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The idiom "growing old and sprouting wings" implies experiencing a renewed sense of freedom, growth, or success, often in the later stages of life.

When Anakin Skywalker was three years old, he was sold into slavery. 

He was too young to remember what it had felt like to be lulled to sleep and for the medical droid to place his chip somewhere inside his body. He does, however, remember being itchy for months afterwards. 

It wasn’t until he was seven, when Watto bought a new slave, that he understood where the feeling had come from.

“Just find where they cut you,” Anakin whispered to the man while his mother prepared the salve. There were a few things in life that slaves were allowed while under Watto’s watchful eye, and Shmi’s healing remedies were a rare exception. They had even been able to con the bastard into providing the supplies the mother had needed, stating that a slave wasn’t worth much to him if they ended up dying.

The slave watched the small boy from where he laid on the cot and slowly lifted up his shirt to reveal deep lacerations everywhere. Some of them were sewn up while others were left to heal on their own.

Anakin watched in grave curiosity as the gears began to turn in his little head. There was no surefire way to know where they placed the chip - the slave traders made sure of that. He was about to ask another question of the man, when his mother pulled him away gently.

“Let the poor man sleep, Ani,” she instructed. “You know Watto will have him working soon enough. Let him heal while he’s still allowed.”

And that was that.

The man had come by a few more times in the coming months, collecting the only thing that helped with his scarring from Shmi before never showing up again.

“Mama,” Anakin asked one evening, leaning into his mother’s tired embrace. “Where did they place your chip?”

She pulled back slightly, only to get a better look at her son, before sighing. “I do not know, bao’bi . I was not awake when they put it in.”

Anakin thought for a moment, idly scratching at his arm. It was a habit he picked up whenever he thought of the chip that would kill him if he ran. If he made his master angry.

“If I found it,” Anakin began slowly, sensing his mother’s unease with his line of thinking. “Do you think Mr. Jiben would be able to remove it?”

Jiben was a phydolon who had been abducted from his ship years before Anakin had even been born. He had been the one that all the other slaves went to if they needed a more surgical solution when Shmi’s herbal ones failed. Sometimes if the medical droid made incisions that were too deep and left them  for the slave to deal with on their own, Jiben would have to get involved. Anakin knew that Watto only kept him around for that purpose alone - otherwise he would have been useless to the toydarian.

Shmi regarded her son with a sort of reverence that Anakin only saw when she was praying, before kissing his forehead softly. “I am sure that if you discover where your chip is, Mr. Jiben would be more than happy to assist you in your path towards freedom.”

Anakin was seven when a deep space pilot handed him his first scanner. It had been busted, sure, but that didn’t stop Anakin from spending months taking it apart and putting it back together again. 

Anakin knew that the chip buried deep within his body had some sort of transmitter emanating out of it. Something that would have had to be unique for only Watto to have access to it. The world of slave trade wouldn’t be fair in the eyes of a slave owner if they felt like they weren’t in complete control of their property.

The scanner gifted to him was designed to pick up on different alloys buried within the sands of Tatooine, but the same principles applied. 

Once he understood the inner workers of the radar, he began to try and replicate it.

Anakin was lucky. He had a sort of gift that allowed him to understand machines easier than trained mechanics. This made him valuable to Watto, which, in turn, gave him complete access to all of Watto’s broken gadgets.

Once, when Anakin was six, he had stolen a broken miniature vaporator and had smuggled it home to work on it. When Watto found out about the thievery, he had threatened to punish the boy and his mother, before Anakin had shown his master how he had fixed the blasted machine. 

Since then, Watto allowed Anakin to take home anything he felt like he could fix, with the caveat that he brought it back. Luckily for him, Watto was never the best at inventory.

He found machines simple. They were predictable, if built right, and were never bustling with emotions like the people who lived in the huts around him.

They were quiet.

They did what they were supposed to do.

When they worked, that was.

Anakin understood how to build a scanner, he had built quite a few since he was seven, thank you very much, but a slave transmitter chip was different.

He didn’t know what exactly he was looking for and who was to say that the code emanating from his body didn’t change slightly every day?

No, for this to work he had to develop a radar for every possible transmission that chip like this could have. That’s where he was finding the most difficulty.

Anakin was nine when he met his first wooxi . His first Jedai. 

Qui-Gon Jinn was not what Anakin had expected in the slightest growing up on Tatooine hearing the tales of the wooxi . They were an old clan, that’s what Jira had told him anyway, that were keepers of the peace. They saw an injustice and leapt at it with kindness and nobility.

