Okay, this stupid plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone, so here goes. This isn't going to be a long fic – it'll be a few shorts, here and there, which might get extended eventually. However, it's mostly a snapshots style fic, very out of my usual style. Oh, and the Tatooine slave culture stuff is drawn from the amazing and widely adopted fanon worldbuilding of Fialleril, who wrote 'Double Agent Vader' on AO3, among other things. I don't usually like fanon, but this is just… seamless. Any mistakes in that mythology are my own.
Shmi is used to seeing wanderers.
Many are off-worlders - Mos Espa is a spaceport, after all, and a comparatively rich one. Spacers, bounty-hunters, traders... all of them and more come to Mos Espa, because while there is not necessarily much to gain from Tatooine itself, there is always much to buy, and more opportunity to sell.
Others, like the various Jawa tribes, come through when they have junk to sell or something to buy. Though with Jawas, 'buy' can be a rather generous term. 'Acquire' might be a better way to put it, though they tend not to be quite so light-fingered in Mos Espa.
This is not because of any particular attention to the law. Corruption and thievery are rampant, and the law is whatever the Hutts and other depur, slave masters, say it is. As a result, retribution from depur is similarly informal and vicious. Jawas, who most depur see as scurrying sub-sentient vermin, are small and easy targets.
They do not usually steal from the Amavikka, either. Slaves rarely have anything worth stealing, and besides, there is almost a kind of kinship. Both are poorly regarded, when they are noticed at all, and both rely on the scraps they can find and the ingenuity to make something of them.
Very few wanderers are former slaves. Most slaves who have escaped make sure to avoid sight as much as possible, seeking a way off-world. Those who are freed, or manage to buy their freedom, tend to either also seek passage off Tatooine, or to set up a home and a business of their own. They know what they are doing, and where they are going, even if it is simply 'away'. They do not just wander. Those who wander are believed to be lost, and those who are lost are seen as fair game by the servants of depur.
Yet, the woman she sees now is unmistakeably a wanderer. She walks with an aimless tread, looking at the world around her in a kind of dazed confusion, as if wondering how she got here. Her clothing is serviceable but cheap, a well-worn and thick set of grey-green coveralls that have been patched and darned several times, that are short at the wrists and the ankles. The sort of thing you might expect a manual worker, slave or poor and free, to wear, perhaps, but it shows no signs of recent work, and it seems too thick for Tatooine.
Even at a glance, it is obvious that the girl is not native to Tatooine (the pouring sweat and rapidly burning fair skin both say that clearly) and as she gets closer, Shmi realises that it is a girl, not a woman. For though she is gaunt-featured, emphasised by the thin black tattooed lines across her face, and thin at wrists and ankles, there are signs of youth about her; features not grown into, limbs that are still a little too lanky, and just a hint of wonder in her eyes.
They are bright eyes, eyes as deeply green as the leaves of the succulent plants that some depur like to show off to their friends, a sign of how wealthy they are that they can afford to waste water on thirsty ornamental offworld plants, and they shine all the brighter in contrast with her red hair, which even shorn short shines like flames. Shmi looks into those eyes and sees life. But they are also sad eyes, haunted eyes, and they only get sadder as she looks around, past her obviously new surroundings, unerringly picking out slaves and masters in the crowd, skimming over everyone else.
This girl may be new to Tatooine, and she may be lost, but she knows the kind of place she is in. Shmi is not surprised. She has never left Tatooine, but she has heard from slaves who have come from other worlds, who have been to other worlds and returned, and they all say the same thing: no matter where you go, Depur's domain is always the same.
She does not wave or signal, but she makes sure to be visible around the shop front. She has little enough to do. They are about to close for the heat of the day, Watto is already gone for a drink, and Anakin is in the back, repairing a transponder device. When he began the previous day, he whispered excitedly that he was going to figure out how transponders worked to shut off slave implants, to make it easier to run.
She believes he can do it - Ani is a genius. If he wasn't, his tinkering would have got him into a lot of trouble long ago. As it is, Watto tolerates it, so long as he works on those few things that are deemed truly worthless, or that he fixes things properly. His plans to shut off every slave implant in the Quarter, however, might be a little too ambitious.
