#oc: fess

[kelocitta]

The Blend No need to run if you never got found

[puffballwarrior-blog]

Is Magonyan single, asking for a friend.

Do not the cat. Or the doll

[swtor-kohta]

Self-indulgent wip sketch of Qyzen with my Cathar OC named Danye who is a Jedi Counselor in SWTOR 💚

[i-looove-dillydallying]

Jedi consular and Qyzen Fess are besties, sorry I don’t make the rules

[sleepsartchive]

Mudslide my beautiful son with 7987239482 diseases

[fantagala]

Has four ever gone to the dentist / hyginiest with Ada? What would that look like?

Ada doesn't have health insurance, but she is a bit of an odontophiliac and keeps a teeth cleaning kit at home. Four (and imps in general) like to groom their partners, and since she has a massive crush on Ada, she would gladly help.

[quibble-auk]

Heh, part two for… idk what to call this. Jeopardy realizing that Dropmix isn’t a medic?

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

They are so dysfunctional, don’t you love that?

It was a dreamless sleep, restful and deep. It was the kind that Dropmix favored, dreams were messy and too often unkind. He did not mind this sleep, even if there was a dull ache that simmered beneath it. But all good things must come to an end, eventually he would have to wake.

There was no sound at first—just static.

Then pain.

Dropmix’s systems surged violently online, sending a burst of error reports through his central processor. Internal sensors blinked red and orange, readings fluctuating wildly before stabilizing. Every joint ached—they always did, he reminded himself—vents clicked with slow, mechanical distress, and heat built low in his chest. His spark fluttered beneath layers of damaged plating and armor, thrumming softly.

His single optic flickered open.

The ceiling was pale, sterile, crisscrossed with soft lighting—medbay fixtures. Somewhere overhead, the gentle hum of fans spun in sync with a muffled, low tone: a proximity scanner, active. Watching.

He recognized this place.

The outpost medical bay. Home.

The realization didn’t bring relief. Only tension. The kind that coiled up inside his frame and refused to unwind. Dropmix shifted slightly, testing movement—instantly regretting it. Something in his abdomen sparked angrily in response, forcing a sharp vent from his back. His jaw tightened, blunt teeth grinding against each other as he tried to recall what exactly had happened to get him sprawled on his own medical berth.

If Jeopardy was safe.

A voice broke through the haze. Familiar. Tight with restrained panic.

"Dropmix? Hey—hey, you're awake."

Jeopardy.

He didn’t even need to look. He knew that voice. Always on the edge of uncertainty, but brave in ways that Dropmix still didn’t understand. Too soft. Too kind. And far, far too young.

The dark mech almost sighed in relief, the younger medic was safe, hopefully unharmed. Dropmix blinked once, yes—Jeopardy had a filtration system, a mask and the ability to seal off vents. The gas that had nearly fried his own systems didn’t affect the smaller mech, much to his relief.

He forced his head to the side. Jeopardy was seated beside the berth, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, expression more nervous than usual. The younger mech’s optics flicked rapidly over Dropmix’s face, then his vitals, then back again. His plating was scuffed. Burnt in places. And he looked like he hadn’t recharged since the battle.

Dropmix tried to speak, but his vocalizer sparked—a choked rasp was all that escaped.

It sounded weak, pathetic, unfit for a mech of his standing. It grated against his plating, the sound was more insulting than he’d care to admit. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that, ever. Clawless fingers twitched against the berth, threatening to clench into a fist.

Jeopardy was up in a blink. Not frantic, but close. His hands hovered over the panel beside the berth before snapping back as if he didn't know whether to call someone, check something, or just sit still and breathe.

“Hey—don’t move. Don’t—uh—don’t try to talk yet? You’re still recovering.”

Still recovering.

Dropmix would’ve laughed if his throat weren’t filled with static. He settled for a slow blink instead, the kind he reserved for situations where sarcasm wasn’t worth the breath.

He turned his eye toward Jeopardy again, taking him in more clearly now. He had sat down again, closer this time. The younger mech's lines were tight with exhaustion. His shoulders slumped in the way they only did when he’d been locked in a chair for too long, refusing to leave a bedside. Hands clasped together again, thumb tapping on the other anxiously, an outlet for when Jeopardy needed to remain professional.

It was his tell.

