Mostly, Watto is fair to them. He's not overly cruel, and Shmi has a lot more time to herself than she ever expected. She watches closely over Anakin –Watto's prized possession –while he works, little hands moving deftly around intricate machinery. As Anakin's knowledge grows, Watto trusts him with more and more complicated projects, brings him to pod races to work in the pit. Once, a pod crashes right in front of Anakin. Shmi watches from a few feet behind him. Debris from the pod explodes around him, but Anakin seems not to notice and strains to see the other pods through the dust until Watto claps him on the back of his head, swearing at him to get to work fixing what he could of the pod –see if he could have it finish the race.
Anakin is fascinated with the pod races. He asks Watto to bring him along, and it's pretty soon clear that Anakin –only five years old –is the most talented mechanic Watto will ever meet –and the cheapest –so Watto has Anakin build him his next pod for the Boonta Eve Classic. Watto watches over him, swears at him when he makes a mistake, but Shmi has never seen Anakin look happier in his life. When he and Shmi walk home for the day, Anakin talks Shmi's ear off about the newest addition to "the fastest pod ever" and Shmi doesn't think too hard about the poor soul whose going to have to try to fly the pod of the cheapest man she's ever met and her five year old son. She just listens, asks Anakin questions where she can (Shmi is an adept tinkerer herself, but even now Anakin's knowledge has surpassed hers).
"Watto's gonna let me fly it, Mama," he tells her one day, and Shmi is sure she heard him wrong.
"No he's not, Ani," Shmi says. "You're only five."
"No, Mama," Anakin insists. "You can ask him. I am going to race against Sebulba in the Boonta Eve Classic."
Shmi's heart drops heavily into her stomach. "Anakin," she says seriously. "You cannot."
"I have to," he says. "Watto says I do. And..." Anakin looks up at her, squinting up at her like he has to tell her something he doesn't quite know how to say. "Mama, I just have to."
There's a ringing in Shmi's ears and she just focuses on each step in front of her. If she thinks about anything else the earth beneath her will disappear, she'll lose her grip on Anakin's hand and him as they weave their way through the space port. "No, Anakin, you can't," she repeats adamantly. "It's too dangerous." No human has ever survived a podrace. And Anakin –extraordinary as he may be –is a child. He hasn't flown so much as a landspeeder, much less a pod –designed to be faster and more dangerous than anything for sky, space, or land travel.
"I've been practicing with Watto," Anakin says. Shmi grips Anakin's hand tighter and pulls him along faster. She considers taking their chances and getting on one of the ships waiting in the port, flying wherever it takes them. It would be better –faster –than the death Anakin would suffer if he raced on Boonta Eve. Podracing without the politics was dangerous. Watto training him means that Watto is serious. Even if Anakin survives the race, entering the race alone could be enough of an upset to warrant his death. The violence surrounding the race grows with the betting pool, and Anakin is just a child, and he's too young, too naïve, too anxious to fly to know that what he's getting himself into is more than just a race.
"I won't let you," Shmi insists. Her throat closes around the words, but she keeps her eyes forward, plowing through the crowd. Imagines again walking onto a ship before Watto even knows they're gone. Imagines a galaxy where they are safe, where Anakin isn't forced to fly. (If he's being forced at all, Shmi doesn't think –can't think; she entertains for the first time that even once Anakin is free he'll still be in danger –something about the look in his eyes when he talks about racing, like he's hungry for it, makes her think that she's fighting a losing battle. Anakin's future will always be chasing the next thrill, the next adventure, and the idea of it gnaws at Shmi's heart until she can barely stand it.)
It turns out, there's not much Shmi can do.
Anakin wakes early on the morning of the race. Tatooine mornings, when the first sun rises and the sand is still cool, are pink and vibrant. It's almost livable at this time in morning. The little native wildlife there is stirs with Anakin. It's the only time Shmi has ever heard birdsong on Tatooine. Moisture farmers start to harvest what they can before the day gets too hot, traders set up their stands before the spaceports are mobbed with crowds trying to beat the heat. Today, that is everyone awake. A holiday like today means everyone –even most of the slaves –can get what sleep they can before the race. But Anakin is awake, sitting on his floor, tinkering with some parts Watto let him take home. Putting them together, taking them apart. Together again, apart. Together. Apart.
Shmi finds him like this, on his knees with his beat up parts in his hands, bags under his eyes. "Ani," Shmi sighs, kneeling next to him. "Are you nervous?"
