A/N:
I know... I know... what am I doing starting a new story?!
But hear me out...
This is the first time where I've started a story, and already know how it's going to go. I already have the entire thing mapped out, from start to finish.
And that's a big deal.
"Shades of Gray", "Seven Years", and all the other stories I've started over the last year, were never full stories when I sat down to write them. They just started out as neat concepts I wanted to write about, so I did.
But because of that, I struggled to keep the story going, always getting stuck somewhere because I had no idea where to take the story. It became frustrating for me as a writer, and for you, waiting for an update.
So, I've decided to abandon those stories and work on this one alone.
The good news is, if you liked those stories, this story will include some of the best parts of them.
I know some of you probably have whiplash from how many times I've posted and removed things, but I need to feel comfortable with what I write, so I'm going to do what I need to do.
Having said that, I love each and every one of you who reach out and actually want to hear more about these stories. I really hope you like this one, as it's the first one I'm truly excited to write.
In the suffocating darkness of his cell, a prison of both mind and body, Anakin Skywalker was abruptly torn from the clutches of a restless slumber by a piercing, blinding light. The harsh glare cast long, ominous shadows across the stark walls, encroaching upon the small sanctuary of darkness he had grown accustomed to. The mechanical sound of doors sliding open punctuated the heavy silence—one, two, three... each counting down to an inevitable, dreaded encounter. Anakin's heart thrummed against his chest, a drumbeat of dread that resonated through his weary bones. As the fourth door creaked open, a palpable sense of foreboding filled the air, thick and suffocating. With the swing of the fifth door, the silhouette of Emperor Palpatine materialized, his presence a tangible cloud of malevolence that seemed to choke the very air. The Emperor's figure loomed in the doorway, a specter of the past and harbinger of pain, his shadow casting a dark spell over the cell.
"Happy Empire Day, my boy," Sidious sneered, his voice a serpentine hiss that slithered through the air, wrapping around Anakin like a cold, constricting embrace. The words struck Anakin like a dagger to the heart, each syllable a cruel reminder of the day his world had shattered, the day he had lost everything he once held dear - love, hope, and the promise of a future.
The chains binding Anakin clattered against the cold, unyielding floor as he shifted, their sound a constant, metallic reminder of his imprisonment. "What do you want, Sith?" Anakin's voice, hoarse from disuse yet laden with a defiance that had not dimmed, echoed against the oppressive stone walls of his prison. It was the voice of a warrior not yet defeated, a spirit not entirely broken.
Sidious reveled in Anakin's torment, his chuckle a dark, resonant sound that echoed off the cold walls, like the mocking call of a predatory bird. "Is that any way to greet a friend?" he asked, his voice dripping with feigned hurt. A mocking smirk played across his features, a grotesque mask of faux concern. Anakin scoffed inwardly at the charade; being hurt would require Sidious to have a heart, something he was sure he didn't have.
Continuing to ignore Anakin's evident disgust, Sidious adopted a tone soft and seemingly kind, the same grandfatherly guise he once used to deceive the Senate—and, tragically, Anakin himself. "I know how much this day means to you," he said, his smile thin and predatory, like a snake eyeing its prey. "So, I've planned a little celebration in your honor. A delightful tribute to your favorite planet, Naboo." The words were laced with venom, each one carefully chosen to inflict maximum pain.
"It's just a shame Senator Amidala isn't here to see it," Sidious added, his words a calculated cruelty, each syllable designed to twist the knife of grief buried deep in Anakin's heart. The scar of Padmé's absence, though faded with time, still ached incessantly, a ghostly reminder of a love lost and a life forever altered.
Sidious's smile broadened as he watched a visible shudder of pain coursed through Anakin at the mention of Padmé, the sorrow of her loss resurfacing like a wound never fully healed. Anakin clenched his eyes shut, desperately trying to barricade his mind against the onslaught of painful memories, but the effort was as futile as trying to hold back the tide.