That quiet, repetitive motion that said more than his voice ever could. Dropmix watched it for a long moment, as if studying it might anchor him better than the medbay lights, the hum of machines or the lull of distant music ever could.

Music. Because it was his medbay, he always played music. And now Jeopardy did.

Despite himself and the situation, warmth spread through his chest. Not the uncomfortable and suffocating kind that he had grown accustomed to, but tender. Pride perhaps, or simply just affection.

It didn’t linger long, not with the way that Jeopardy was staring at him.

He wanted to speak—to crack a joke, say something sardonic, ground them both—but his throat burned like slag, and his pride was already smoldering enough without piling on more humiliation.

Dropmix should have noticed the extra claps and the strange seams, he has seen Theremin use his mask once—long before they had ever declared each other Conjunx. It was his own fault, his own ignorance that had landed him in this situation. He didn’t know that medic’s had masks and filtration systems, he never got one installed.

But Jeopardy must know, considering how he had reacted when Dropmix had lied and said his mask was malfunctioning. Perhaps, Jeopardy had forgotten about it in the spur of the moment. Hopefully, he would not question—not that he ever dared to pry very far—about the older mechs faulty equipment.

Equipment that he did not have, nor did he know how to install.

Dropmix ex-vented, a shuddering rattle that Jeopardy instantly misread as pain. He half-rose, hands already moving toward the console again.

The older mech shook his head once—barely a twitch.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, voice raw but functional now.

Jeopardy stopped mid-motion, visibly relieved, but still watching him like he might fall apart at any second. His gaze was unsure, something hesitant lingered in his eyes, more than usual. His lip pressed into a thin line before he picked up a datapad from beside the berth.

“Right—uh,” the young medic paused, taking a moment to skim over whatever was on the pad, “The gas is some form of airborne corrosive, it attacks the connections between the processor and the rest of the frame. That’s why your shut down protocols were activated rather quickly. The rest is mostly surface level damage, scans indicate that your self repair should be able to handle most of it. Though, some vents and other particularly vulnerable parts may need to be replaced.”

Jeopardy’s voice was clinical, precise. He clung to procedure like it could protect them both from the weight of what wasn’t being said. Dropmix knew that tactic. He'd taught it to himself long before Jeopardy had ever stepped foot in this medbay.

The datapad clicked softly in the medic’s hands. Tap. Scroll. Tap again. Then a pause, Jeopardy didn’t look up, “Your malfunctioning contamination protocols and mask will be more difficult to tackle.”

Dropmix froze.

Not physically—he was too well-trained for that—but internally, every line of code that hadn't already been singed by the gas staggered under those quiet, carefully spoken words.

So he hadn’t forgotten.

Jeopardy didn’t say it like an accusation. He hadn’t ever said things like that as accusations, even when Dropmix probably deserved it. There was no edge in his voice, no scorn. Just soft awareness. That, somehow, was worse.

He kept his gaze level, unwilling to break eye contact, even as his spark stuttered once behind fractured armor. His optic narrowed slightly, focusing on Jeopardy’s strained expression—concern, uncertainty, fear. The young medic was afraid of something, and he had no idea of what. His condition wasn’t bad, they were both safe, no one else was around.

The only thing that could be causing the distress was the mask he had mentioned. The lie that the older mech had thrown together on the spot, the one that he would need to continue for both of their sakes. Dropmix prided himself in his ability to redirect and deceive, but that required understanding who he was dealing with and what.

Dropmix did not know anything about contamination protocols and medical masks. He was stumbling in the dark with a half functioning processor and everything to lose.

His vocalizer whirred, voice still raspy but controlled “It’s been awhile since I’ve had the need to activate the protocol.”

Jeopardy nodded slowly, still not looking at him. Something twisted in his expression though, his grip tightened on the datapad by a fraction, something like disappointment flickered through his eyes. His voice was clipped, more strained than before, “Yeah, that… I can believe that.”

The older mech felt the shift, subtle as a hairline fracture across reinforced plating. Not quite a challenge. Not quite trust. Just enough hesitation to sting. A quiet acceptance that wasn’t truly believed.

He forced his thrumming spark to settle, tamping down the sluggish hum of error messages flaring behind his eye. The line he’d given was thin, but he could still control the damage. Redirect. Divert. Control the room the way he always had—through certainty, posture, and tone.