Anakin shakes his head. "No, Mama," he mutters to his lap. "I've been practicin'. Watto says as long as I don't crash, I can place." But Anakin's hands are shaking as he puts the parts back into place, takes them apart. Together. Apart. Anakin is nervous, and so is Shmi.
"You won't crash," Shmi lies. A year ago she would have told him about the Force, how she can feel it around him, protecting him. How at the race last month the debris from the crashed pod flew everywhere, hit everyone but Anakin. But it's too dangerous to have Anakin know. To have him learn to use it while he's here, stuck on Tatooine. The Force can't protect him from everything –not the Hutts, not Watto, not a stray blaster bolt or slug from the Sand People, and not from a determined opponent in a race. He might get cocky, or worse, he might try to fight back. A slave who fights is as bad as a slave who runs, and the Force can't protect him from that either. From a chip in his body, set to detonate at Watto's slightest inkling of trouble. "What are you making?" Shmi asks instead, pointing to the parts in Anakin's hands.
"Oh," he says. Taking them apart. "I'm building a droid. For you."
"For me?" Shmi asks.
"Yeah," he answers. "For when you're done taking care of Watto's house, you don't have to take care of this one." Only the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice. "He'll help you cook and clean. I'm gonna build him out of old parts."
"Oh, Ani," says Shmi. "You don't have to do that."
"You deserve it, Mom," he says seriously, his hands still in his lap for a second. "You deserve…" His blue eyes grow dark and stormy for a second, and the air between them is too thick to breathe. But just for a second. Anakin breathes and so does Shmi. "Watto says if I place, he'll give me some of the prize money. Then I can buy some of the parts for the droid."
"That's great, Ani," Shmi lies again. She tries to memorize how he looks, tries to keep the image of her son, blond and clear-eyed for her to remember (and the other image of her son grown up –tall and handsome and tired –an image she hopes means Anakin will make it through today, through the next ten years of his life; an image from her dreams before Anakin was born). She pushes the image –a nightmare, nothing more –of Anakin's small, charred body, mangled among smoking machinery away. A nightmare Shmi has had every night since Anakin told her he was going to be racing. A best-case-worst-case scenario. Shmi forces a smile to her face and grabs Anakin's hands. "I love you, Ani," she says. "Please be careful."
"I will, Mom," Anakin promises.
Shmi stands behind the pit, shoulder to shoulder with the crowds who arrived early. She clutches a datapad to her chest and cranes her neck over the crowd, searching for Anakin, the only human among dozens of alien racers and crew members –races who were smarter, stronger, faster than any human could be, and much, much older than Anakin. The datapad would do her no good now –craning over the top of the crowd and competitors as they spilled into the arena and milled around like colonies of insects that lived in the most barren parts of the desert. She had a better chance seeing her tiny five year old son through the clouds of dust than a chance to spot him on the screen.
Announcers advertise in garbled voices over the speakers –for food, places, things, Shmi will never even see –but Shmi barely hears any of it. Doesn't see the advertisements flashing across the screen of her datapad. She needs to see Anakin again. She won't be able to breathe until she does. Her heart skips a beat when she sees a glint of blond hair from below where the racers are gathered. For a second the crowd clears in front of her son and she can see him, looking into the crowd, looking for her.
Jabba enters. The crowd rises but doesn't quiet. The races are about to begin. The announcers begin to list off the program. Cheers for the favorites. Boos for the challengers.
"And…" the announcer calls out in Basic. "We have a new entry!" He laughs nervously, and the crowd quiets imperceptibly. Just enough people stopping the conversation mid-sentence to hear the name of the new racer. "Human: Anakin Skywalker. Racing for Watto." Anakin's face, grimy already appears on the screen, Watto fluttering nearby. He catches sight of himself on one of the big holoprojector screens and turns to watch. He waves. Watto claps him on the back of the head and Anakin turns apologetically back to his pod. The crowd is startlingly quiet as Anakin and the other racers climb into their pods and pull up the starting line.
"He's just a kid!" someone beside her hisses. "This is a disgrace. He'll be eaten alive. Literally!"
Shmi swallows hard, watches the screen of her datapad intently, trying to tune out the crowd, the other racers. The nagging thoughts that Anakin wouldn't make it. Anakin's face and Anakin's pod are still plastered onto every screen in the arena.
