I know it's been such a long an arduous wait for the next chapter, and it's finally here! A dreadful 16 hour wait, but it's over now and the aftermath of Kane killing an attempted rapist is made known.
(LINE BREAK)
The ship jolted suddenly, the rough vibrations signaling we had begun our descent through the atmosphere. Metal creaked, the dim lighting of the hold flickering as gravity shifted around me. The cage rattled as the ship pitched, its landing thrusters engaging, but I hardly noticed. I was too deep in the storm of my own torment.
It's your fault. It's your fault. It's your fault..
I curled tighter, pulling my knees against my chest as another broken sob tore its way out. My throat was raw, my voice shredded from days of crying and screaming. No threat or punishment had silenced me, not even the cold promise of violence from those who kept me locked away. They had tried, throwing words like weapons, but nothing could wound me more than the truth in my own mind.
They were dead. I had killed them.
The ship shifted again, the landing gear scraping against the surface below as we touched down. I barely felt the shuddering stop, the noise outside muffled. But it didn't matter where we were. It didn't matter where I was going. All that mattered was the endless, suffocating loop of guilt.
The girl… She hadn't been worth it. Not the life I took, not the fleeting rush of violence I had given in to. Anakin and Shmi had paid the price for my weakness, and I would never be able to forgive myself for that. They were dead because of me.
If I had believed in a god, maybe I would have found bitter irony in my name—Kane, the one who killed his brother. My own brother, more blessed than I could ever be, was gone because I couldn't stop myself.
I buried my head in my arms, waiting for the next wave of grief to swallow me whole as the ship finally settled in place. A loud beep came from the lock on my cage, then it opened along with the rest of the cage.
Moments later, the hiss of the door opening broke through the thick fog of my despair. My head lifted just enough to see the metal slide apart, revealing a hulking Aqualish in worn armor, his four tusks jutting out beneath a half helmet. His vibrowhip hummed faintly at his side, the low buzz cutting through the silence of the hold. He barked something in his guttural language, gesturing impatiently toward my cage.
I didn't move.
The Aqualish grunted in frustration, stomping closer until his shadow loomed over me. The whip flared to life, snapping sharply, its crack reverberating through the small space. When I still didn't react, he reached down, his armored hand clamping around my arm with a bruising force.
There was no fight left in me.
I let him drag me out of the cage, my feet barely touching the ground as he practically carried me down the ramp and into the open air. My body moved, but my mind stayed locked in the loop of my own failures, the guilt suffocating me like a noose around my throat.
The moment we stepped outside, the overwhelming chaos of the city hit me like a physical force. I blinked, dazed by the sheer enormity of it all. Towers upon towers, stacked impossibly high, loomed overhead, lights flickering in the dim artificial sky. The streets were choked with bodies—dozens of different species of sapients all pushing through the narrow walkways, the air thick with the hum of speeders and distant shouts. Dust, smoke, and the smell of industrial decay clung to everything, saturating the air like a permanent stain.
The Aqualish grunted again, shoving me forward as we moved through the crowds, his grip never loosening. I barely registered any of it. I felt like a ghost, floating through a city teeming with life, none of it touching me.
It wasn't until I saw the holoscreens above one of the buildings that a flicker of recognition pierced through my haze. The bright lights flickered with lists of arrivals and departures in bold Aurebesh, scrolling across the screens. And then I saw it.
Nar Shaddaa.
The words burned into my mind like a brand, and a faint shudder of realization ran through me. Nar Shaddaa—the Smuggler's Moon. A world as lawless and dangerous as any in the galaxy, a place where even the strongest could fall into ruin.
This was where they had brought me.
I felt a rough shove from behind, nearly stumbling as the Aqualish crew member dragged me through the crowded street. My mind was still sluggish, the awareness of Nar Shaddaa slowly sinking in like a slow, creeping dread. But before I could process it further, a sharp whistle cut through the noise.
I turned my head just enough to see him—a human man with a leathery jacket that looked as worn as his face, pale eyes and a blaster strapped to his hip. His eyes were sharp and calculating as he approached, a flicker of recognition passing between him and the Aqualish.
Without a word, the Aqualish shoved me toward him, and the man caught me by the arm, his grip firm but less brutal. He muttered something under his breath in Huttese, giving a dismissive wave toward the other captives. They were herded off in another direction, their fates uncertain. I wasn't going with them.
The man tugged me along, leading me to the side of the dockyard where a long line of repulsor rails ran, extending out of the docking area and toward the murky expanse of the city. Several figures were already lined up on the rails, their expressions grim and hollow. Scarred males, of different species, their faces telling stories of violence and suffering. I didn't need the Force to sense the savagery under the surface of them.
He shoved me into the line with them, locking a metal restraint around my wrists and fastening it to the repulsor rail. The rail hummed faintly beneath us, vibrating as it powered up, ready to transport us deeper into Nar Shaddaa.
The man didn't say anything, but his eyes lingered on me for a moment, as if evaluating something beyond my ragged exterior. Then, without a word, he moved back toward the front, ensuring everyone was secured. I stared at the ground, the grim realization of what was happening settling in as the rail began to hum louder, ready to carry us several miles to a destination I didn't know.
The only certainty was that wherever we were going, it was still close to the dockyard. Close enough that escape was impossible, yet far enough that no one would care what happened to us.
The rail jerked forward, and we began to move, the city lights blurring around us as we were carried deeper into the shadows of Nar Shaddaa.