Dropmix could make this more believable, he could be more convincing.

He let his gaze slide toward Jeopardy’s bowed frame, his own expression schooled into the same flat calm he used when delivering mission debriefs over the bodies of teammates they couldn’t save.

“The protocol was old,” he said, voice low, gravel rough. “Outdated. Not something I thought to update. We don’t go in the field that often, and contamination is the least of our worries right now.”

The datapad lowered further. Jeopardy’s eyes flicked up, guarded. Searching almost desperately. “You’re the chief medical officer,” the younger mech said softly. “You’ve been for a while.”

Dropmix huffed, a tired sound that passed for agreement. “Doesn’t mean I expected to be breathing toxins in a trench any time soon.”

He didn’t say it with bitterness. He said it like the truth—which to be fair, it was, he never planned on being gassed. Like something logical. Boring, even. Inconvenient at most.

Jeopardy studied him. Longer this time. Dropmix didn’t fidget under the weight of it. He couldn’t afford to. A lie was a structure—you built it straight, you didn’t lean into it, and you never left cracks to peek through. He couldn’t let himself falter now, he couldn’t lose what little he had.

Eventually, Jeopardy looked away.

Dropmix didn’t let himself relax.

“I can file a requisition,” Jeopardy said after a moment, quietly, disappointment lingering. “Get you a replacement unit. New mask. Updated protocol integration.”

“No.” It came out faster than he meant it to, sharper. Jeopardy’s shoulders tensed. Dropmix caught himself. Let the silence stretch, just enough.

“I’ll do it myself,” he said, calmer this time. “Once I’m cleared to stand.”

The datapad in Jeopardy’s hands clicked again—soft, mechanical. Tap. Tap. Scroll. It was a nervous habit, but Dropmix knew it was also a way of retreating without stepping away. Letting the topic bleed out without confrontation.

Jeopardy didn’t press. He never did.

When the young medic spoke again it was softer, more genuine than his attempt at control before. He nervously looked over at Dropmix, “You… you trust me, right?”

Dropmix’s spark skipped a beat.

He smiled softly, reassuringly, as warm as he could make it. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t have to think much about his response. Despite everything, he could answer this question honestly, “Of course I do.”

The younger medic managed to smile, though Dropmix could see through it, he could see the way something fragile seemed to shatter. Dropmix felt it, the fragility that hung in the air, too delicate for words, too heavy for either of them to ignore.

He watched Jeopardy’s smile crack, ever so slightly, before the younger mech quickly masked it again—his expression smoothing into a mask of his own, trying to stay composed, as though he had never shown that little piece of himself to Dropmix at all.

It stung, that smile.

Not in the way he thought it would, not in the way that others might feel pain from a lie. It was sharper, like the slow drag of a blade across old metal—familiar, yet terrifying in its quiet intensity. Dropmix had said something wrong, somewhere he had messed up.

Jeopardy’s fingers tapped on the edge of the datapad a few times, following the beat of the music that gentle hummed in the background. It filled their silence, heavier than it usually was. The smaller mech looked at the contents of the datapad one more time before setting it down on the bedside table, in Dropmix’s reach this time.

His vocalizer clicked, “I uh… I need to go check on the other patients now.”

Dropmix nodded, though the gesture felt hollow. The hum of the medbay, the soft tick-tick of Jeopardy’s anxious habits, the barely-there music—everything felt distant, like he was on the verge of forgetting something important. He couldn’t place it, but that unfamiliar emptiness gnawed at him.

He hated not knowing what.

Jeopardy stood up slowly, shifting on his feet like he was unsure whether to leave or stay. The older mech knew this dance too well. Jeopardy was always hovering, always worried, but the way he moved now—like he was leaving something undone—made the silence feel more suffocating.

When Jeopardy finally moved toward the door, his hand hovering just above the control panel, he stopped. The door didn’t open.

He turned back to Dropmix, his optics dimmed slightly with fatigue, shoulders sagging even more than before.

"Dropmix..." Jeopardy’s voice cracked slightly, betraying the composure he had carefully crafted. He didn’t say anything more for a moment, just stood there, watching him like he was trying to make sense of the pieces of something broken.

His jaw tightened a fraction, gaze flicking back to the door as he finally pressed the panel, the mechanisms unlocked and he pushed open the door. He didn’t look back as he spoke this time, “Just… get me if you need anything.”