Tiring of his cruel game, Palpatine gave Anakin's leg a patronizing pat, a grotesque parody of sympathy, before turning to leave. He paused at the doorway, casting one final, venomous remark over his shoulder. "I'll be sure to have a holo brought in for you," he said, his smile a mocking sneer. "Wouldn't want you to miss the Empire Day festivities." With those parting words, he exited the cell, his dark cloak sweeping behind him, leaving Anakin engulfed in the chilling aftermath of his visit.
Shortly thereafter, a stormtrooper entered, his movements mechanical and devoid of the human touch. He set up a portable holo in the corner of the cell, activating it to broadcast the state-run news service. The screen came to life, showcasing lavish praise for Palpatine, hailed as the galaxy's savior. The irony of the situation was a bitter pill for Anakin to swallow, each word from the holo an aching reminder of the twisted narrative the Empire had woven.
Once the trooper left, Anakin found himself alone again, his only company the ghostly images flickering on the holo screen. He sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to reverberate off the stone walls of his prison. As he attempted to shut out the cacophony of propaganda, his mind betrayed him, flooding with memories of Padmé, his time with the Jedi, and a past life filled with hope and promise. These recollections, once cherished, now pierced him like shards of glass, each one unraveling the already frayed edges of his weary spirit.
In the confines of his cell, time became an elusive shadow, slipping through Anakin's grasp, transforming each moment into an unending cycle of despair. The Force, which once coursed through him like a vibrant, life-giving river, now seemed as distant as a forgotten dream, its voice a mere whisper lost in the all-consuming darkness that enveloped him.
Anakin's bond with the Force had always been an unspoken presence, a constant, comforting hum connecting him to the very essence of the universe. Now, however, as the Force-nullifying cuffs clung to his wrists, that once profound connection had been cruelly severed. He felt abandoned, forsaken by the cosmic power he had once wielded with such confidence and strength. The man who had stood as a hero, a beacon of hope and justice, was now but a shadow, a specter of his former glory, trapped in a prison both physical and spiritual.
"Why?" Anakin's whisper cut through the stillness of the cell, his voice trembling with layers of unspoken pain and a sense of profound betrayal. "Why have you forsaken me?" The question hung in the air, heavy with despair, reverberating off the walls only to be met with stony silence. It was a plaintive cry to the void, a plea for answers that seemed as distant as the stars beyond his reach.
"Aren't I the Chosen One?" The words emerged choked and strained, as if each syllable was a battle against the lump forming in his throat. Tears blurred his vision, unbidden yet undeniable, each one a tangible echo of the emptiness that gnawed at his heart. His years in this desolate cell had quenched the flames of his once-fiery anger, but they had ignited a deep, simmering resentment that now threatened to consume him.
Anakin's voice crescendoed, shattering the oppressive silence of the cell with a raw explosion of fury and grief. "What do you want from me? Huh?" The question tore from his throat, ragged and hoarse, as tears streamed unrestrained down his cheeks—a dam of emotion finally giving way under the weight of years of pent-up agony and torment. "Tell me!" he screamed, his voice echoing off the walls with a desperate intensity. "If you've truly abandoned me, then please… end this torment! Take me back!" His words were drenched in desperation, the plea of a soul frayed to its very core, teetering perilously on the brink of despair.
He pushed himself to his feet, the sound of his chains clinking a haunting accompaniment in the eerie stillness, a relentless reminder of the dual imprisonment he endured, both physical and spiritual. "Answer me!" he bellowed into the void, challenging the unseen Force that had once been his ally and guide. "You're supposed to be this all-powerful force, the guiding hand in everything. Well, now's your chance to prove it. Show me something, anything!" His voice broke, a tortured echo of the man he once was, pushed to the very edge of his endurance. In the ensuing haunting silence, he mustered the last remnants of his strength, his voice thundering with a final, desperate command: "SHOW ME!"
As Anakin's plea echoed into the void, the room was suddenly plunged into darkness. The power cut off in an abrupt, disorienting blink, leaving him shrouded in a veil of uncertainty. The mechanical restraints around his wrists and ankles, once so unyielding, began to loosen, their grip faltering. Confusion and shock washed over Anakin in waves. Was this a mere coincidence, or had his anguished outburst somehow called upon the Force?