The rail slowed to a halt, a grinding noise signaling that our grim journey had reached its end. The restraints around my wrists were unlocked, and I was hauled off the rail along with the others. The air here was thicker, the stench of oil, sweat, and blood clinging to everything. A low murmur filled the area as we were pushed into a large, dimly lit room.
I could hear the sound of metal striking metal in the distance on the opposite side of the sort of street, and echoes of emotion echoing through the Force. It felt like a sporting event, but with a sharper edge to it, like it involved something more primal than just mere competition.
It only took me a moment to realize who we had been given to when we were taken to where the competition was. I had successfully killed a man at such a young age, and I was beside others that had the look, build, and scarring of repeated killers.
With a planet like this, it was either a gladiatory arena or a pitfighter den.
We were quickly shuffled into what appeared to be a warehouse near where I could sense the savage excitement, and we were quickly lined up. Lights then automatically activated, revealing what was in front of us.
Ahead of us stood a towering figure—an overseer, clearly in charge. He was broad-shouldered, with thick, scarred arms, wearing a simple shirt. His face was hard, a permanent scowl etched into his features. A vibrowhip was coiled at his waist, but it was the glint in his eyes that commanded respect—or fear.
"You fight, you live," the overseer barked, his voice rough and gravelly, carrying across the room like a whip crack. "You win, you get food. You win more, you get a roof over your head. You keep winning, and maybe, just maybe, you'll get a taste of freedom."
He paced in front of us, eyes sweeping over the group, measuring each of us like pieces of meat. "But if you lose… well, you know what happens to those who lose."
A low murmur rippled through the group, fear and uncertainty palpable. The overseer seemed to relish it.
"You were brought here because someone thought you'd be useful," he continued, stopping just long enough to look into the eyes of some of the men. "So prove it. Prove you're not worthless."
He continued down the line, his gaze hard, before he stopped abruptly in front of me.
I could feel his eyes burning into me, the sneer forming on his face. His scrutiny was different now, sharper, as if he hadn't quite believed what he was seeing until now.
"A child," he muttered, disbelief dripping from the words as his gaze traveled from my face to my too-small frame, taking in the bruises, the dirt, and the hollow, grief-stricken look in my eyes. "Bal, how much did the boss pay for this one?!"
"200." The jacketed man replied from behind us. "Too much in my opinion, but they said he killed a bounty hunter with a shiv and nearly killed another."
He leaned down, his scarred face mere inches from mine, inspecting me with a strange, almost predatory interest. "How old are you, boy?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. The words wouldn't come. His breath was hot and rancid as he waited, eyes narrowing when I refused to speak.
A harsh laugh escaped him, and he straightened up. "This one won't last a day," he said to no one in particular, shaking his head in mock pity. "But maybe… maybe there's something worth salvaging."
He lingered a moment longer, then continued his pacing, leaving me standing there.
After a moment of the overseer's scrutinizing gaze on the others, the doors at the far end of the room hissed open, and the guards shoved us forward. The cold air of the underground passage hit me like a slap.
We were herded toward the back of the warehouse and down a set of metal stairs, the sound of boots clanging against durasteel echoing off the narrow walls. The further down we went, the darker and more claustrophobic it became. The men around me moved with the resigned pace of those who knew what awaited them—most of them had probably been through this routine before, their faces hardened into stone masks. I dragged my feet, my limbs heavy as I didn't even have the will to live any longer past another hour or so.
At the bottom of the stairs, the guards stopped us in front of a thick, electronically sealed door. One of the guards scanned a code into a terminal, and with a heavy hiss, the door slid open, revealing a tunnel dimly lit by flickering lights. The tunnel stretched ahead of us, the walls lined with rusted pipes and old cables, the air thick with the scent of damp metal and decay.
We were ushered inside without a word, the guards forcing us through like cattle to slaughter. I barely had the energy to walk, my feet shuffling forward without any real sense of direction. It was like moving through a haze, my senses dulled by exhaustion and the constant gnawing ache of grief.
As we moved deeper into the tunnel, the distant roar of the arena grew louder, echoing off the walls in a low, ominous rumble. The excitement I had sensed earlier was more palpable now—an electric charge in the air, a mix of bloodlust and desperation that seemed to seep into my bones.
I could feel the others around me tensing, their bodies instinctively preparing for what was to come. But I couldn't muster the same energy. My mind kept replaying the same scenes over and over—Anakin, Shmi, their lifeless bodies. It was my fault.
We came to a stop in front of a large metal gate, the guards barking orders at us to line up against the wall. My limbs felt disconnected from the rest of my body as I followed their commands, standing in place as if I were nothing more than a puppet on strings.
Beyond the gate, I could hear the roar of a crowd—hundreds, maybe thousands of voices, all waiting for the next fight to begin.
I was trapped here now, and the only way out was through bloodshed.
The overseer's footsteps echoed loudly in the narrow passage as he stomped back toward us, his eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. He raised a hand to quiet the low murmur of voices around us, his lips curling into a sneer.
"Welcome to the pit, boys," he growled, his voice harsh and mocking. "This is where the trash of society ends up—the scum, the thieves, the runts, and the cheap slaves no one else wants. You think you're tough? Think you've survived worse? Well, this is where we find out."