When he insists, chin stubbornly squared, she reminds him that though Ekkreth is powerful, and their mighty daughter, Leia, is even more so, they do not simply openly smash the works of depur. If they do that, then depur and all their enforcers will come down upon them, and while Ekkreth and Leia will be unharmed, those they are trying to free will pay the price. Instead, Ekkreth uses cunning to undo depur's works and free the children of Ar-Amu, the all-mother, so that they are far away before depur even knows they are gone.
Cunning is the sole resort of the Amavikka, and they use it well. Shmi makes sure she is visible, and with senses honed by a lifetime of communication without words, with barely even the slightest expressions, she makes sure to get the girl's attention, to catch those green eyes at just the right moment, to convey a sense of understanding-welcoming-helpfulness.
The girl is clearly well-versed in the art of subtle communication, a language as important among slaves as Amatakka, and her plant-green eyes light up with the desperate hope of someone seeing a cupful of water in the heart of the desert. She hurries over, but discreetly and delicately, sliding through the crowd in a way only honed through the certain knowledge that collisions cause offence and offence can cost lives. If this girl is free, Shmi decides, she has not been free for long.
"You are lost," she says finally, when the girl stumbles to a stop in front of her, breathing rapidly.
The girl nods. "I don't know where I am," she says, frowning.
"You're in Mos Espa," Shmi says kindly. "The slave quarter, though I think you already knew that."
The girl flinches, then, hesitantly, nods. "Where is Mos Espa?"
Shmi names the province. The girl only looks more puzzled. Shmi raises an eyebrow. "We are on Tatooine," she says eventually.
The girl stares at her, then something seems to catch the corner of her eye. Suddenly, she looks up at the sky, squinting at the two suns. Her eyes widen in astonishment, before she yelps, looking down and blinking rapidly.
"You came from a different planet," Shmi says, though it was only obvious. The girl is not only utterly baffled, but is really not dressed for Tatooine's climate.
"I must do," the girl says slowly, as if in disbelif. "There's only one sun where I come from." She looks around, eyes alighting on the non-human species. "The people are different, too."
"What is your world called?" Shmi asks.
"Earth," the girl says, firm and definite for the first time.
"And your home?"
Her face shadows. "South Bronx Mutant Containment Facility," she says, quiet and with bitterness. Definitely a slave. A penal colony, perhaps? Shmi isn't sure, and the girl isn't saying. She can understand that.
"I am Shmi," she says. "Shmi Skywalker. How are you called?"
The girl hesitates. She is cautious. Shmi is not surprised. Trust is crucial for survival. On the other hand, so is knowing when to give it - especially if you are as young, small, and lost as this girl is, especially with such a striking appearance.
"Hound," she says eventually.
Shmi is not fooled. "That is the name your depur gave you," she says, with absolute certainty.
The girl looks confused for a second, then something seems to gleam in her eyes like starlight, and her face crumples in memory and understanding, before smoothing out. No depur is truly kind, but some are crueller than others, and Shmi suspects that this girl was particularly unfortunate: even if she is now free, she clearly still fears them.
"If do not wish to give me your true name, choose another," she says gently. "I will not be offended."
Green eyes look at her, vulnerable and cautious. They gleam again, and Shmi senses that she is being somehow weighed up. Then, the girl straightens up. Her diminutive size and the way her overalls now hang off her thin form like a clothes hanger does not matter - there is fire in those eyes now, and certainty. Whatever weighing has been done, Shmi has come out in favour.
"My name is Rachel. Rachel Summers."
Small glossary for the Tatooine folklore borrowed from Fialleril's headcanon:
Depur: slave-masters.
Amavikka: secretive slave culture, with their own language.
Amatakka: language of said slave culture.
Ar-Amu: the all-mother, often seen as being embodied by the Moon.
Ekkreth: trickster-god/spirit of Tatooine's folklore.
Leia: the Mighty One, the great dragon, Ekkreth's eldest daughter. May or may not be the intentional namesake of Princess Leia.