Slowly, a familiar sensation began to creep back into his awareness. The Force, like a distant memory returning to life, started to flow through the weakening cuffs. Anger and bewilderment still churned within him, yet he found himself welcoming the resurgence of the Force, embracing it as a lifeline in the suffocating darkness. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Anakin felt the presence of the Force envelop him, offering a momentary respite from his despair. "Don't think this lets you off the hook," he murmured, his voice tinged with resentment. Even as he spoke, he braced himself, a battle-hardened warrior preparing for the unknown challenges outside his cell.
Outside Anakin's cell, a symphony of chaos began to unfold. Emperor Sidious, always one to take meticulous precautions, had dispatched a squad of stormtroopers, their boots echoing ominously down the corridor. Accompanying them was a doctor, his presence marked by the clinking of medical equipment, armed with a sedative — a clear sign of Sidious's intent to keep Anakin subdued and imprisoned. The sequential opening of the four outer doors created a crescendo of foreboding sounds, each metallic clang resonating like a death knell, heralding the approach of his captors.
Anakin summoned a surge of effort, flicking his wrist in an attempt to rid himself of the restraints. The action, which should have been effortless for a Jedi of his caliber, was now laden with difficulty, a stark reminder of how much he had been diminished by his prolonged captivity. His muscles, once honed to precision, now screamed in protest, aching with the unfamiliar strain. He slid down the wall with an ungraceful thud, scrambled to his feet, and pressed himself into the corner of his cell, his body coiled in anticipation. The instincts of a warrior still lingered in him, yet they were clouded by the rust of disuse, leaving him tensed for a confrontation that felt like a distant memory.
The final door to Anakin's cell opened with a decisive swoosh, revealing four stormtroopers, their movements precise and coordinated. They stepped into the cell with an air of unchallenged authority, their blaster rifles ready, their armor gleaming dully in the dim light. They were the faceless enforcers of the Empire, trained for obedience and combat, yet wholly unprepared for the specter that awaited them in the shadows of the cell.
From his concealed position, Anakin's response was instinctive, a sudden burst of motion fueled by desperation rather than the calculated precision of his Jedi training. His body, driven by a primal urge for freedom, propelled him forward in a rapid, unpolished assault. The first stormtrooper barely had time to react before he was knocked to the ground, a victim of Anakin's pent-up fury and desperation. The following takedowns were less a display of the refined skill Anakin once possessed and more a testament to his raw will to survive. Each movement, though lacking the grace and fluidity that had once defined him as a Jedi, was imbued with a fierce, unyielding determination.
The stormtroopers, conditioned for regimented, predictable combat scenarios, were caught off guard by Anakin's erratic and unpredictable maneuvers. Accustomed to the order of military drills, they struggled to adapt to the wild, desperate nature of Anakin's assault. Each of Anakin's strikes was not just a physical action but an emotional release, channeling years of frustration and desperation into raw, kinetic energy. His movements, though unrefined, were driven by a simmering anger and an indomitable will to break free.
As Anakin engaged in this uneven struggle, his body bore the toll of long captivity. His reflexes, once razor-sharp, now lagged, his movements weighed down by the physical and mental scars of prolonged imprisonment. Despite this, he felt the Force beginning to surge within him, breaking through the barriers imposed by his captors. This growing connection to the Force, though still a faint echo of his former prowess, provided him with a renewed sense of strength and determination. With each passing moment, the Force flowed through him more freely, reigniting the ember of hope that had long lain dormant within his beleaguered spirit.
The tide of battle ebbed as Anakin stood, panting, the last of the stormtroopers dispatched. His gaze then turned to the remaining figure in the room. He lifted the butt of a fallen trooper's blaster rifle, poised to strike down this final obstacle to his freedom. However, his assault halted abruptly as the dim emergency lighting from the corridor illuminated the man's face. A wave of recognition washed over Anakin, bringing with it a surge of complex emotions. It was Dr. Sheel, a figure intertwined with both his survival and his imprisonment. This doctor had not only tended to his wounds but had also offered fleeting glimpses of compassion amidst the bleakness of his captivity.