He paced in front of us, his gaze sweeping over the group like a hawk sizing up its prey. "You're all here for one reason—to fight. To bleed. To amuse those that pay to watch you suffer. But don't worry," he added with a dark chuckle, "you'll get your chance to prove yourselves soon enough."
He stopped in front of a tall, green-skinned Twi'lek, his leku twitching nervously as the overseer loomed over him. A cruel grin spread across the overseer's face.
"And you," he spat, pointing at the Twi'lek. "Would've been worth more if you were a woman. But here you are, just another useless piece of kark. Guess we'll see if you've got any fight in you."
The Twi'lek's eyes darted from side to side, his fear palpable, but he said nothing, shrinking under the overseer's gaze.
The overseer laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the walls. "Let's see what you're made of, shall we? You're up first."
The guards began to unlock the heavy gate at the end of the tunnel, the screech of metal grinding against metal sending a shiver down my spine. The crowd's roar became louder, the bloodthirsty anticipation filling the air as the Twi'lek was roughly pulled forward.
The overseer's eyes swept over the rest of us as he barked his final words. "This isn't about fairness. You fight to live. You win, then you eat; or you die. Now, let's see who's got what it takes."
Time blurred after that, slipping away in a haze of distant shouting, jeering, and the sounds of fists and flesh hitting the ground. One after another, men were selected, dragged into the pit to face their fate. The roar of the crowd became a steady hum, a background noise that drowned out everything else.
I could feel the side of my face throbbing, a dull, persistent pain from the shrapnel that had torn through my skin back on Tatooine. Each throb was a reminder of where it came from, of what I'd lost. I pressed my fingers to the rough, not completely healed scar, but it did little to numb the pain.
Suddenly, a hard smack landed on my shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts. I jerked, turning to see a man standing next to me. His skin was nearly straight black, his short, cropped hair already streaked with gray. He looked older than the others, probably around fifty, but there was something about him, a hardness in his eyes that told me he'd been through this before.
"You need to get your head in the game, kid," the man muttered, his voice low and gruff as he glanced at me. "You want to live, right?"
I stared at him, his words barely sinking in. He shook his head in frustration, gripping my shoulder a little tighter, making me wince. "Listen to me. You can't afford to lose yourself here. Focus. If you're not ready when your name gets called, you're dead."
"I don't care." I rasped, the first words leaving my lips ever since Tatooine. "There's nothing to live for."
The entire galaxy didn't matter anymore, because there was no point in it when there was nothing here I cared about anymore. My blood brothers who I had fought and killed beside were an entire plane away, my old body was probably a rotten and twisted pile of flesh that they consigned to a foreign piece of Earth, and my family, the only one that I ever had that I could remember properly, was taken from me because of my own actions.
I wish I had never been reborn, that I had gone straight from the womb to the grave. Perhaps when the lethal blow was given to me, I would have a moment's joy before I go down to the place of utter gloom and blackest night, where even the light is like darkness.
"Then live to get revenge on those who wronged you." The man rephrased, spitting to the side and growling at the direction of the spectators at the end of the tunnel when a cheer went up, signaling another death.
But I was the one who took from me, and the only thing left to me other than my clothes was the holo-novel given to me.
"I caused them to die." I whispered, glancing at the wall and wondering for a moment if I could pick up enough speed with the assistance of the Force to ram the crown of my skull into the wall and kill myself. It would at least look morbidly amusing to the others.
The man looked straight at me, before shifting in a blur of movement and I was suddenly dangling off the ground, his grip around my throat as he began to choke the life out of me.
"Then fight, you stupid sack of chit!" He roared into my face, spittle flying in my face as his presence burned into a small inferno made flesh. "You don't have permission to die like they did. Live because they can't!"
Now that I was in a state of impending death, it managed to actually pull me partially out of the pit of the desire to end it all. The animal side did not want to die, not like this.
I clawed at his arm, then kicked as hard as I could as the Force answered me as best as I could force it, and I felt my shoe strike the left side of his rib cage. He then set me down, but still had a warning grip around my throat.
"Better." He said, before he then repeated himself. "Live, kid," his tone softer this time, almost resigned. "That's all you gotta do. Live."
He released me, turning his attention back to the overseer as another poor soul was dragged toward the arena. But his words echoed in my head, a flicker of something trying to ignite amid the darkness.
The overseer's voice boomed out, cutting through the din of the room. "Next up! You, kid!" His finger pointed directly at me. There was no hesitation in his command, no room for me to retreat. The older man beside me gave me a sharp nod, but his words were lost in the sudden rush of blood pounding in my ears.
Something inside me snapped, like the brittle remains of a cord stretched too thin. The fog that had clung to me for so long, that muted numbness of despair, was gone. In its place, rage. A deep, consuming rage that clawed at my insides, searing through my veins like molten lava. The burning from the severed Force bond that had once connected me to Anakin flared to life, and I ground my teeth, tasting blood in my mouth.
The escort gripped my shoulder roughly, dragging me forward. But for the first time since Tatooine, I was moving on my own power. My legs were carrying me. It wasn't the escort pulling me down the tunnel, it was me—driven by that unrelenting anger, that cold, hateful fire that consumed everything else.
I barely noticed the rough shove as I was pushed forward into the open pit. The roar of the crowd hit me like a physical force. A swirling mass of bodies, of different species, packed into the space around the pit. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, alcohol, and sweat. Shouting and jeering echoed from all directions as credits exchanged hands, people placing bets, eager for blood.
