A lot of things happen one after the other like chain reactions zipping through space. Before Mal knows it, she's fallen into a rhythm with her crew.
Juhani begins to open up to the rest of the group, though she uses Mal like a crutch on her path to acceptance, stability, or whatever word will fill up the emptiness inside. Of all people, Mal understands what it's like to feel alone in a room full of people. Juhani's temper smolders, ready to snap to life at any hint of kindling, but Mal knows the way to skirt the flames now. The mirror between them shines brightly as they dance in the fragile space between acceptance and understanding.
There's a dream that keeps repeating. In it the faces of her childhood bandits have blurred to Mandalorian helmets. Or is it a memory? Mal doesn't know how to tell anyone about her time in the war, even when Canderous and Carth bicker about military might. It doesn't feel comparable. She sought no one's approval to fight, didn't do it for the glory. She did it because she could, because she had to. And in return, she watched worlds burn, friends die, fires rage. Isn't that why she hates them so much, understands them so clearly? Isn't that why she keeps coming back to Canderous for more and more until his memories soak into her dreams as well? She suspects Bastila knows, the afterimage of her presence like a gentle hand on the shoulder when she wakes in cold sweat. There's a phantom itch to her left hand, a feeling of emptiness. It falls to her hip sometimes, searching. It's why she still carries a blaster though she uses it less and less these days. At least it gives her something to reach for.
A Sith twists Mission's mind during a battle on Tatooine, enveloping her in pain so strong she crumples to the ground. Mal makes her train now. Hours in the storage room of the Hawk teaching her to resist, please resist when they try to break you. You'll outlive us all kid, never let them break you. Every now and then Mission flashes a thumbs up, that black ring glinting between them like a promise. These months have made her stronger, smarter, older. It's one thing that gives Mal peace at night. The thought that she's equipped to survive. She makes Zaalbar promise on the weight of her life-debt to choose Mission always, no matter what. The wording is convoluted, doesn't quite make sense against his oath, but he humors her all the same.
The droids become a steady presence at her side. Her promise to impress T3M4 with her repair skills goes unfulfilled and HK-47 is reluctant to let her near his processors again, though he always does. For all his complaining he just can't say no to her. The little one in particular becomes a shadow at her side, the gentle hum of machinery a soothing white noise. It culminates in a moment of paranoia where she thinks the Jedi Council are watching her through the droid. But T3 never asks for her secrets, never says much of anything. Only listens. And maybe she talks to sort through the mess in her head, the real from the fake, because it's overflowing. And the Force, that sweet, sweet Force she's grown to love, isn't making it any better.
She's eager to repair Bastila's relationship with her mother. Maybe because the word is astringent in her throat. There was the woman who birthed her, not enough to remember. The lady she served, too much to want to remember. The girl who taught her to survive in a cruel world. And the mentor who showed her a galaxy beyond survival. At this point she's not sure what the qualifications should be. Then there's Bastila's father, the caricature of the well-meaning patriarch who never does quite enough to save anyone. Perhaps that's why she's grown fond of Jolee with his long-winded ramblings and barely hidden jabs. It keeps her on her toes and the insults they exchange feel realer than any conversation she's had in years. He gives her the truth, however convoluted. She's slowly doing the same.
Because the thing about secrets is the way they ball up inside of you, fill up the empty spaces. Eventually you run out of room. They turn to truth in your head and you no longer remember what you were hiding in the first place. So Mal takes them out, one secret at a time. Wraps them carefully in tender hesitation and gifts them like sacred treasures with the knowledge that her companions could turn them to weapons at any given moment. Mal chooses trust, hesitant but trust all the same. And of all the recent events, it is this that scares her the most.