Disclaimer: I don't own.
Setting: High School AU! Force-users aren't known in the alternative universe - so no celebrity-like Jedi or Sith. And no rampant slavery, either, though it obviously still exists. This still takes place in the SW universe, with the different species and planets and the advanced technology.
Warnings: nongraphic violence and referenced abuse of a minor; mild language.
PLEASE NOTE: This is an updated version of the first chapter as of January, 2018. I didn't like the previous edition, it was too rushed, so I re-wrote a good portion of chapter one and also finished the next chapters.
"I'm smart; you're dumb. I'm big; you're small. I'm right, you're wrong. And there's nothing you can do about it."
When Anakin closed down the shop, a light drizzle had started to mist up the dark-lit streets of lower Coruscant. The fifteen-year-old pulled his black hood over his head, squinting through the fog. He kept his mind active for shadows and strangers as he walked slowly along the length of the decrepit buildings and store fronts.
Lower Coruscant was no place for a teenager, but that had never mattered much to Anakin or his "guardian."
He was three when he had left Tatooine with his new Toydarian master. Anakin had just been thankful to no longer be under Gardulla's painful custody.
Twelve years later, the exchange remained profitable for Watto. He was an excellent mechanic with a natural talent, able to fix even the most rundown water heaters and swoop bikes. In his downtime, without his master's awareness, Anakin would fiddle with his own bike for racing in the underworld pits. He hadn't ever been in a race, but one of these days he would be able to show them all how he was more than slave trash. He would be free—
Something squeaked, blubbering in an incoherent mix of Basic and alien slang, loud and clunky and nearby. Anakin locked his jaw at his lapse in attention, but still seamlessly, silently, attached himself along the façade of a half-collapsed shop front. He bundled himself up in the shadows and listened.
The creature was whimpering, and Anakin could barely make out words. "..kid...Si..di...orce..sensi..ve."
It - he? - was probably trying to scamper out of a gang-related offense, Anakin thought, peering through the haze to see the back of two cloaked figures and a hunched silhouette.
This part of town was rampant with gang activity since no Family owned the area; it was too close to where the police did their rounds for the clubs. Though with the way things had been going recently with a few of the Families, he could almost say with certainty that a mob war was close on the horizon. The Siths were getting more and more brazen with their moves, and it was stirring up unease throughout the underworld.
Anakin waited in silence for something, breathing slowly and carefully, his fingers brushing against the hilt of the vibroblade hidden in his boot.
Suddenly the squeaks returned, loud and shrill, and they quickly morphed into high-pitched screaming. Metal was scratched and something that sounded like a stick broke in a clean snap! (Ah, no, it was a bone.) Anakin wrinkled his nose just as a low, gurgling laugh echoed around the metal walls from somewhere above them. High pitched laughing started up in at least two different areas around them. How many people were watching this showdown like it was some sort of sadistic theatre?
Anakin couldn't wait to leave this place. One of these days he was going to run far away. He would be a pilot, flying throughout deep space and amidst the stars like he was just another part of the inky black universe. He sighed and willed the dream away as fanciful hope.
Watto was going to be mad he wasn't back at the apartment by now. He waited longer in the dark, but there were no more sounds. Through the mist, all three figures were gone.
He resumed his pace, slow and steady and alert.
Almost an hour later, Anakin nodded to the landlord and hurried down the hallway with long strides. He tapped the pass-code into the broken screen and held his breath as the door chi-chunked open.
"I'm here," he called out after the door automatically closed behind him. He opened the nearby closet and tossed his backpack inside.
Watto stuck his blue-grey face out from the kitchen, the sound of his flapping wings a loud, steady fluttering. "Peedunkee," he greeted neutrally. "You're late."
Anakin clenched his hands, his eyes skittering to the ground with practiced familiarity. "I had customers," he defended quietly.
"No excuses, boy," the Toydarian hissed, raising his hand.
Anakin swallowed the growl in his throat but didn't manage to stop himself from flinching away. Someone scoffed loudly. Anakin raised his head to see Watto's mouth curve into a sneer, and he hated himself almost as much as he hated his guardian at this moment.