The sand beneath my feet was stained with dark patches—blood from those who had come before me. As I took in the scene, a fighter was being carried off the sand, unconscious or worse. But my focus shifted to the center of the pit, to the new figure standing there, waiting for me.
My opponent was small, no taller than me at 11, but his laugh echoed through the arena the moment he saw me. The Aleena's mouth twisted into a grin, his beady eyes narrowing in amusement at the sight of me—a child, thin and battered, standing alone in the pit.
The crowd jeered louder, taunting both of us. I could hear the insults thrown my way, mocking my size, my age. But it only fanned the fire inside me. My heart pounded in my chest, my fists clenched, the blood still thick on my tongue.
The Aleena raised his fists, still laughing as if this was all some cruel joke. But I wasn't laughing. The rage pulsed, alive and furious, begging for release. And as the overseer barked the command to begin, I felt only one thing.
I would make him bleed.
I barely heard the shout of the announcer for us to begin. The Force, terrible and fierce in its depthless power, winged my feet as I howled forward. My prey faltered for a moment at my speed, and my fist came down with the force of an ax hewing into flesh.
His head snapped back from the force, a wet crunch being felt beneath my knuckles as teeth and blood went flying. He collapsed to the ground, and I dove on top of him, driving a second punch into his face, then a third. Sprays of blood and shattered teeth stained my hands and face, and he weakly slapped at my face. A growl escaped me as his fingers came within reach of my teeth, and I bit down like a rapid beast, my teeth sinking through scaled skin, sinew, and bone. A tart, slightly metallic taste filled my mouth and I spat the two severed fingers out. My fist came down for a fourth time, and he collapsed completely.
I didn't stop raining down punches though, and I didn't stop until the entire front of his face had been shorn clean off from the repeated strikes, blood completely drenching my front.
My will finally reasserted itself and the mad beast retreated back behind its cage, rattling at the bars that separated me from unthinking fury.
The arena temporarily went fully silent, the fight having lasted maybe 10 seconds at its longest. But then one spectators started cheering, then another, and another.
I slowly rose from my knees where I had dove on top of the Aleena, blood dripping down my face, my hands, and everywhere else. The spectators were roaring in approval, that a child was a true killer.
And for the first time in days, I felt something that I had not felt ever since they had died, harvested from the blood and shattered corpse of a slave likely hardly any different from any other slave throughout history…
The will to live.
(LINE BREAK)
Jedi Master Tholme had touched down at Mos Espa after sensing the area of Tatooine that had been stained with an echo of the Dark Side, the search having taken days of meditation to pinpoint, in ring after compressing ring, the specific location until he had narrowed it to the desert planet that his boots touched the sandy ground of and a hot gust of wind buffeted his side.
Tholme simply projected the Force out, forming an invisible, but slightly shimmering bubble of a barrier around him that had the sand bending around him.
He walked forward more until he reached the town, then ducked into an alley to focus without any distraction. The middle aged Jedi closed his eyes, letting the Force flow through him as he probed deeper, seeking out the disturbance. The Dark Side was strongest in this area, but beneath it, faint and obscured, he sensed something else. A presence. Not just powerful, but obscenely powerful. Raw and untamed, like a wildfire waiting to erupt. Yet, there was something else, something profoundly tragic about it. The presence was stained with grief, deep, overwhelming sorrow. And what surprised him most was that it felt like the essence of a child.
The thought unsettled him. A Force-sensitive child with that kind of power, untrained and fueled by such emotion, could be catastrophic. He couldn't afford to wait. The trail was fresh, the connection strong.
Tholme's footsteps quickened as he followed the sensation, winding through the narrow streets of Mos Espa. The Force tugged him, guiding his steps until he reached a small, unremarkable parts shop. The presence was there, hidden inside.
The shop was well-worn but not debilitated, mostly from sand erosion. He walked forward and the doors hissed open. The interior was dim, dusty shelves stacked with various mechanical parts and devices. The musty scent of oil and metal hung heavy in the air, but over it was the pungent smell of something far less pleasant—stale alcohol and sweat.
Behind the counter, a Toydarian floated lazily, his small wings buzzing faintly as he hovered. He looked worse for wear—his belly protruded over a worn tunic stained with grease, and his eyes were bloodshot and bleary. His skin was damp with sweat, and he appeared as though he hadn't bathed in days. A half-empty bottle of something foul-smelling sat nearby.
"Eh? What you want?" the Toydarian muttered, his voice thick and groggy. He rubbed at his eyes, clearly hungover. "Store's open, but I ain't in the mood for haggling."
Tholme's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the scene, but he kept his voice composed. "I'm not here to buy parts. I'm looking for someone. A presence." He shifted his belt and revealed the hilt of his weapon that denoted him as either a Jedi, or a killer of Jedi.
The Toydarian, noticing Tholme's lightsaber, frowned. "A Jedi, huh? Name's Watto. Ain't seen any kids with fancy Force powers if that's what you're askin'. Not like I keep track."
Tholme didn't need the Force to tell that was a lie. He ignored the dismissive tone and instead reached out with the Force, feeling the presence more acutely now. It was close. Very close. Somewhere within this very shop in the next room. But Watto clearly wasn't the source. Tholme's gaze swept the room again, searching for any clue as to the child's location.
"What happened here recently?" Tholme asked, his tone calm but firm. "There's been a surge in the Force. Something powerful."