Dropmix remained still, his single optic tracking Jeopardy’s retreating form with careful, silent observation. He could feel the young medic’s anxiety lingering in the room, almost palpable—an uncomfortable tension that clung to the air between them like static. The door shut with a soft hiss, and suddenly, Dropmix was left alone again, the only sounds were the low hum of the medbay equipment and the distant thrumming of his music.

The door clicked quietly as it locked.

Jeopardy never locked the door to a patient's room unless he had a good reason, privacy was not one of them. If the outpost was under attack or if they had reason to believe the patient was aggressive—the door was locked. Otherwise it was an obstacle if something went awry.

For a long time, Dropmix didn’t move. He could feel the silence thickening in the room, pressing against his frame like the weight of all the things left unsaid. He didn’t know how long he’d been lying there, staring at the door Jeopardy had just walked through, pondering at what point he had managed to misstep in their interaction.

Why the door was locked.

His systems were still groggy, sluggish, with erratic surges of pain and malfunction, but that was nothing new. The gas had been an unfortunate surprise, but Dropmix had survived worse. He would recover.

The dark mech looked at the datapad on the bedside table, screen still dimly glowing. Whatever Jeopardy had left open was still visible. Screen up, exposed, almost inviting in the way it lay there, as if begging for Dropmix to read it. The dark mech grunted and pushed himself to sit more upright, eye focusing on the screen.

Something wasn’t right.

It wasn’t a medical diagnostic, or a patient file.

Dropmix’s systems whirred with a mix of curiosity and self-preservation. He shouldn’t probe too deeply—not now, not in this state—but he couldn’t help himself. His spark thrummed uncomfortably in his chest as he reached out for the datapad. His fingers, unsteady and stiff, carefully wrapped around the pad and pulled it closer to him.

It was a file, an informational article on a medical frame’s contamination mask and protocols. A brief informational packet on the inner working and purposes of the system, as well as a small section focused on possible malfunctions. That’s where the screen sat idly, focused on the few paragraphs that described potential errors.

The contamination mask and protocols were not a standard program, it was a form of transformation. Not quite like an additional alt mode, but a half morph, something that medical frames had their T-cogs specialized so they could perform. The only way for there to be a malfunction was if there was a physical obstruction that prevented the transformation or if the cog itself was malfunctioning.

Dropmix could see his error now, clear as day, painfully obvious. It clicked into place, why Jeopardy had been so confused when he didn’t deploy the mask, his insistence that it couldn’t have been a malfunction at first. Dropmix had used his alt mode earlier that day, his mask should have worked, he had just scared Jeopardy into not pressing further.

But Jeopardy was smart, smarter than Dropmix would ever be, even if the young mech didn’t believe it himself. This was proof of that, Jeopardy had beat Dropmix at his own game and he was letting him know. He had been fishing for an answer, trying to see how far Dropmix was willing to go to conceal his lie, and he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Which meant that Jeopardy knew more than he was letting on. He knew that Dropmix was lying. The door had been locked because Jeopardy knew he was dangerous.

[thedealersfiance]

sorry y’all i haven’t posted in a minute…have this

[serenofroses]

Qyzen starting to warm up to me more.

I could imagine Qyzen doing non-verbal purring would soothe anyone's anxiety or bad days or had nightmares.

Jazz has social anxiety and feeling out of loop? Tau or Elysia send Qyzen to find her hiding somewhere on Odessan or on the ship and he comforts her through hugs and rumbles.

[kelocitta]

No way i'd ever actually mod anything for them, but I like to think theyre grounded enough to work.

[sullustangin]

SWTOR Summer Exchange Gift for: @jukkariart

Pairing: Consular/Lana Beniko

Summary: Lana seeks her beloved and finds her with her family. How a Sith fits in remains to be seen.

Author Comments: This was written for the 2024 SWTOR Gift Exchange in Autumn 2024. Quigee Ipomea belongs to Jukarri; I hope I got her character somewhat right! I was interested by the potential of a cynical or embittered consular. Lana, while pragmatic, is surprisingly optimistic, considering she brings the Alliance together in the hope of defeating the Eternal Empire. This takes place sometime after Nadia's return in Jedi Under Siege (5.10).