Later in the night, the teenager yawned as he completed documenting the shop's finances on an old datapad. He looked up briefly when a robotic voice apologized for being in the way. Watto grunted and disappeared into his room with an angry, disinterested flap of air. Threepio wobbled back inside, done with clipping the red-stained rags on the clothesline.
"Anything else, Master Anakin?" See-Threepio asked kindly, tottering around the tiny room and picking up Master's tools. Master Anakin was much too messy.
"No thanks, Threepio," Anakin answered quietly, his voice slightly muffled by the lumpy pillow he was curled against. The cracked datapad was now lying unlit on his bed, set aside.
"Very well," the protocol droid answered, leaving Anakin alone in the darkness as he went about finishing his menial tasks.
Anakin stayed up watching him through lidded eyes, trying to sleep but also too agitated to relax. He only drifted into a restless slumber when the apartment quieted and the only sound he could hear was from the music from clubs and the sirens of police just beyond the thin walls.
…o0o…
Weeks later…
Neon-blue club lights flickered on and off against the smoky background of pollution and drizzle. On the ground, rainwater filled potholes and empty beer bottles.
This wasn't his best idea, but that had never stopped him before. Anakin tugged at his hood, shadowing his face and obscuring his features even further into darkness as wind brushed against his robe. He slowly glanced around again and slipped off his bike.
He had a good feeling about his chances today. It wasn't because his day had been any luckier – Watto was still greedy and harsh, customers were still demanding and impatient – but Anakin swore something new and fresh was in the air, just waiting for him. He could feel it out there. He was ready to show everyone the power he could wield.
After chaining his swoop to a post in the storage room, he headed to the lobby where a crowd was already starting to form at the kiosks. Anakin shoved past a gathering of young Twi'leks, mumbling a quick apology as he maneuvered to the front, only to stumble to a halt behind a stocky woman deliberating slowly between the previous champion or the second runner up. He shifted from foot to foot as he waited for her to finally decide on the reigning champion.
Barely waiting for her to walk away, Anakin pushed himself close to the counter and smiled at the blue sales worker.
"I'd like to bet on Anakin Skywalker," he said charmingly and slid three-hundred credits across the counter. He felt a tightening of anxiety when he let go – there went six months of his savings – but he ignored it and forced his smile brighter. The money was accepted and swapped for a paper receipt.
"Good luck," the flat voice dismissed. The person behind him walked forward and Anakin sidestepped a wayward tentacle.
He had twenty-three minutes to kill before his round started. He turned around – and bumped into a thin, Human-shaped figure cloaked in a dark robe.
"Ooof! Sorry." Anakin ducked his head with a sheepish chuckle, rubbing the base of his neck.
Yellow eyes peered at him with an unwarranted amount of hate and Anakin tensed, mental alarms suddenly screaming excessive caution into his ears. He took a step back, but luckily the figure had already turned away from him with cold disinterest. Anakin remained frozen in place. He followed the person with his eyes until the black dot was swallowed by the crowd of colorful audience members excited for the upcoming race.
That was… disconcerting.
Maybe today wouldn't be his lucky break. Anakin glanced over his shoulder at the busy kiosk with a grimace.
No. He was ready. He could – he would - win. Three-hundred credits was too much for him to waste because some wermo was angry about a bet. Anakin visibly shook himself off and resolutely made his way back to the storage room. He would do some last-minute checks on his bike and then socialize with his competition, get a feel for how risky the plays would be.
He had a race to win.
…o0o…
His swoop thrummed awake and Anakin felt more alive each passing second. The wind was cold and dangerous against his skin, combing through his wild hair and making his cloak billow around him. It was like he was flying without a bike beneath him, at one with the universe.
Two laps down.
On his left, a racer pitched to her side, and he easily leaned around her with a grin. The Rodian in the blue swoop behind him wasn't so lucky, and Anakin heard him curse loudly in slang from the slums as the bike clashed against the raised metal edge of the track. Sparks fizzled and hissed. He laughed as he sped along, the sound ringing in his ears.
This was much easier than he'd thought. He was at peace as he navigated the sharp turns of the track and the erratic moves from the other racers.
Then, as if hearing his thoughts, a humanoid racer in the dented swoop next to him curved around a corner without braking, successfully accelerating into first place. Anakin ground his teeth around a smile and followed. His bike made an ominous scratching sound as momentum swung him around the track, but it was worth it when he hovered above ground again, neck-and-neck to the first-place biker. He turned and tossed his competitor a cocky smirk before willing a burst of speed to bring him to the finish line, pushing his engine to its fullest capabilities.
Then three red buttons on his control panel blinked with alarm. Anakin paled, hissing expletives under his breath. Kark, not now. Not for the final lap.. he had been so close. From the corner of his eye he noticed the racer jauntily wave a two-fingered salute.
Anakin tightened his grip on the steering handles and closed his eyes. He could picture the perfect maneuver that would cut off three seconds. It was a stupid, dangerous move that could easily kill him if he was even half an inch too low or too high.
As the finish line came into sight, he slanted away from the outer edge of the track and the other racer fumbled at his odd movement, jerking the bike a little higher from the ground to avoid a collision. Time slowed and the air squeezed with tense—watching—energy. With a spurt of speed, Anakin lurched his bike into a horizontal position, reached his fingers down to the floor, and touched the ground. Beneath his glove, his skin burned as he forced his swoop into a low horizontal spin that zipped below his competitor's own bike.
He righted the swoop just as his bike flew over the line.
"And the first-place winner is ANAKIN SKYWALKER," the announcer declared with vocal awe as the crowd went wild with surprise and excitement. Around him, large multi-dimensional screens replayed the tense finish and his by-mere-seconds victory.
Anakin stared at the lively grin on his recorded face; the holovideo looped again, catching his crazy spinning stunt and the quieter, harder to hear, unbridled laughter of reckless abandon. Anakin couldn't help but notice that his face looked more youthful and happy in the holovideo than any other time he looked at himself in the mirror.
He collected his winnings – the reward for first place was nothing to mock, and in combination with the credits he had gained from betting on himself, Anakin was starting to think his dream to buy a ship and leave Watto behind was more than possible. With a high heart, the fifteen-year-old walked the rest of the way home with thick pockets and a gentle smile stretched across his skin.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.
…o0o…
The friction-burns along the tip of his fingers made it hard to work with some of the more delicate machines, bleeding red beneath the wrappings. The near-constant pain made any rough patch-up work a sluggish process, and Watto was starting to notice the slowed completion rate.
In order to catch up with his past self, Anakin took naps throughout the night, long after Watto had returned the apartment, tinkering with all the projects he needed to finish. His master was going to be upset he hadn't returned to update him on their daily income, but Anakin knew Watto would have been madder if he hadn't finished repairing one of the older models of a battle droid. This commission was of a time sensitive nature, apparently.
Anakin dropped his head, sighing into his bandaged hands. What was he doing with his life? Was this really the best he could do? Working long shifts day and night to avoid Watto's wrath and provide illegal, over-priced weapons to less than reputable customers? Beneath his eyelids, he imagined himself at the swoop race, moving at high speeds with a broad smile on his face. Yet… he couldn't go back, at least not yet, not until his master became less suspicious.
"Roger, roger," Anakin muttered to himself.
Over the next few weeks, Watto disappeared more and more often to collect the stolen machine parts smuggled into the lower levels. Packages were starting to pile up in obvious stacks, and Anakin noticed a few raised eyebrows of the unimpressed variety. It was only after a dark-skinned man on the other side of the road pointed the pile out to his shorter companion that Watto ordered the parts to be sent to the apartment. It was Anakin's job to sign for the boxed parts when his master wasn't at the apartment.
With everything back to its normal routine, Anakin headed to the backroom during a lull in the shop. There were no customers in the front, and he was caught up on old projects.
Gathering some tools into his apron and heading over to his swoop bike, he patted his bike's peeling paint with a fond look. The metal plating in the front was starting to rust and some of the unprotected wires he had crossed on the inside would soon become dangerous if he tried any more stupid stunts at a high speed. Anakin rested his scarred hand on the machine, a soft feeling of something swirling in the air, before he crouched down, immersing himself within the cool metal insides.
In what felt like minutes but was more likely a few hours, the bell from the front door jingled. Anakin rolled out from under his swoop, standing and stretching. He took a step toward the door.
"Peedunkee!" Watto flew into the room, and his expression was severe as he ran his eyes up and down the swoop bike before landing on Anakin. "What do you-a think you're doing?"
Anakin's blue eyes darted away, landing on the floor. "Uh, working on the broken swoop... for a customer!"
Watto grunted, hovering closer to the bike with narrowed eyes. He turned back to the door with a snort. "Get back to work!"
Anakin sighed with relief, not realizing a spark of suspicious recognition had lit up Watto's eyes. Gossip in the underworld stretched far, especially when it spoke of a usurper in the swoop racing competition who had insanely ousted the past champion of six years.
It was a day later when Anakin was giving a customer her upgraded roomba back that Watto stormed over, the backroom's door slamming shut behind him. The teen stretched his lips into a polite smile, counted her credits, and excused himself. She disappeared out the door with her expensive machine.
Anakin steeled himself and opened the door without hesitation. Watto's clawed hand curled around his wrists in a bruising hold, and he stumbled as he was dragged along.
"You've been racing without my permission!" Watto hissed in Huttese. He flapped his wings angrily, getting into his face. Anakin tried to pull away, fear settling like a smothering blanket of cold. "Where's the money?"
Anakin yanked his arm free and the force made him stumble against the worktable, the edge digging into his lower back. His eyes darted across the room. "What-what money? What are you talking about?"
Watto raised his hand, and Anakin locked his jaw, glaring back. Except, Watto's hand reached for the long-handled force pike on the table.
Anakin jumped when the pipe slammed against the side of the swoop with an echoing sound of bending mental and shattering transparisteel. His yell caught in his throat as Watto pulled back but never stopped—again and again and again. The thin durasteel control panel cracked into fractures webs, like small lightning strikes, crunching loudly. His knees felt weak after each blow.
The power cell broke free and crashed into the ground with dying sputters, oil leaking onto the ground like blood.
He lurched forward. "Stop! Stop it, please!" he croaked. Pieces of metal exploded dangerously across the floor in sharp little jagged pieces. "Please!"
Swoop racing was the only thing in his life that brought him happiness. He needed this bike to feel hope, to feel alive.
The rearview mirror exploded outward, and Anakin saw more than felt glass cut his out-stretched hand. Watto smirked and readied himself for the final blow. The swoop was already a mangled, irreparable mess. With tears caught on his eyelashes, Anakin glared at his master's back. Hate and anger and fear festered under his skin, popping with electricity and energy.
The burst of power sung in the air, dark and joyful.
A scream tore through the air.
Watto and Anakin turned in alarm. They rushed to the front, Anakin barely managing to skitter around loose machine parts, only to see the register in flames as high as the ceiling. His master yelled in surprise, quickly finding an extinguisher as the customer - a tan Zabrak with a startled, confused expression - backed out of the shop. Anakin gaped at the yellow-orange flames licking the air with chaotic abandon, the fiery glow casting long orange-tinted shadows.
When the fire was fully smothered, the two stared at the chalky mess before them. There was no way the credits survived the heat without melting or melding with the cheap metal of the register.
"I didn't do it!" Anakin exclaimed hurriedly with wide eyes. (Somehow, crazily, that felt like a lie.)
Watto grunted, glaring at him with disbelief. "Of course you didn't, you schutta."
As Watto tried to salvage the burnt machine to no avail, Anakin stared blankly at the scar on the table. It couldn't have been him... right?
.
tbc
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Author's Note: Thanks for reading! And if it's not obvious already, this is inspired by the Matilda movie because I thought it fit, though there will obviously be differences between this and the classic movie. Sorry, not sorry. :P