Watto shrugged, his wings fluttering lazily.
The sense of grief, of crushing sorrow, was nearly overwhelming now the longer Tholme stayed here. It was as if the very walls were soaked with it. And the child, whoever they were, was drowning in it.
Tholme turned back to Watto, his gaze sharpening. "There's more to this than you're letting on, isn't there?"
The Toydarian shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward a backroom door for a moment before he caught himself and scowled. "Look, Jedi, I ain't got time for this! You want parts, you buy parts! Otherwise, get outta here!"
But Tholme wasn't leaving. Not yet. Not until he found the source of this powerful, grieving presence hidden just beyond his reach.
Moments later, he got his answer.
A boy emerged from the backroom, his small frame barely noticeable at first. Tholme's gaze fell upon him immediately. The boy, no older than six or seven, carried himself with a lifelessness that was palpable even without the Force. His movements were mechanical, and his gaze was fixed on the ground. A bacta patch covered part of his right temple, a recent wound still healing. There was no spark in his eyes, no trace of the vibrant curiosity one would expect from a child.
"Finished assembling the parts for Steltzer, Watto," Anakin said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.
Watto looked at the boy, his eyes narrowing slightly as he waved a hand dismissively. "Good, good. Get back to work, boy. Out of here," he ordered, his eyes darting nervously toward Tholme, trying to feign indifference.
Tholme observed the exchange silently, but his senses were on high alert. The Force pulsed from Anakin, powerful yet fractured, a torrent of raw potential bound by a grief so deep it seemed to smother him. Tholme didn't need more than a glance to know that this was the source of the disturbance he had been seeking. The boy, Anakin, was the untrained Force-sensitive he had sensed. And the despair that radiated from him was almost unbearable.
As Anakin left the room, shuffling back through the door from where he had come, Tholme turned his full attention to Watto. "That boy," he said quietly, his tone filled with the weight of what he had just witnessed. "Why does he look half-dead? His presence in the Force is shattered—grief-stricken beyond what I've ever felt in one so young."
Watto hesitated, his bravado crumbling under Tholme's intense gaze. He looked away, his wings twitching nervously as he floated over to a chair. With a heavy sigh, he sank into it, grabbing his bottle of whiskey and taking a long, hard drink.
"His mother and brother were killed less than a month ago..." He supplied, his voice thick with what one would not expect from most slave owners. Grief.
Watto's wings fluttered slightly as he stared at the bottle in his hands, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Anakin was with her, Shmi. With Kane. His mother was carrying him when it all happened. The explosion knocked them off their feet... threw them into the dirt. The boy... he wasn't awake when they pulled him out. His head got hit by shrapnel, that's why he's got that bacta patch on his temple."
Tholme felt a chill crawl down his spine. The Force around the shop seemed to pulse, filled with the echoes of that tragedy, the grief so thick he could almost touch it.
Watto gulped another swig from his bottle, his hands shaking slightly now. "The kid... he remembers it, you know? Barely. Being in his mother's arms, then the heat, the sound... And then it all goes black. When he woke up, it was me who had to tell him. Had to say they were dead."
Tholme closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, allowing the Force to steady him as he absorbed the weight of what Watto had said. It explained everything—the lifelessness in Anakin's eyes, the complete absence of any spark in him. The trauma was fresh, raw, and utterly consuming.
Watto, for all his gruff demeanor, looked shattered. His grief wasn't just for lost property—it was for the boy and the family he had lost. "He hasn't been the same since. I don't know what to do with him," Watto admitted quietly, his voice almost cracking. "He just… he's not there anymore."
The Jedi Master said nothing for a moment, allowing the silence to settle between them. This child, with such raw power in the Force, was a ticking bomb. Without proper guidance, the grief and trauma could consume him, twist him into something far worse.
"I see," Tholme said softly. "And yet, you kept him. You didn't sell him off. Why?" He looked into Watto's eyes, his gaze probing but not accusing.
Watto let out a low grunt, his wings buzzing faintly. "Kid's all I got left now. His mother was more than a slave to me, Jedi. She was decent. Family, almost. And that boy... he's too broken to sell now anyway, even if I wanted to. Who'd buy him?"
Tholme remained silent, knowing there was more to it. Watto wasn't telling him everything. But one thing was clear: Anakin was suffering, deeply, and that suffering was connected to the dark surge Tholme had felt. He had to make a choice—whether to leave the boy to a future as a slave or take him away from this pain before it destroyed him completely.
Tholme cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. "There are ways to heal wounds like his," the Jedi Master began, his tone measured but firm. "The Jedi Order has helped many children who have experienced deep loss. We know how to guide them through their pain. You must see that keeping him here, in this state... it will only destroy him further. Let me take him."
Watto's eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his face. "What would a Jedi know about raising a slave? You might have your fancy temple and your Council, but that boy's been through more than any Jedi kid. You think you can just take him, wave your hand, and make everything better?"
Tholme met Watto's gaze unflinchingly. "The Order has taken in slaves before, soldiers at that too. I don't pretend it will be easy. But the path he's on now leads only to more suffering, for him and for everyone around him. You said yourself he's barely there anymore. This is his only chance at recovering himself."