That’s why Anakin had been so quick to invite the wooxi’s party back to his humble home. He was sure of Qui-Gon’s true intention on the desert outpost.

“All slaves have transmitters placed inside their bodies somewhere,” Shmi had explained, once the initial shock of three more hungry mouths to feed wore off. She too understood the significance of the man at the head of her table.

“I’ve been working on a scanner to try and locate them,” Anakin quickly added, passing the young teenager her meal. “But no luck.”

“Any attempt to escape…”

“And they blow you up. Poof. No more proof that you were ever actually alive .”

The young girl and gungan gasped loudly. Qui-Gon remained stoic, another clue that he was here for them. 

“I can’t believe there is still slavery in the galaxy,” Padmé began, shaking her head. “The Republic’s anti-slavery laws-”

Shmi rested her hand on top of the teenager’s. A motherly tactic that Anakin was far too familiar with. “The Republic doesn’t exist out here. We must survive on our own.”

Conversation quickly changed to the topic of pod-racing. The discussion of slavery usually among those unfamiliar in its practice, left them in an awkward state of want . Anakin knew that the Naboodian’s did not mean to sound insincere when they questioned why the mother and son didn’t simply steal themselves away. They didn’t understand the intense desire that the nine year old at the table had. 

The desire that was a young boy’s dream. One that might be fulfilled at Qui-Gon’s first indication of his true intention.

“I had a dream,” Anakin began slowly. “That I was a wooxi. A Jedai Knight, like you. I came back here and freed all the slaves…have you come to free us?”

Shmi squeezed her son’s knee under the table, her own want too loud for the table.

They waited on baited breath.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

Shmi’s grip tightened before it released, leaving Anakin feeling like he had just received a beating from Watto for being too slow.

“I think you have,” Anakin tried to keep his voice from wobbling. “Why else would you be here?”

The tension around the table tightened, like the rope after the floor gave out at the hanging block. No one dared to breathe as they watched Qui-Gon study Anakin’s small determined face.

Please, he thought, I can help. I’m so close with my scanner. Give me a chance.

“I can tell there is no fooling you,” the Jedai leaned in closer. “You mustn’t let anyone know about us. We're on our way to Coruscant, the central system in the Republic, on a very important mission, and it must be kept secret.”

A secret mission to free the slaves. To free Anakin’s people.

Anakin was nine when he learned that freedom came slower than he anticipated.

He had raced for them and won. He had hugged his mother and grabbed the wooxi’s robe, attempting to remind him of his mission. To remind him that he was a person. That they all were people.

He followed the wooxi back to Watto’s garage and helped negotiate for a decent price for his pod-racer. Everyone always wanted to buy the winning racer - not because they were interested in driving it themselves or reentering it. No. They wanted something to remind them that they were here and had witnessed an amazing feat. And that they were allowed to leave whenever.

“Look, mama,” Anakin yelled with joy as he raced to his mother’s legs. “Look at all the money we got from selling the pod! Qui-Gon said that we could have his share of the profit.”

“He did?” Shmi glanced up from her son’s embrace to the older man, whose face did not betray him. “Oh my goodness. That’s wonderful.”

“And Anakin has been freed.”

“I’m what ?”

“You are no longer a slave.”

Anakin’s excitement overtook him. He jumped and screamed for joy, only stopping once he was back in his mother’s embrace.

“Did you hear that, mama? We’re free. We’re free.” When she did not react, as shock had taken hold, Anakin turned to the older man. “Was that part of the prize, or what?”

Qui-Gon smiled slightly, nodding towards them. “Let’s just say Watto has learned an important lesson about gambling.”

Shmi rested a callused hand on her son’s cheek, turning his gaze back to her own. “Now you can make your dreams come true, Ani. You’re free.” Tears leaked from her eyes, and Anakin was tempted to wipe them away. Moisture was a rarity among the slaves - tears were a waste of value, as Shmi had taught him. But this, he felt, was an exception.

“Will you take him with you? Is he to become a Jedai?”

Anakin’s grip tightened on his mother’s skirt. The want was too much, it was making him sick. He was free and he was to become a wooxi. A Jedai.

“Our meeting was not a coincidence,” Qui-Gon began, taking a soft step forward. “Nothing happens by accident.” He was now kneeling by the young boy, brushing his shaggy sun bleached hair out of his eyes. “You are strong in the Force, but you may not be accepted by the Council.”