The sight of Dr. Sheel gave Anakin pause. The doctor's small acts of kindness – a shared word here, a slightly larger ration there – had been rays of light in the oppressive darkness of his cell. These gestures, seemingly minor, had been lifelines for Anakin, sustaining a sliver of his humanity. It was these memories, more than the doctor's role in keeping him alive, that caused Anakin's hand to waver and ultimately lower the weapon.
Anakin's eyes remained locked with Dr. Sheel's for a moment longer, the turmoil within him reflected in his intense gaze. "Go," he ordered, his voice resonating with a commanding tone that brooked no argument. Despite the directive, Dr. Sheel stood still, an unreadable expression on his face as he remained rooted to the spot, shrouded in the cell's dim lighting.
Realizing there was no time to decipher the doctor's motivations, Anakin turned away, driven by the pressing need to escape. He moved towards a fallen stormtrooper, intent on donning the armor. Each movement was a battle against his own body, his muscles weak and uncooperative, betraying the years of confinement and neglect. The once-simple task of putting on armor now felt like an arduous challenge, his movements awkward and lacking the fluidity of his former self. Anakin grappled with each piece of the armor, his fingers fumbling with clasps and straps, the physical struggle mirroring the mental and emotional battle he was waging within.
In a silent act of solidarity, Dr. Sheel stepped forward to assist Anakin. His movements were methodical as he helped secure the more cumbersome pieces of armor onto Anakin's frame. This unexpected assistance from the doctor was a curious mix of complicity and compassion, further entwining their complex relationship in a shared moment of unspoken understanding and mutual dependency.
Now fully clad in the heavy stormtrooper armor, Anakin paused to gather his composure. The armor felt like both a shield and a shackle, offering protection while simultaneously reminding him of the immense effort required to break free from his chains. It was a paradoxical sensation, embodying both the confinement he sought to escape and the newfound sense of agency he was reclaiming.
As Anakin prepared to embark on his escape, he noticed Dr. Sheel's quiet presence trailing behind him. The doctor's silent vigil seemed almost ghostlike in the dim, oppressive atmosphere of the cell. Anakin had neither the time nor the inclination to question Dr. Sheel's motives at that moment, his mind singularly focused on the imminent escape and the glimmer of hope that now flickered within him. Nonetheless, as they moved in unison towards the cell's exit, a part of Anakin pondered the enigma of Dr. Sheel's actions. What drove this man, who had been a part of his captivity, to now aid in his flight? The question lingered in the air, an unspoken mystery, as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the facility, bound together by a shared history of anguish and fleeting moments of kindness in the midst of darkness.
Anakin and Dr. Sheel emerged into the teeming streets of Coruscant, their steps measured and cautious amidst the revelry of Empire Day. The capital throbbed with life, illuminated by a kaleidoscope of neon lights and resonating with the vibrant pulse of celebration. Yet, for Anakin, hidden beneath the guise of a stormtrooper, the festive atmosphere was a jarring backdrop to the gravity of his situation. Each step he took was laden with effort, the weight of the armor he donned a physical manifestation of the emotional and psychological burdens that bore down on him.
Wading through the sea of joyous citizens, Anakin's determination flickered as exhaustion began to set in. His stride, initially firm and purposeful, started to falter, betraying the toll that the escape had exacted on him. Dr. Sheel, attuned to Anakin's faltering strength, steered him towards the relative quiet of a side alley. Here, Anakin gratefully removed his helmet, revealing a face etched with fatigue. He leaned heavily against the cool durasteel of the building, each breath he drew a battle against the weariness that threatened to consume him.
He regarded the Imperial scientist walking with him, with a mixed sense of gratitude and confusion. Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, he turned to Dr. Sheel. "Why are you helping me?" he asked, his voice a mix of suspicion and intrigue.