The race starts with a roar of engines. Anakin's sputters away in a cloud of dust. He lags behind for a second before he turns the first corner and he's out of Shmi's sight. Watto flutters back over to her side.
"Let's see if that boy of yours is actually worth anything," Watto swears under his breath. Shmi grips the datapad tighter, her knuckles turning white. Focusing her vision on the screen, looking for Anakin in the sand billowing up around the pods, Shmi struggles to see through the red fog of rage. She could kill Watto for sending her son in this bloodbath.
Anakin is a better flier than anyone –even Watto –was counting on. He surprises the announcers at every turn, dodging the other pilots carefully as they try to ram into him and knock him out of the race. He lasts an entire lap. Not as fast as the others, but his pod is barely scraped, he's barely harmed. Shmi can see him grinning as he flies by.
And then –another pod rams into the back of Anakin's. The cameras focus on the collision. Anakin looks angry and confused, searching for the assailant. It could have been an accident, but Anakin takes after the pod that hit his. Gets close, knocks it off the track. Only the pod rights itself and speeds away from Anakin. And Anakin goes spinning off the track. Watto swears next to her, and Shmi realizes she hasn't been breathing.
"Anakin!" Shmi cries, over the cheers and groans of the crowd.
"That kid is dead," says a voice from behind her.
Shmi turns to Watto, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "We have to go get him!" she cries. "Anakin is hurt!"
Watto scowls. "And he ruined my pod," he growls. "You two will pay for that!"
"Please!" she feels hysterical. The noise around her is growing. Anakin hasn't risen from the pod, which from here looks perfectly fine, just a little tangled, and without a pilot. "He's a child. Please."
But she can't do anything. Watto doesn't move, and the pods make it impossible for anyone to cross the track to see if Anakin is alright. It takes fifteen minutes before anyone gets a craft together to clean up the wreckage, and she makes Watto take her along. And fifteen more minutes until they reach the place where Anakin crashed. Thirty breathless minutes. The crowd thinks Anakin is dead. Shmi thinks she's going to be sick.
Anakin is squatting amid the wreckage. He looks a little dazed, he has a huge scrape running the length of his forehead, but otherwise, he looks no worse for wear. He looks like he's trying to fix the pod from inside of it.
"Anakin," Shmi gasps, rushing over to him, plucking him from the wreckage. "Anakin, are you alright?"
"Yeah, Mama," he says, wrapping his arms around Shmi's neck, but turning around to look at the pod. "I'm –Watto!" he calls, see Watto examining the wreckage. Shmi can only look at the gash on Anakin's head, tries to remind herself that head wounds look worse than they are. It's a lot of blood, but he's fine. "I'm sorry, Master. I didn't mean to."
Watto doesn't say anything. It distresses Anakin. He tries to squirm out of Shmi's arms, but Shmi doesn't think she could let go if she tried. "Let me down, Mama," he whines. Shmi does not. "Watto! Watto, I can fix it! I promise. I'm sorry."
Watto looks at Anakin sternly. "You better be able to, boy," he says curtly and flies off with the pod.
Anakin sighs, resting his head against Shmi's chest, getting blood on her dress.
"Are you okay, Ani?" Shmi presses again.
"I didn't win," he says, confused.
"No, Ani," she says. "But you are alive." Anakin can't know how good it is to see him alive, have him warm against her chest, hot, sweaty, and bloody as he is. "You are alive," she repeats like if she doesn't remind herself then he'll disappear right out of her arms. Her son. Her whole galaxy. She places him on the ground in front of her, rips off the bottom of her dress, and dabs some of the excess blood away from Anakin's eyes. It's in his bangs, his hair sticking to his face with blood and sweat. "Let's go home, Ani," Shmi says softly. "Get you cleaned up."
"No," Anakin says softly, watching the pods as they come by. Another lap finished. "I wanna watch."
Anakin is determined, so Shmi sits in the sand next to Anakin on the wrong side of the track. Like this, the desert is quiet, peaceful. She could live on Tatooine, her suns beating down wildly every single day, if it was like this. The two of them. Her son brighter than both of Tatooine's.
A/N: Yes, this is the chapter I meant to publish mid July, but it's here now. Also, the very last construction in the last sentence may not make sense and I thought I was being clever when I wrote it originally but I read a lot of not great prose yesterday so um...if you have an Issue with the intelligibility of the very last sentence let me know so I know to stop being clever.