Shmi’s grip loosened, immediately grasping the meaning of his words.

Anakin, however, was too overwhelmed by joy to comprehend what Qui-Gon was stating so plainly.

“A Jedai! Mighty blasters, you mean I get to go with you in your starship and everything?”

“Anakin,” the man continued, his voice soft and steady. “Training to be a Jedi will not be an easy challenge. And if you succeed, it will be a hard life.”

What did Qui-Gon know about hard lives? Did he slave away under the heat of two suns, blistering so bad that sometimes Mr. Jiben would have to take a blade to your skin to remove infection? Did he ever have sun sickness to the point even water was repulsive? Did he know death as a friend like Anakin did?

“But it’s what I want,” he said, attempting to keep the whine and want from his tongue. “What I’ve always dreamed about. Can I go, Mama?”

Qui-Gon placed a gentle finger under his chin, turning him away from his mother. “This path has been placed for you, Ani; the choice to take it is yours alone.”

Anakin’s eyes stung with tears. He absently scratched at his arm, wondering what it would be like to leave without the fear of death.

Oh, to make death a stranger once more.

“I want to go.”

The man smiled, standing up to his full height. “Then, pack your things. We haven’t much time.”

Anakin shouted once again in joy before grabbing his mother’s hand, pulling her towards their shared room. When she didn’t move, he glanced between the two, horror gripping his stomach tight.

“What about Mama? Is she free too?” Panic engulfed him and he grabbed her skirt once more, the child in him terrified. “You’re coming, aren’t you, Mama?”

“I tried to free your mother, Ani, but Watto wouldn’t have it,” the Jedai tried to explain.

“But the money from selling,” his voice cracked and tears leaked freely from his eyes.

“It’s not nearly enough. I’m sorry.”

Shmi gathered her weeping child into her arms, singing softly into his hair as he calmed down. “ Bao’bi,” she began, the term of endearment sweet on her tongue. “My place is here. My future is here. It is time for you to let go,” a small sob escaped her skinny frame. “To let go of me. I cannot go with you.”

Anakin shook his head. “I don’t care. I want to stay with you. I don’t want things to change.”

She brushed his hair from his face, placing a kiss to his forehead. “You cannot stop change any more than you can stop the suns from setting. Listen to your feelings; Ani, you know what is right.”

It took mother and son a few more minutes to settle their nerves after the anxiety of departure. Qui-Gon, considerate as ever, said nothing and gave them the space to grieve in silence.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Mama…”

“I love you, Ani…now hurry, grab your things. You’ll need to leave soon.”

Anakin was nine when he learned where his chip was. He was nine when he definitely stood in front of Watto and told him no, he would not allow his med droid to drug him again.

“He needs this procedure,” he heard Watto’s slimy voice rise. “He’ll skocha without it.”

Qui-Gon raised a hand and nodded in understanding. “I will talk to him. He is free now, therefore he gets to make his own choices about his autonomy.”

Watto grumbled, as if discussing his former slave’s loss brought upon indigestion.

“I don’t want to be asleep,” Anakin explained when Qui-Gon inquired. “I don’t know if that slimo will actually take it out or not.”

The Jedai nodded, understanding the sentiment. “I will be there. I will make sure he follows through-”

The boy shook his head, pushing himself off the counter before grabbing the man’s hand, pulling him away. “Come on, I know where we can go.”

Qui-Gon followed patiently as Anakin navigated them through the bustling streets of the slave district. Watto may not have been the best businessman, but he did have an understanding of how he could build stature.

Mr. Jiben rarely left his home now. His species was not used to the dry climate, and he had to take moisture baths weekly to stay alive. He did Watto’s work from home, still ensuring his usefulness.

“ Da Jin , Mr. Jiben, I’ve been freed.”

The phydolon looked up at the Jedai with his glossy black eyes. “Yes, I heard, little Ani. May I inquire why you are here instead of flying away?”

“I know where my chip is,” the boy explained, pointing to the skin right behind his left ear. “Will you remove it for me?”

The phydolon sighed. “I do not have any anesthetics available to me, at this moment, little Ani. I’m sure Watto has a capable droid-”

“No!” Anakin’s eyes went wide. “I need to know it’s gone. I need to feel it happening.”

The alien glanced between Jedai and boy before moving out of the doorway to allow entry. 

“Get Shmi,” Anakin heard him command the Jedai. “She has herbs.”