Dr. Sheel's response was delayed, as if the question unearthed memories long buried. "Aayla Secura," he said, finally, his voice low and reflective.
Anakin's brow furrowed in confusion at the mention of the Jedi Knight. "What about her?" he inquired, puzzled by the unexpected reference.
Dr. Sheel offered a small, reflective smile, a hint of fondness touching his voice. "She saved my life," he began, his tone warming as he recalled the memory. "It happened during the Clone Wars. I'm simply... returning the favor," Dr. Sheel continued, his words infused with deep respect and a sense of honor-bound duty.
With this revelation, Anakin regarded Dr. Sheel with a newfound understanding. The bond formed by the Jedi's past actions had transcended time and circumstance, bringing them together in this unlikely escape. With a nod of acknowledgment, Anakin pushed away from the wall, a renewed determination fueling his movements. Together, they continued their journey through the crowded streets, seeking a ship that would carry them away from the epicenter of the Empire's power. The goal was clear, yet the path was fraught with uncertainty, each step a precarious dance between freedom and recapture.
Anakin and Dr. Sheel continued their journey, steadily moving away from the epicenter of the Empire Day celebrations. As they ventured into a quieter sector of Coruscant, the clamor and jubilation of the crowd faded into a distant hum. The streets here were less thronged, the ambiance noticeably calmer. "We need to find a ship," Anakin said in a low, decisive tone. "An older model would be ideal," he added, his strategic mind considering the practicalities of their escape. Dr. Sheel nodded silently, offering no challenge to Anakin's directive, trusting in the judgment of the battle-hardened former Jedi.
Some time later, Anakin's sharp whistle pierced the relative quiet, drawing Dr. Sheel's attention. He glanced across the street to see Anakin signaling him to follow. Quickening his pace, Dr. Sheel crossed the street and joined Anakin at a seemingly nondescript location which concealed a hangar. Within its shadows rested an older model light freighter, its exterior weathered but resilient—a silent witness to countless journeys and untold stories. Beside the vessel stood a large Besalisk, his four arms folded in a vigilant stance, his eyes scanning the surroundings with an air of cautious scrutiny.
Anakin, removing his helmet, approached the Besalisk with steps that betrayed his fatigue yet underscored his resolve. "Dex, this is a friend of mine, Dr. Sheel," he introduced, gesturing towards Dr. Sheel with a weary hand. "Doc, this is Dex." The introduction, though brief, was infused with a sense of mutual respect and the unspoken bonds of past experiences.
Dex, the Besalisk, regarded Dr. Sheel with an evaluative gaze, his four eyes flickering between curiosity and guarded wariness. Then, his focus shifted back to Anakin, his expression softening with concern. "Are you sure you're okay, Ani?" Dex asked, the worry evident in his deep voice. "You're looking a bit rough around the edges." The concern etched on his broad features spoke volumes of the relationship they shared, one built on mutual respect and enduring friendship.
Anakin managed a faint, tired smile in response to Dex's concern. "I've seen better days," he conceded, the lines of fatigue etched deeply on his face. "Let's just say the escape wasn't a leisurely stroll." He deliberately skirted around the harrowing details of his imprisonment—a shared understanding with Dex that some memories were too burdensome to voice aloud.
Dex appeared on the verge of probing deeper, but he seemed to read the unspoken plea in Anakin's eyes. Instead, he reached out, enveloping Anakin in a warm, encompassing hug. His four large arms cradled Anakin, offering a moment of comfort and solidarity. Anakin, though initially stiff, gradually reciprocated the embrace, an acknowledgment of the deep bond forged through years of camaraderie and shared struggles.
As they parted, a curious look replaced the concern in Dex's eyes. "So, what's your next move?" he inquired, his tone suggesting both curiosity and a readiness to assist.
"Naboo," Anakin replied, his voice carrying a quiet determination that belied the tumult of emotions within him.