Watto frowned, mulling over Tholme's words. He leaned back in his chair, wings fluttering as he glanced toward the door Anakin had disappeared through. The boy was all that remained of a bond Watto hadn't realized meant so much until it was gone. But deep down, Watto knew Tholme was right. Keeping Anakin in his current state was cruel, and there wasn't much more he could do for the boy, even if he didn't want to admit it.
Still, the Toydarian couldn't help but feel the weight of letting go. "I'm not running a charity, Jedi," Watto grumbled, trying to regain some of his bluster.
"Five hundred peggats." Tholme said without hesitation, revealing a bag of coins he has pulled from his smaller freighter that he used for missions out in the Outer Rim. He had dozens of hard currencies for different planets, including Tatooine, and earned by means the Order would raise a brow at but not sanction him for. Being a Sentinel was far from the most chivalric or glamourous duty of a Jedi, but it was a necessity.
Watto froze for a moment, then his eyes narrowed further than they already had been from his hangover. "Five hundred peggats is a start, but that's barely enough to make up for what I've already lost."
Tholme raised an eyebrow, watching Watto's emotional struggle unfold. He understood the Toydarian's attachment to Anakin, but this wasn't about price, and they both knew it.
"Then name your price," Tholme said calmly, though his voice carried the undercurrent of finality. "But know this—if you truly care for him, the best thing you can do is let him go."
Watto was quiet for a long moment, torn between greed and whatever remnants of care lingered within him. Finally, he sighed and turned back to Tholme, his wings drooping.
"A thousand peggats," he said, his voice rough. "And I'll let him go."
Tholme didn't hesitate. He reached into his robe, retrieving the medium sized pouch filled with the coins. "A thousand peggats, then," he said, placing the pouch on the counter. "And may the Force guide him to a better future."
Watto grabbed the pouch, his hands trembling slightly, counting the credits in silence. For a brief moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the gentle clinking of metal as the credits were tallied. Finally, Watto set the pouch aside, his expression unreadable.
"Fine," Watto said gruffly, his voice thick with something he couldn't quite name. "Take him. But if he turns into trouble, Jedi, don't come crying back to me."
It was all bluster, and both of them knew it. But Tholme gave him a small nod, not commenting on the obvious posturing. "I won't."
As Tholme turned to leave, his mind already focused on how to approach Anakin, Watto called out one last time, his voice surprisingly soft. "He's been through hell. Don't make it worse, Jedi."
Tholme paused for a moment, then continued toward the exit without a word, the weight of the task ahead of him settling heavily on his shoulders. The boy's future was now in his hands.
(LINE BREAK)
Tholme sat in the communication room of his ship, the soft hum of the engines barely noticeable in the background. Anakin was asleep in one of the beds, having barely reacted when Tholme had told him they were leaving Tatooine. A vague spark of something, perhaps curiosity, or simply a fleeting distraction, had passed over the boy's face when he learned they would be boarding a ship, but it had quickly faded. Now, the boy lay in a restless sleep, while Tholme focused on the flickering hologram of Jedi Master Mace Windu before him.
"I've found the source of the surge," Tholme began, his voice steady but grim as his expression was flat. "It's a boy, a slave that I have freed, extremely strong in the Force. His family… they were killed in front of him. The trauma, the grief, it's… overwhelming. He's barely holding on."
Windu's expression remained neutral, though a flicker of concern passed through his dark eyes. "Did you run a blood test?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge of a near comnand.
Tholme nodded, his jaw tightening. "I did. His midichlorian count is… over 25,000."
A silence stretched between them, the air thick with the weight of what Tholme had just said. Windu sat still, his gaze fixed on Tholme, but his face remained impossible to read. For several long moments, he said nothing, the gravity of the revelation sinking in.
Then, finally, in a low, almost cautious voice, Windu spoke. "Your priority is to get him to Coruscant. As soon as possible."
Tholme nodded solemnly. "I understand."
The holocall flickered for a moment, then cut out, leaving Tholme alone in the quiet.
Mace Windu remained seated on his meditation mat, the dim lighting of his quarters casting long shadows on the walls. The holocall had ended, but the weight of Tholme's words still hung heavy in the air. Over 25,000. Windu exhaled slowly, trying to process what this meant, but clarity eluded him. A child, strong in the Force, bearing such a profound connection. The implications were staggering.
He rose from his mat with slow, deliberate movements, his posture straight but the tension in his shoulders visible. For a moment, Windu simply stood in the center of his quarters, staring at nothing in particular yet everyone as the shimmering connective sinews of the galaxy pulsed intermittently like the slow and steady beats of a heart rich with life. The Force flowed around him, through him, binding him to the past, present, and future. But he could not find the focus or clarity he sought. The boy—Anakin—would be arriving soon, and the Jedi Council would need to make swift and careful decisions with a child of this level of connection to the Force. None, not even Yoda, had such a raw potential connection. The dark surge they had felt, the likely trauma Anakin carried… it all pointed to something far larger than just a lost child, even a powerful one.
Walking to the door, Windu let out a quiet breath. He could feel a storm coming, his essence vibrated and bristled as it hung over him, but its shape and nature were still unclear. For now, he needed clarity, or at the very least, some way to ground his thoughts.
Sparring. Perhaps that would help.
With a steady stride, he exited his quarters, the cool air of the temple hallways brushing against his skin. His mind churned with thoughts of the boy, of the surge in the Force, and of what was to come.