Once everything had been set up, and Anakin was laying on his side, squeezing his mother’s hands, did Jiben begin the procedure.

“Steady yourself,” was what Qui-Gon instructed. “Feel outwards, towards your mother. Feel her presence. Find comfort in it. Pain is, but temporary. Connection is forever.”

The chip was out faster than Anakin expected, the pain, as Qui-Gon predicted, was minimal compared to the overwhelming love that washed over from his mother. She slathered her ointment on the incision before pressing the remainder of it into the Jedai’s welcoming hands with instruction of use.

Anakin sat up, accepting the moisture pouch from Jiben, understanding its significance. “Can I have the chip?”

Mr. Jiben shook his head, his hanging tentacles seemingly gliding with the movement. “I’m afraid not. It isn’t deactivated. It will explode once out of range. Watto will probably wish it returned, as well.”

Anakin’s heart tightened. It was his. It had been in his body for six years. A looming fear hanging over him.

“When do you have to give it back?”

The alien thought for a moment before a small smile took over his face. “Not till he asks, I suppose.”

That was all the boy needed. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the unfinished scanner. “Here,” he gave it to his mother. “For when Mr. Jiben is able to figure out the code. So that you can be free too.”

Shmi returned a wet smile, kissing her son’s head once more.

“I will become a Jedai and I will come back and free you, Mama...I promise.”

“No matter where you are, my love will be with you. Now be brave, and don't look back... don't look back.”

“I love you so much.”

Anakin was twelve before he thought of his chip again. He and his pateesa , as he had taken to calling Obi-Wan in the place of master, had been sent on a diplomatic mission to meet with a king.

“He has slaves,” Anakin told his friend. “He is in the Galactic Republic and he has slaves.”

“I don’t like it anymore than you do,” the twenty-eight year old sighed. “But I don’t know what we can do.”

Anakin thought for a moment before mumbling, “we could kill him.”

Obi-Wan watched the boy with a soft gaze and Anakin rubbed his left ear aggressively on his own shoulder. A coping mechanism. If Obi-Wan looked closely he could see where the small scar still sat, raising the skin. A reminder of where the boy was from.

“That would solve nothing,” the Jedi master sighed. “They would still be chipped and we would be unable to free them.”

“What does the force tell you?”

The older man looked down sadly. “That there is no answer. Not today at least.”

Anakin was fourteen when he found an old junk scanner on one of the lower levels of Coruscant. Technically, he was barred from these levels. Not because he was a padawan and this was considered highly dangerous, but because he seemed to be a magnet for trouble. It wasn’t his fault that he was a better mechanic than what the underbelly of Coruscant had to offer.

He had taken the scanner home, operating on it openly in their shared space.

“You will be the death of me,” the thirty year old sighed, only moving the parts out of his way to have space to drink his tea.

“Once I figure this out, we can start a campaign to end slavery. I was watching the holonet, and there are plenty of senators that don’t know that there is still slavery in the galaxy.”

Only a handful of them continued to bring it up in senate hearings - Padmé was one of the few. In the last year, since she was elected senator by the new queen of Naboo, she had tried to push three bills through only to be stopped by the trade federation.

It seemed parallel to their first meeting.

“You need to stop watching the holonet,” was all Obi-Wan commented on. “We are not in the business of politics.”

“Maybe you’re not,” Anakin smiled, “but it’s smart to know why things are happening. Pateesa Windu says so.”

Obi-Wan smiled into his tea. “Any luck?”

Anakin’s smile fell. “No.”

“Well,” he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Sturdy and fatherly. “If anyone can figure it out it’s you.”

Anakin was nineteen when he had his first dream.

No, that wasn’t fair, it wasn’t his first dream. He had dreams as a child, of being here in the temple. And those dreams came true.

“ Fooquin? ” Anakin asked when he woke up in a cold sweat. It was a term of endearment that the man had earned from the last decade of carefully caring for the now young man. It was a term that had slipped his traterious lips out of fear rather than love.

“What is it, Anakin?”

It was late - or early, depending on who you asked - point was, Anakin had woken up the thirty five year old, one who was in desperate need of his sleep after last night’s adventure saving Senator Amidala. 

“I…I think my mother is in trouble.”

Even in the darkness, Anakin could tell that his friend was frowning. The teenager had learned early on in their partnership that Obi-Wan didn’t understand the intensity of his padawan’s emotions. He was special. He was given nine years to form strong attachments and to learn to feel freely. Jedi skills did nothing but sharpen his emotions.