[i-looove-dillydallying]

Not a big fan of the jedi consular story but you have got to admit the Parkanas lore was cool as balls

[lady-of-the-spirit]

Erik, bursting into the room: Who wants to make 5 bucks? 

Sean: How?

Erik: I need someone to take the fall.

Marianne in the distance: Oh my god!

Raven: What did you do?!

Erik: Yes or no, no questions asked.

Marianne: Oh my GOD!

Alex: Make it ten.

Erik: Done. 

Marianne: OH MY GOD!!

Erik: You're a good kid. [Grabs Alex's shoulder, dragging him out] I GOT HIM, MARIANNE! I GOT HIM RIGHT HERE!

[supermarine-silvally]

YARA - what do you think the one piece will turn out to be? ♥

"Whatever it is-- knowledge, weapons, a vast fortune-- it can't hurt at this point. It's clearly something that Gol D. Roger wanted people to find. Though I wonder how much of this he planned ahead. In my, erm, experience with certain members of the Gol bloodline, elaborate preparations and forward thinking aren't exactly their forte."

Ask Yara (or any of my OCs) anything!

[rikki-roses]

Fluffy February Day 28: Shy

SWTOR

Pairing: Setra Rowan and Qyzen Fess: Bffs, hunting companions, basically your weird uncle and his feral niece

Time Period: Shortly after KOTFE chapter 9, Trandosha (Qyzen's recruitment mission)

Minor TW for religious discussion

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breathe in, breathe out. Emotion, yet peace.

It was almost poetic. Qyzen had been Setra's first companion so many year before (Ten? Eleven? Setra had always been bad at math, and carbonite poisoning made it worse) on Tython.

And now, he was the first of Setra's companions that the Eternal Alliance had tracked down Post Carbonite.

Setra swallowed hard. Even though she'd been given Qyzen's rough coordinates on Trandosha, it had still taken her three days to actually track him.

So why was she suddenly so kriffing shy? She had no reason to be. She and Qyzen had been through everything, seen each other at their respective worst and best. Yes, because Arcann had captured her, Setra had lost her "Points" and been shamed in the eyes of the Scorekeeper, the Trandoshan goddess of the Hunt that Qyzen (and Setra, nominally) worshiped. But, the same thing had happened with Qyzen when they first started traveling together, and the pair had regained his honor; the same could be done for Setra.

But it had been five years, and Qyzen had returned to Trandosha to lead a tribe - something he'd once swore wouldn't happen, he was too solitary. Would he want to join Setra on Odessen? Would he care that she needed to regain her Points?

A twig snapped, and Setra's thoughts snapped back to reality as she twirled around, zhaboka at the ready; with her vertigo issues, she felt safer using her ancestral weapon over her dualsaber.

Only to find herself face-to-face with a young Trandoshan, just as surprised as she was.

"What is, a fleshling wanting to trespass? Too soft to hunt."

Setra snorted as she hung her zhaboka on her back. "Bold of you to assume I'm too soft to hunt, pup, especially with my blade and the Force. Now, I'm looking for an old friend - Qyzen Fess. I've been tracking his camp for the last three days, are you one of his companions?"

She guessed correctly; the youngling did a double take. Then he got a good look at Setra and her zhaboka. Then he put two and two together, blushing (as much as a Trandoshan can) as he wrung his hands.

"Herald! Yes, Qyzen has us told all. Did not know you came. Will bring you to camp."

Setra fell in with the youngster as he led her to their camp, clocking that he was walking with a limp. She picked up enough between the Force and her years of hunting (and experience around similarly-aged Trandoshans thanks to her travels with Qyzen) that it was a recent injury, and the youth was trying to tend to it himself.

"So, what caught your leg? Gotten a chance to talk to a healer yet?"

"Am fine, Herald, is small thing."

Ahh. Stepped wrong on an incline, or in an unnoticed trap. Something silly that his pride won't let him admit.

"Right then, I'll be peeking at it once we get to camp; I brought medicine and have experience as a healer."

The young Trandoshan - Khiso, she learned - tried to protest, but Setra shut him down with a Look (a skill she honed long ago thanks to her adoptive mother and Masters Bre and Yuon). The trek to camp, at least, was on even ground, and they reached Qyzen's camp at dusk. Khiso tried to slink off immediately, but Setra firmly grabbed his shoulder and led him over to a vacant stool.