Initially, Dex's features contorted into a look of bewilderment, clearly puzzled by Anakin's choice of destination. Why would Anakin, fresh from an escape, head straight into the lion's den, Palpatine's home planet? However, as the cogs of understanding turned in his mind, his expression shifted to one of poignant comprehension. "Ah, Naboo," he murmured, a heavy realization dawning upon him. "That's where your heart leads you, huh?" he said with a soft, empathetic tone. "I understand."
Anakin offered only a silent nod in response, his gratitude conveyed through the somber acknowledgment in his eyes. Words were superfluous; their shared glance spoke volumes of the unspoken bond and understanding between them.
Dex, breaking the momentary silence, cleared his throat and offered a hopeful sentiment. "Take care of yourself, Ani. And remember, you've got friends out here. We'll be waiting to see you again – under better circumstances, I hope.
Anakin nodded his thanks, appreciating the concern. "I will. And Dex," he added, "Thanks for being here. For everything."
Dex gave a small nod, his large eyes softening. "Always for you, Ani. You know that. Take care of yourself out there."
With a final nod, Anakin and Dr. Sheel hastened into the ship, their steps quickened by the imminent threat of pursuit. Anakin, fueled by a newfound determination, made his way directly to the pilot's seat. His hands were steady as he settled into the familiar role of a pilot, a role that had once brought him a sense of mastery and freedom. Dr. Sheel, recognizing the critical nature of their situation, moved to assist, his actions efficient as he helped prepare the ship for departure. His proficiency with the controls suggested a past not entirely confined to medical bays and laboratories.
The ship's engines sprang to life with a reassuring hum, vibrating through the hull as they prepared to break free from Coruscant's gravity. As they began their ascent, the ship's comm crackled to life with a call from flight command. Anakin's fingers danced over the controls, entering the clearance codes provided by Dex. There was a moment, suspended in time, where their fate hung in the balance. Then, to their collective relief, the authorization came through, granting them passage. Both men let out a breath they hadn't realized they'd been holding, a fleeting moment of respite in their fraught escape.
As the ship ascended, breaking free from the atmospheric embrace of Coruscant, they were confronted with the imposing sight of Star Destroyers arrayed in orbit. These colossal vessels, symbols of the Empire's might, loomed like sentinels overseeing the planet, a stark reminder of the regime they were fleeing. "Fortunate we didn't need a speedier exit," Anakin commented, his tone laced with a wry humor that thinly veiled his underlying tension.
Dr. Sheel nodded in silent agreement, his gaze briefly lingering on the formidable fleet before returning to the task at hand. With meticulous care, Anakin steered the ship, navigating a cautious path past the looming Star Destroyers. His familiarity with starship controls was evident, a skill honed through years of experience. He worked on plotting their course to hyperspace, his hands deftly adjusting the navigation settings, each movement a blend of precision and urgency.
With the hyperspace coordinates securely input, Anakin initiated the jump to lightspeed. The ship lurched forward, leaving the star-studded backdrop of space behind as it entered the surreal expanse of hyperspace. The viewport was awash with the mesmerizing blues and whites of the tunnel-like effect, a spectacle that never ceased to fill Anakin with a mix of wonder and a fleeting sense of liberation.
The moment of tranquility was short-lived. As Anakin attempted to stand from the pilot's seat, a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed him. His legs, unsteady and weak from the ordeal, buckled beneath him, sending him tumbling to the floor. Dr. Sheel, reacting swiftly, rushed to his side, concern etched on his face. It was evident that Anakin was teetering on the edge of his physical limits, the cumulative strain of the escape manifesting in his drained expression and faltering strength.
Gently, Dr. Sheel supported Anakin, guiding him to the ship's medical bay. There, he activated the medical droid, which was fortunately equipped with a vitapak. With careful hands, he removed Anakin's armor, revealing the IV line still attached to his arm. Dr. Sheel then administered the vitapak through the IV, infusing Anakin with much-needed nutrients and medication. Observing Anakin's weary state, he also prepared a light sedative, explaining its purpose to Anakin to ensure his comfort and trust. As the sedative took effect, Anakin's eyelids grew heavy, a silent acknowledgment of gratitude in his gaze before he succumbed to the much-needed rest.