a god they do not worship, and Mesa had never once kowtowed to the altar of power.
Tiresome, and yet, Mesa had very recently learned to be wary of them. Her kidnapping on Balmorra had been... embarrassing, to say the least. The fact she'd been bailed out by her brother was the mortifying cherry on top of the proverbial ryshcate.
She reached a hand up to her chin and brushed a glove along the scars crawling up her cheek. The week of torture at the hands of Darth Lacris hadn't helped matters much. The spots where her tender mercies had been applied to Mesa's face had lost all feeling. And Mother would have an absolute tantrum when she found out.
'This cannot be the face of our family, Contessa,' she'd probably say. 'You must get it mended.'
And then Mesa would protest and claim the scars were marks of honor and Mother would not listen and the fight would continue until either she or her mother were laid to rest in that rank tomb outside the estate; paid their requisite fifteen minutes of time during Legacy Day by whatever descendants they might have remaining. Mesa had little doubt that if she died first, her corpse's face would be papered over with synthskin to cover the ugly marks.
But of course... Mesa touched her unfeeling cheek again, marveling at the lack of sensation, this scar would not be kept for honor. The Rift Alliance, already fledgling in their loyalty to the Republic, had had their trust rather violently shaken by her kidnapping, and although now Darth Lacris was dead, and Balmorra's government restored to something resembling democracy, that trust would be unbearably difficult to reforge.
Tharan had helped her bug the meeting room on the Cobalt Two where the Rift Alliance typically gathered during travel, and with a bit of snooping that the Jedi Council probably wouldn't appreciate, she learned that only Senator Grell and his daughter had any faith left in the Jedi, and by extension, the Republic, at all.
Mesa buried her head in her hands, massaging her temples. The cockpit was blessedly empty--especially given the late hour, but the way she kept picking up strays, that trend couldn't possibly hold. If she could just keep up her facade, and turn down the next person who opened their eyes wide and begged to travel with her, she could keep this crew at a manageable size. Serving meals to the Rift Alliance was already cutting into her operating budget, adding any more mouths to feed would be foolhardy in the extreme.
Of course, that particular problem would be resolved if she screwed up again, and the Rift Alliance decided to take their business, and their planets, elsewhere.
She was shaken free of her reverie by softly padding footsteps behind her. Someone in the hallway? Mesa reached a hand down to her belt, gripping her lightsaber. Her new lightsaber, that is. Lacris had destroyed her old one in front of her somewhere around day three of her torture. Unhooking it, she stood and turned, not igniting her blade, but holding her saber ready as someone rounded the corner and entered the cockpit.
"Oh," Mesa said, hurriedly replacing her lightsaber on her belt. "Nadia, wasn't it?"
The Senator's daughter nodded, looking abashed. "I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, honest! Dad sent me to see if you were still awake. He says he found some listening devices on the ship."
Mesa forced herself not to react. "Really? And where exactly were they?"
"All over. Every room we checked."
And now Mesa's surprise was genuine. Had Tharan gone that far overboard?
"I'll check with the crew," Mesa offered Nadia a smile that she hoped didn't look strained. "Please, thank your father for his help. And thank you too, of course."
Nadia grinned. "Sure thing!"
She turned to leave, and as she did so, Mesa noticed it. A cylindrical object, hanging at Nadia's belt, about half again the length of the lightsaber at Mesa's own side.
There was simply no way, but...
"Nadia?"
Turning, she smiled a bit more nervously. "Yes, Master Jedi?"
Mesa pursed her lips and considered. But really, it wasn't any of her business at the moment. She smiled back and shook her head. "Nothing, sorry. Never mind."
Okay so on further reflection she really should've made it her business and actually even at the time it kind of was. Nadia Grell was Force-sensitive in the extreme. Dangerously so. Prone to bursts of uncontrolled energy and turbulent emotion. Finding this out during a live-fire situation on Quesh was not good for Mesa's nerves or her patience. So of course, when Senator Grell asked Mesa not to bother Nadia about it, she--as Pol was fond of saying--blew her lid.
"Both her and I were nearly killed in that research station, Tobas!" she shouted. The bandages around her midsection were evidence enough of that. To say nothing of the fact she'd need to write to the Temple and request a new set of robes. All seven of her spares were now in various states of tattered, burned, or detonated. "I can't keep running around the galaxy doing busywork for the Rift if I have a potential bomb sitting on my ship! You have to let me teach her. At least enough to--."
There was a scuffle behind her, and Mesa turned only in time to spot a flash of grey hair departing to the lower floor stairwell accompanied by a choked sob.
It was then that Mesa became aware of her volume, and her poor word choice. She looked back to Tobas, who still looked shocked at her outburst. He opened his mouth, then flinched when she raised a finger.
"Don't." Mesa said. "Just... just. Never mind."
And she left to find the errant girl before everything on board the Cobalt Two got significantly further apart.
She found her hiding near the engine bay. A pale thing against the darkness. Tears now dry, but the tracks they left on her cheeks were still glistening in the faint red light.
Mesa stepped forward, and Nadia looked up like a frightened animal. Mesa raised her hands and made a calming gesture.
"Sorry," she spoke softly. "'I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, honest.'" Mesa smiled.
Nadia let out a sad imitation of a chuckle at Mesa's reference, but she wiped her eyes and looked at her with a bit less desperate sorrow than before.
"I should've told you," Nadia whispered. "I'm sorry."
"Yes," Mesa said, stepping a bit closer. "You should have been up front with me, both you and your father."
Nodding miserably, Nadia moved as though to leave. "I'll just... get my things--." She stopped when Mesa's hand stayed her arm.
"But..." Mesa said, not unkindly. "I have a supply of patience hard won through many battles." (And she did not say it, but she was thinking of Pol.) "And you are far more dangerous out there running around than learning how to control your powers with me. I will not force you to do anything, but if you want to know how to use your abilities intentionally. If you want to learn the ways of the Jedi... I can show you that path. You need only ask."
Nadia looked at Mesa as though she'd just offered her a winning lottery ticket. "I--. Are you serious? Like... for real!?"
"I am serious. Like, for real."
"Yes! Yes yes yes!" Nadia actually wrapped her arms around Mesa, hugging her around the waist. Shocked, and a little embarrassed, Mesa awkwardly patted the young woman on the back, before breaking the embrace.
"Well. I suppose we'll get started in the morning then." Mesa smoothed out her robes and smiled at Nadia. "Try to get some sleep."
"Yes, Master Je--," Nadia paused. "I mean, yes Master." She was still grinning so broadly that the glint off her teeth could probably be mistaken for a star from the surface of Quesh. She darted off toward the dorms, leaving Mesa alone in the dim hallway.
Tharan poked his head out from the workshop, Holiday watching close behind him.
"What was all that about, my dear Jedi?"
"Oh," Mesa clicked her tongue. "Never you mind."
And it was only Holiday, who could peer through the security cameras on the ship as easily as breathing, who knew that Mesa had been grinning just as broadly as her new apprentice when she accepted her tutelage.