(LINE BREAK)
Kane sat on the edge of his small, cold cell, the dim light from the ceiling casting harsh shadows enhanced by the light of the holo-novel in his hands. His fingers, still slick with the residue of the barely-cooked chunk of meat he had been served, flipped the page almost absently with a gesture the hoop disk registered. The taste of it still lingered—something like fried alligator, he thought bitterly. He wasn't sure what it actually was, but it didn't matter. Food was food, and right now, survival was the only thing that counted.
His focus wasn't on the holo-novel, though his eyes scanned the words. He had read the same paragraph at least four times, the words barely registering. His thoughts kept drifting back to the arena, to the last few fights.
A half-dozen people. That's how many he'd fought today. Most of them had been adults—two of them grown humans, back to back. They hadn't been prepared for him, for what an eleven-year-old could do. Kane smiled bitterly. They thought it was a joke at first, that he was a sideshow. But the spectators had loved it—the brutality of it, the way he fought with ferocity far beyond his years. They'd laughed at first, jeered, until they realized he wasn't just a kid who could swing his fists; he was something else entirely. A survivor. A warrior. And chunks of enamel had taken him half an hour to find and dig out of his knuckles afterwards.
His face throbbed. The bruising around his left eye was severe, the flesh swollen and tender, a constant reminder of the kick he'd taken. The cut across his cheek had reopened during the fight, and now it burned fiercely, blood seeping slowly down his face. Every pulse of pain only fueled the anger simmering beneath his surface.
He wouldn't be surprised if a shard of metal was still embedded in his face from the explosion and had been jarred loose.
Kane flipped another page in the holo-novel, but his eyes didn't even bother glancing at the text this time. His thoughts were elsewhere, on the spectators who cheered for his pain, who enjoyed watching him fight for his life. He clenched his fist, the grease from the meat mingling with the sweat and blood on his knuckles. This place, this life—it was all a game to them. But to him, it was survival. And he'd keep surviving, no matter how many times they threw him into that pit.
He would live. Not for himself. He would do everything that should have been done, what Anakin now will never accomplish.
Kane spat to the side, more blood than spit from when a blow to his face had his teeth cutting the inside of his mouth.
The Mandalorian code he half-read about, with all its talk of honor and strength, seemed like a distant dream, something unattainable in this hellhole. But maybe, just maybe, there was something in it that he could use. Something to hold onto, something to give him purpose beyond the fights.
But for now, Kane just needed to make it through the next round.
(LINE BREAK)
Mace Windu stood at the edge of the docking bay, the soft hum of Coruscant's twilight world barely registering in his mind. His attention was fixed entirely on the gray freighter descending toward him, its nondescript exterior hiding the weight of what it carried. The moment the ship had entered the system, Windu had felt it—an overwhelming wave of grief and emotional disconnection, pulsing like a dark current through the Force. It was unlike anything he had felt before, and the closer the freighter came, the heavier that sensation became. The boy's pain was almost suffocating.
As the ship settled on the platform, Windu closed his eyes for a moment, focusing inward. The Force around him rippled with the weight of this child's presence—so much potential wrapped in layers of darkness and despair.
Perhaps... The thought formed unbidden in his mind, more natural than he had anticipated. Perhaps I should take the boy as my apprentice.
It wasn't something Windu typically considered—his standards for Padawans were high, and few ever met them. But this boy… Anakin Skywalker... There was something about him. An aura that tugged at Windu's core despite the darkness surrounding him. The Force felt different around the boy. There was raw, untapped potential, dangerous yet compelling. He could see, even now, that Anakin was a being who could alter the trajectory of the galaxy.
The freighter's ramp lowered, and as Tholme appeared from within, Windu's eyes immediately shifted to the child trailing close behind. It wasn't just the boy's presence in the Force that drew his attention—there was something more profound, something new.
In that instant, the Force itself shifted, and Windu's unique gift, Shatterpoint, activated, revealing a vision as clear as glass. The boy was a pane of glass before his eyes, each shard and fracture connecting to countless people, events, and choices, all radiating out from him like a web of cosmic threads. Windu's breath hitched. He saw one thread in particular, one that connected Anakin to him, cutting through the boy's form and running out beyond them both, touching the galaxy itself.
It was only for a fraction of a second, but in that moment, Windu saw everything. Anakin's arrival on Coruscant was a shatterpoint in itself, a pivotal moment that could break or reshape the future. And it was tied to him, Mace Windu. The weight of the galaxy was hanging in the balance of this moment, and Anakin was at the center of it all.
Then, just as quickly as that information had come, it vanished. The grand image of fractured glass shrank away, and Windu was left standing there, looking at a scared, broken child, clutching Tholme's cloak as though it were his only tether to reality.
Anakin walked so close to Tholme that it was clear the boy was terrified of being alone. His shoulders were hunched, his head down, and there was no curiosity or wonder in his eyes as most children had when they first arrived at the Temple. The darkness around him was thick, an oppressive aura of grief and hopelessness that permeated the very air around him.
Windu exhaled slowly, steadying himself as Tholme led the boy closer. The emotions swirling around Anakin were overwhelming—grief, anger, fear—but underneath it all, there was something else. That thread. A connection. The Force whispered to him again, reminding him of what he had just seen, and Windu couldn't help but wonder if this boy, this child bound by trauma and despair, was meant to be his to sculpt and mold into something greater than any could have ever foreseen.