Setra's instincts won out; Khiso had indeed run afoul of a trap that he'd missed, and the wound had started to fester. Soon they were joined by a circle of older Trandoshans - several of whom Setra recognized and greeted - who promptly scolded Khiso for being so careless as Setra tended the wound, using a mix of the Force and healing salves that she kept in hidden pockets (and preferred over Kolto when hunting).

And then she heard him.

His voice was soft; he was at the other end of the camp, having just returned from scouting. Setra finished her handiwork and stood up, a lump in her throat, all of her confidence evaporating, suddenly shy.

She couldn't find the right words, her mouth dry.

She didn't need to; as if the Force had whispered to him, Qyzen Fess, Setra's oldest and dearest friend, looked up and met Setra's gaze.

They both stared for a long, agonizing moment.

And then Qyzen dropped the report he was reading, and in three long not-quite-running strides he scooped up Setra and spun her around before they crashed to the ground in a hug.

Qyzen shakily touched Setra's cheek, and she placed her hand on his right eye; it had been scarred and blinded in a fight. A fight that Setra should have been present for, and could have saved him in.

"Herald, little one, how? Thought you lost on Zakuul."

"I was. They threw me in carbonite for five years, I only got out a few weeks ago thanks to Lana and some of her friends. Qyzen, I - I lost my Points. The Scorekeeper is pissed at me right now."

Qyzen rumbled in his chest and throat as he rested his forehead against Setra's, not caring that her horns were poking him."

"Who, little one, Arcann? The Emperor?"

"Both. Arcann captured me, the Emperor forced his way into my head. We haven't figured out yet how to remove him."

Qyzen nodded, still rumbling. Despite herself, Setra started purring in response; Qyzen was one of the handful of people who brought it out. After a moment, they stood up and Qyzen started packing his things.

"Come, little one. Have much to do to regain your points and please the Scorekeeper. Will come to Odessen. Maybe retire, after."

Setra laughed as she helped him pack, her confidence restored.

[killikhive]

having my first playthrough of the consular story be with a dark side character (antaeres) has been really interesting and im really enjoying it

ive been surprised how many of the companions antaeres sees eye to eye with to at least some extent.

there's qyzen, who is equally as unafraid of violence. he may not always agree with what she does- not always going after particularly worthy targets, in his eyes- but he doesn't dispute her ruthlessness. and the whole Scorekeeper's Herald thing, antaeres really likes the sound of that (it feeds her ego lol). she respects him , though maybe not quite as an equal (because I'm not sure she sees *anyone* as an equal, truly). but he's a good fighter and clearly trusts her substantially and that is something she wants to maintain.

tharan cedrax...i don't know much about tharan still, because i think he's annoying and I'm pretty sure antaeres does too. in any case, she has had no reason to keep him around when qyzen is right there. i kind of do want to know what dialogue he has in response to some of the decisions she's made but...i like the other companions better so i hardly ever have him around lol. antaeres tolerates him because, annoying as he is, he might prove useful for his technological skills. she'll let him do whatever the hell it is that he's doing with the understanding that his success may benefit her as well.

and ZENITH!! zenith is my favorite so far, and my god they are so alike. both pragmatic, shrewd, seeing people as a series of calculations of risk and threat and leverage. civil with potential allies but very unlikely to ever fully trust. they have some very similar perspectives, and antaeres respects him for it. i'm not sure whether she and zenith will ever actually be "friends", because they both view each other through that lens of pragmatism so hard. and because antaeres knows that this alliance is only one that she can trust for as long as their interests remain aligned. but in the meantime, in her eyes zenith is a good ally, equally ruthless and willing to do what needs to be done.

i haven't gotten around to having nadia as a companion yet, but antaeres is ...interested in her powers. she doesn't like the risk of anyone being in some way more powerful than her, without there being ways to reign it in, which is kind of what has her interested in potentially taking on a mentoring kind of role to her if the opportunity arises. something something "keep your friends close and enemies closer" (though in this case more of a "keep an unpredictable element, which may be a threat or an ally, close until you can gauge which category they fall under") . gives her a chance to learn the limits of her capabilities, and to give herself leverage over her by a position of authority, in case she does turn out to be a threat. obviously Nadia's still so young but this is just how antaeres thinks <3