Public Visitation


Anakin pumped his leg, shaking the table. The booth was too small. His knees pressed against the cool steel. The smell of the diner was overwhelming, and tension in the Force made his ears ring.

The Padawan who was responsible for overseeing the Force during his probationary meetings sat unobtrusively in the corner. His presence was perfunctory, and entirely for the comfort of the social worket who would be arriving with his children. Being who he was, and in peak physical shape besides, there was no way he could overpower Anakin, and especially not if he touched the Dark Side.

Not that Anakin ever would. Never again.

His thigh cramped. He immediately started tapping the table instead. The waitress, a pretty young twilek with a heavy Corellian accent, kept nervously looking back at him. He didn't doubt that she knew who he was. Everyone who knew anything about the galaxy at large knew who he was. Who could forget the face of their fallen hero, enemy of the Republic number one?

Certainly, he never forgot the face of his enemies, their signature in the Force etched on his brain like a twisted mockery of carved japor. A talisman of remembrance of all the things he hated the most.

A sharp prod in the Force from the Padawan. Undaunted, Anakin glared at him, his lip curled in disgust.

A slave his whole life, he thought bitterly. First to the Hutts, who owned his body, then the Jedi, who owned his mind, then the Republic, who owned everything he was and everything he would be.

At least Padme had the children.

They would never belong to anyone but themselves.

He couldn't suppress the feelings that overwhelmed him at the thought; pure elation and terror battled for dominance in him. To see them, like this, as a caged animal on a leash would be introduced to a spectator at a zoo, was humiliating. To see them was a pure joy.

Ignoring the flinch of the waitress at his sudden movement, and brushing off the forceful but pitiful efforts of the Padawan, Anakin pulled a flimsiplast reel from his robes.

As part of his rehabilitation, Anakin had earned the privilege to receive update flimsiplasts on his children, and letters from Padme.

The first was of the twins, uncomfortably posed, at age four. They wore white robes, long haired and with wide, flared sleeves that concealed their tiny hands.

Leia had the dark eyes and hair of Padme, without the delicate, doll-like beauty. Even as a baby, her expression had been unfazed.

Luke was looking at Leia, pale eyes wide. His mouth was half open, as if he was caught mid-word. A blush was high on his cheeks and his eyes were wet with burgeoning tears.

Every year, he received one flimsiplast, just like the first.

He had never seen his children smile.

As for the letters, Padme had declined to contact him.

His stomach twisted, heat rising in his ears. He had to hold the flimsiplast reel with one hand, careful not to wrinkle it.

His prosthetic gouged trenches in the cheap plastisteel with a shrill screech.

The waitress abandoned the table she was clearing and fled to the backroom, but Anakin didn't notice, because instantly, he was entrances by the light.

The Force had never before felt so pure.

He couldn't believe that something so wonderful was his.

His grin was broad, and when he stood, he towered over the back of the booth, just in time to see the social worker turn the corner with his children.

She was a Mon Cala, and grippes their shoulders tensely, pulling them back behind her at the sight of him.

Struggling to keep his affable smile from morphing into a grimace, he stepped out from the booth.

Right into a lit, green lightsaber. The Padawan stood on the table.

"Down boy," he sneered, "no reunion hugs for war criminals."

Grinding his teeth, his mouth twisting in throttled rage.

But he would die if he couldn't speak to his children, so he sat.

"Good morning, Mr. Skywalker," she burbled, ushering the children into the booth, the padawan sliding in afterward. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that you must abide by all the rules of your parole if you want such privileges to continue."

His lips twisted, a savage smile utterly without humor.

"I won't use the Force," Anakin said lowly. "The Force uses me at its will. I am its humble servant."

Anakin was never humble a day in his life. The Mon Cala pursed her fishy lips.

"You will have one hour. Padawan Nuyeda will be present to protect the children from any...undue influence. You will not..."

Her voice faded out, and if she said anything worth, the Force would let him know.

But by the Force, they were tiny. Anakin was a monolithic man of his own right, and it was a wonderfully cruel irony that there was little enough of him in his own children.

Luke was small, and Leia even smaller. Both their Force signatures reminded him more of Padme than him--deep waters over a churning, burning, tumultuous furnace. Luke was the swirling eddy before a waterfall, and Leia the thunderous spray when they hit the bottom. Unpredictable, and deceptively weathering.

Luke fidgeted restlessly, and his soft boots brushed Anakin's calf.

The Force roiled in the sunstorm of Anakin's emotions.

"Do you agree to these terms?"

A serene smile, one worthy of the Jedi Master he should've been.

"Yes Master Towleit," he said, as obediently impertinent as he'd ever been. "Can we begin now?"

"As you will," she sneered. "Keep an eye on this one, Nuyeda."

Anakin didn't listen to the reply, the serene mask gradually morphing into a genuine smile.

"You're perfect," he breathed.

Luke wrung his hands nervously, but he offered a sweet, bright smile. It was the first time he had ever seen it, and Anakin's heart pounded so fast he feared it would beat out of his chest. Leia kicked Luke's leg and frowned obstinately.

But he could feel their curiosity swirling in the shallows of the Force, so the emotions must have run deep.

"My name is Anakin Skywalker," he reached his flesh hand over the table, an offering and a invitation in one. "I'm your father."


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YellowWomanontheBrink

September 14th, 2020

2:00 AM