“I am sorry, Anakin,” was what he had landed on. “What can I do?”

Anakin wasn’t sure. They had been given the task of protecting the senator. Come morning, they would go their separate ways. Obi-Wan would hunt down the bounty hunter who was paid to kill the young woman while Padmé and Anakin stole away to Naboo.

This conversation was not one to have with the life of Padmé hanging between them.

“I’m not sure,” he offered honestly, once again rubbing his ear. The skin was raw from the act. 

“When I return,” the older man promised. “We shall see about your mother.”

Anakin was nineteen when he realized he didn’t know where Shmi Skywalker was. A woman, that for nine years, had been his entire life, was now seemingly a ghost.

“I had sent Sabe to find her,” Padmé had told him over a late night snack in the soft light of the Naberrie home. “Back when I first became a senator. She was supposed to buy her freedom.”

“What happened?”

The young senator chewed her bottom lip. “She was gone. Sabe freed who she could, but at the end of the day we ran out of funds before finding her. I’m sorry.”

Anakin didn’t blame her. Nor did he blame Qui-Gon for leaving her all those years ago. They had done their best with the system that was set up against them.

He played with the broken scanner, never really getting close with the Coruscant technology. 

He was nineteen when he returned home for the first time in a decade.

While he couldn’t use his connection to the force to feel for his mother’s location outright, he did find a slimo who would point them in the right direction.

His old master was hovering above a gaggle of pit droids, each one tripping over the next to fix the speeder they were working on. All Anakin had to do was glance at the machinery to know what was wrong with it, and what the droids were missing.

That’s what made him valuable to the slaver all those years ago.

“Excuse me, Watto” he began, because Shmi and Obi-Wan hadn’t raised him to be rude. 

“ Haku ?” The toydarian spat back, apparently having been raised rudley. 

Anakin sighed, remembering his place. Watto had no need for strangers, for those that had nothing to offer him. He slipped into his native tongue, eyebrow raised. “ Chut chut.”

The toydarian blinked up at him. “Shut down,” he yelled at his droids before sneering back in Anakin’s direction. Padmé glanced around them, seemingly recalling upon her visit a decade prior.

“What? I don’t know you…” he began before remembering himself. “What can I do for you? You look like a Jedai. Whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”

The old alien dropped his data pad, and Anakin made a quick snatch to grab it before it hit the sandy floor. He knew what happened when technology mixed with sand.

“Let me help you with that,” the teenager smiled. His mother had made sure that her son would be, above all, kind.

You receive more with nectar than poison, Ani.

“I’m looking for Shmi Skywalker,” Anakin offered plainly as he handed the data pad back.

The flying slaver blinked up at him once more before realization took over. “Ani? Little Ani? No.”

Anakin turned towards the speeder, picking up the abandoned screwdriver. It didn’t take long before it roared back to life, Anakin’s own chuckling with it.

“You are Ani! It is you. You little womp rat.”

The toydarian went in for a hug, as if all those years with Anakin under him as a slave meant nothing. Padmé cleared her throat, not allowing him to forget.

Anakin smiled at her, still remembering how her lips tasted, silently thanking her.

Watto seemed to take the hint and rambled on instead. “You sure sprouted, Weehoo! A Jedai! Waddya know? Hey, maybe you couldda help with some deadbeats who owe-”

“Shmi Skywalker,” Padmé reminded at the same time Anakin said, “My mother.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Shmi. I don’t know. She’s no longer mine. I sold her.”

Anakin’s heart clenched. “You…sold her?”

Was she no longer valuable to him? She was smart. She was crafty. She could make an ointment for almost anything with table scraps. She had learned about technology from him. She could find a purpose when one ran dry.

Watto didn’t seem to care that Anakin’s world was seemingly falling apart around them. “Years ago. Sorry, Ani, but you know, business is business. Sold her to a moisture farmer named Lars. Least I think it was Lars. Believe it or not, I heard he freed her and married her. Can ya beat that?”

“He…?” There was so much packed into that one statement of fact that Anakin felt like he was drowning. “Do you know where they are?” he asked instead, Padmé squeezing his fingers in reassurance. 

“Long way from here... someplace over on the other side of Mos Eisley, I think…”

“Please, you must have some form of records,” Padmé tried.

Anakin was nineteen when he met his step-father for the first time.