Tholme's gaze met his as they approached, a silent understanding passing between them. This was no ordinary discovery. Anakin Skywalker was unlike any being they had encountered, and the fate of the galaxy now hung on what happened next. Windu nodded slowly, already understanding that the true test was just beginning.
As Tholme approached with Anakin by his side, Windu straightened his posture, folding his arms within the folds of his robes. He offered Tholme a respectful nod, acknowledging the significance of the situation before them. The tension in the air was thick, and while the presence of the Force still whispered of future tremors, Windu kept his composure, his face as calm as ever.
"Master Tholme," Windu greeted him, his voice low and even, though there was a current of gravity beneath the calm exterior. "Thank you for bringing the boy safely to Coruscant."
Tholme returned the nod, though the weariness in his eyes was evident. "It was an easy trip though not without problems, Master Windu. The boy… well."
Windu's eyes shifted to Anakin, who kept his gaze downcast, shuffling slightly behind Tholme as if afraid to fully face the world around him. The boy was small, yet there was a palpable weight around him, a weight that Windu could feel bearing down on his young shoulders.
Without a word, Windu knelt down, bringing himself to eye level with the child. The Jedi Master's face softened as he regarded Anakin, doing his best to ease the tension in the air. He knew that after everything this boy had been through, forcing him to feel comfortable would be impossible—but maybe, just maybe, Windu could help him feel a sliver of safety.
"Anakin," Windu said, his voice gentle, though there was still an authority behind it. "I am Mace Windu, a Jedi as well. I know you have been through a lot, and you have been very brave to make it this far."
Anakin shifted his feet, still avoiding eye contact. His shoulders hunched slightly, as though he was trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. Windu could see the fear in the boy's every movement, his complete withdrawal from the present reality—a child who had lost too much.
"I'd like to ask you something," Windu continued, keeping his tone soft, patient. "The healers in the Temple are going to check that you are in good health. I know it can be a lot, especially when you're in a new place. Would you feel better if Mr. Tholme stayed with you while they do this?"
There was a long pause. For a moment, Windu wasn't sure the boy had heard him at all. But then, slowly, Anakin whispered, barely audible, "Yes."
The word was quiet, fragile, as if spoken from a place of deep exhaustion. He still didn't meet Windu's gaze, his eyes focused somewhere near the ground.
Windu nodded, rising slowly to his feet and exchanging a look with Tholme. It was clear that Anakin was still far from trusting anyone here, but the fact that he had even responded, even that small whisper of consent, was a step.
"Very well," Windu said, his voice calm but firm. "We'll take things one step at a time."
(LINE BREAK)
In the serene quarters of the Grandmaster, Windu stood before Master Yoda. The room, bathed in soft, ambient light, was calm as ever, but the tension between the two Jedi Masters was palpable. Yoda sat in his small hover chair, his wise, ancient eyes observing Windu with a quiet intensity.
"Strong, the boy is," Yoda began, his voice soft yet filled with that deep, unshakable wisdom. "Sense his pain, we all do."
Windu took a deep breath, clasping his hands behind his back as he shifted forward. "Master Yoda, there's something more about this boy. His potential… I felt it even before I saw him. The moment he arrived on Coruscant, I could sense the darkness surrounding him, but not of his making. It was as though the Force was drawing me to him."
Yoda's ears perked up slightly, his gaze sharpening with interest. "Hmm. Speak, you must, of what you felt, Master Windu."
Windu shifted, his brow furrowing as he recalled the sensation, the clarity of the moment when he had seen Anakin for the first time. "When I saw him… I sensed something profound in the Force. I saw a shatterpoint, his… it was unlike anything I've seen before." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "For a fraction of a second, I saw it—his connection to the entire galaxy. His very existence is intertwined with the fate of countless others. And the thread that ties him to me, to this very moment, runs through it all. I can't explain it fully, but… the Force is pointing to him. He's important."
Yoda was silent, his eyes closing briefly as he meditated on Windu's words. The silence stretched on for several long moments, but Windu remained patient. He knew Yoda was not one to rush decisions or thoughts, especially when matters as grave as this were at hand.
After a time, Yoda opened his eyes again, his expression unreadable. "Certain, are you, of this vision?"
Windu nodded, his face set with determination. "I am, Master. We both agree Skywalker's arrival here is not by chance. The Force is calling us to him, I believe that. And for that reason, I have made my decision. I will train the boy myself."
Yoda's eyes narrowed slightly, though not in disapproval. "A great responsibility, it is, to take on a youngling with such… darkness in him."
Windu met Yoda's gaze, his voice resolute. "That is why I must do it. He is powerful, and his pain runs deep. If left unchecked, we know where that power could lead him down. But I believe I can help him find balance. Guide him, temper him. I've seen the Shatterpoints of many, but never before have I felt a connection like this. It's as though my fate is intertwined with his."
Yoda hummed softly, leaning on his gimer stick as he contemplated Windu's words. "Train him, you will, Master Windu. But difficult, this path will be. The boy's pain… overcome it, he must. Or great darkness, there will be."
Windu nodded solemnly. "I understand the risk, Master Yoda."
Yoda tilted his head slightly, the weight of his age and wisdom evident in his next words. "Then trust in the Force, we must. Guide him, you will. But careful, you must be. For great power and great pain, a dangerous combination, they are."
With that, Windu bowed slightly, acknowledging Yoda's wisdom but holding firm in his resolve. "I will not fail him, Master Yoda. Or the Force."
End Chapter: