ygrittebardots asked me for what happened ten minutes before the beginning of my fic No - that is, what led Anakin to start counting the number of times he says "Yes Master." This is the answer.
Warning for violence and blood.
Drip
The pod is barely salvageable. The cockpit is a twisted, groaning heap of metal, still hot to the touch and glazed over in places with a sheen of superheated sand. A small grav sled hovers just beside the remains of the cockpit, an assortment of shattered bolts and unidentifiable fragments piled over it.
The engines are still out there, somewhere in the open desert, mounds of half-liquefied slag quickly disappearing beneath the merciless sand.
Anakin shuffles into the junkyard, following behind the grav sled and keeping his eyes trained on the shifting dull earth. Something sizzles. For a moment, the sand blossoms red, before a gust of wind swallows up the hint of life. Anakin licks his dry lips and tries to blot surreptitiously at the cut on his arm. It's no good. His sleeve is already soaked through with blood. He can feel the sand gritting in the wound, and he sets his teeth and tells himself he won't cry.
His mom's presence is warm and solid behind him. He doesn't turn to look at her. He knows how much she hates seeing him race, but she hates the aftermath even more.
It doesn't matter. There's nothing either of them can do about it.
Watto is cursing and spitting in a string of violent Huttese, mixed liberally with Toydarian, Rodian, and even a little Basic. Anakin doesn't look up at him, even when his master cuffs him on the head and snarls, "You cost me a fortune, worthless boy."
Anakin holds himself perfectly still. He feels his mom start to come forward, to try to protect him maybe, and he bites his lip and shies away from her, just a little. Not enough to make Watto more angry, but enough that she notices. Shmi stops. Anakin doesn't look at her.
Drip, drip, drip. His blood sizzles on the hot sand and the desert swallows it up.
"Don't just stand there!" Watto snaps, cuffing Anakin again. "You'll fix this, boy, as much as you can. I want all of this salvaged. I spent good money on that pod, and I won't lose all of it. Now get to work!"
"Yes, Master," Anakin mumbles. And still looking down, he shuffles over to the carcass of the pod and sets to work, the sand stinging in his blood.
…
When he's eight years old he decides that freedom means never having to say "Yes Master" or any variation thereof again.