“Good evening. May I help you?”

Anakin approached the unfinished droid with caution, Padmé at his elbow. “Threepio?”

The protocol droid seemed to stand up straighter, if the feat was even possible. “Oh my…oh my stars! Master Anakin!” The man in question winced at the name. “My goodness, I can hardly believe it! And this must be Miss Padmé. You know we’ve seen you on the holonet!”

The senator laughed, “hello, Threepio.”

“We’ve come to see my mother,” Anakin confessed, ducking his head in shame. He had waited ten years to do so, and the idea of seeing her now made him sick.

“Oh, dear! I’m so terribly sorry, Master Ani.”

Another wince. “Please,” he begged softly as if it physically hurt him.

Padmé looked between droid and creator. “Threepio, what happened?”

The droid sighed. “I think we’d better go inside.”

Anakin felt his hand be squeezed before he was gently pulled towards the courtyard. He reached outward, like he had when he had laid on that makeshift operating table, for some hope of comfort. Some peace during this hurt, only for this time to come up entirely empty.

“Master Lars! Master Owen! Somebody to see you,” the unfinished droid announced, hobbling on the sand.

Anakin knew before he was told but he extended his hand anyway. “My name is Anikin Skywalker. I’m here to see my mother.”

The man - no, he couldn’t have been more than a year older than Anakin. Maybe even the same age - accepted his hand. “Owen Lars…I guess that makes me your step-brother.”

Anakin smiled, despite the ache in his chest. He had left Tatooine essentially an orphan, but was returning to a homestead bustling with life. 

“This is my girlfriend, Beru.”

The girlfriend - Beru - curtsied before gasping. “Your ear!”

The former slave slapped his hand over the offending skin, raw from his worrying and clothing. 

“Stay right here,” she started before running off.

Where else would I go? Anakin wondered, watching after her as far as he was allowed.  

“Mama,” Owen started before stumbling on his words.

“Our Mama,” Anakin nodded.

His step-brother smiled. “O ur Mama,” he agreed, “has taken Beru under her wing in the art of healing. I wouldn’t be surprised if - ah, yes, the salve.”

Beru gave her boyfriend a small punch in the arm before extending the jar to him. “Here, your Mama and I made this before she disappeared.”

“She disappeared?” the padawan gawked.

“Yes,” a voice boomed from the other side of the room. The party turned to see a man, older than Obi-Wan, but younger than what Anakin would have expected. He was positioned in a floating chair and upon further inspection, the boy realized that this was due in part to the man only having one leg. 

Anakin knew some things about prosthetics and helper devices. He knew how the sand chewed it up and spat it out if not careful. He decided that this man was very careful. 

“Cliegg Lars. Shmi is my wife.”

“Anakin Skywalker,” he reintroduced himself. “And this is Padmé Naberrie. Where did my mother go?”

Cliegg sighed deeply as he began to rub absentmindedly at his bandaged leg. Anakin wondered if he too had been a slave and if that was where they had hidden away his chip. He could ask. It wouldn’t have been offensive given that he carried the same history.

“It was just before dawn,” the older man began. “They came out of nowhere. A hunting party of Tusken Raiders.”

The jedai shivered involuntarily. He had never had a run in before with raiders, they lived in an area too populated for them to come out towards. But he had met people who had. Only one person had ever spoken about their kindness and misunderstandings. Shmi had been soft spoken about them, about how one should not judge a whole group on a handful of people. Not all Jedai were good. Not all Raiders were evil.

The world, according to Shmi Skywalker, was not all sand and sky.

“Your mother had gone out early, like she always did, to pick mushrooms that grow on the vaporatos. She uses them in her salve, as I’m sure you remember. From the tracks, she was about halfway when they took her. Those Tuskens walk like men, but they’re vicious, mindless monsters. Thirty of us went out after her. Four of us came back. Three more are still out there looking. I’d be with them…only…I couldn’t ride anymore…not until I heal.”

Anakin nodded, reaching forward and taking his step-father’s hand in his own. “Thank you for doing what you could,” he offered, when Cliegg looked to be on the verge of tears.

“This isn’t the way I wanted to meet you, erzie . This isn’t how your mother and I planned it. We were saving up to visit the core worlds. Find refuge and then find you. I don’t want to give up on her, but she’s been gone a month. There’s little hope she’s lasted this long.”

The nineteen year old swallowed the lump in his throat before kneeling in front of the chair in a sign of respect, never letting go of the hand beneath his own. “I will find her. I can feel her, out there in the desert, through the force. I will find her and bring her back here.”

Cliegg squeezed his hand hard. “She’ll never forgive you if you were to die on Tatooine. Not when you were given a chance for freedom.”

He shook his head. “I have to try.”

Anakin was nineteen when he truly understood what loss felt like.

Finding their camp had been easy enough. He used to spend hours searching through the force for his mother’s life force. It had been faint, given the distance, but now, back on the same planet, it was overwhelming.

She was in pain.

A type of pain a child should never see their parent go through, and vice versa.

The camp was mainly asleep given the time, with only a few raiders patrolling the surrounding area. He parked the borrowed speeder far enough away not to draw attention, but to still give him and his mother a quick getaway if needed, and then he began his descent through the camp.

Anakin found the force to be an easy thing to understand. All he had to do was reach forth and he could feel life forms all around him - made stealth missions like this easier. 

His mother’s own life force screamed in agony against its captors, and Anakin had to reel back before he found himself doubled over in pain.

He found an opening in their defenses quickly and waited before he snuck into the hut in which his mother’s spirit was ringing.

Shmi was plastered on the middle support beam, like a crude decoration. Her head dangled limply between her breasts and even in the candle light, Anakin could make out the lacerations and bruises caused by the thorny rope used to bind her. He was quick in assisting in her freedom, escaping once more outside and back to the speeder before he gave her a good once over.

There was nothing to be done staying in that awful hut surrounded by the men who had hurt her.

“Mama,” he cried, his own tears splashing onto her swollen bloodied face. “Mama, please.”

The movement was slow, but it was there, nonetheless. “Ani?” her voice came out broken and raw. Anakin held her tighter before remembering the jar Beru had offered him hours prior. It wouldn’t heal her, but at least it would provide some comfort.

He slathered her arms in the thick salve, whispering a silent prayer in Huttese as he did so. Something he had learned at the feet of his mother growing up.

“I’m here, Mama,” Anakin promised. “You’re safe. Stay awake, I’m going to get us out of here.”

Her head pulled towards him, and he had to reposition himself so that he could still see her. “I’m so glad…oh, Ani…you’re here. I am complete…”

She trailed off, her body becoming lighter by the second.

“Hold on, Mama,” the boy begged. “I’m going to get you home. I’m going to heal you. Please, Mama, please.”

“You’re so handsome,” she slurred. My son…my own bao’bi… my wooxi. I’m so proud of you, Ani. So, so proud. I missed you…I love…”

Anakin had never felt what it was like to lose someone to the force. He was never close enough to Qui-Gon to understand what Obi-Wan must’ve felt. But in that moment under a full moon on the desert sands of his home planet, he was sure he understood what true emptiness felt like.

Anakin was nineteen when he buried his mother, something that he thought he never would have to do. When Anakin was six, and Watoo had won the two of them in a game of sabacc, he watched as his mother stood up to their slaver. He remembered thinking that Shmi Skywalker was invincible.

Beru had helped him prepare her body in all the herbs she had loved during life. 

Padmé had brushed her hair and cleaned up her face.

Anakin felt numb to the world.

There were rites and passages read when a slave died. Words spoken when a Jedi returned to the force. He was unsure what was said to a free person, not tied to anything but her family.

Cliegg luckily knew.

“You have a good father,” Anakin said as he helped Owen pack up Shmi’s belongings. The limited ones from when she was still Watto’s property. The items that Anakin remembered studying in his youth.

“He is. I am lucky,” Owen offered gently. “Thank you for sharing your mother with me.”

“Thank you for being her son. I knew that she loved you like one.”

“Here,” Beru pushed another jar into his hands. “For your ear.”

He nodded in thanks, placing it in the box amongst his mother’s things.

“What happened to it?” she asked when Anakin fell silent.

He shrugged, brushing against the raw skin. “My chip was right here. I guess I became obsessed with it.”

She nodded. “Shmi was the same, I suppose.”

He looked up at her, wide eyed. “Where was her chip?”

The young woman took his hand and laid his own fingers between his eighth and ninth rib. Right under his lung. “We still have it. Since Cliegg had been her owner. She was determined to get it to you. Said that you would know what to do with it.”

He couldn’t breath, so instead he just nodded. Beru pulled him to another room and handed him an all too familiar piece of equipment. “I never could get it to work,” he said wetly.

“Maybe now you can,” she offered. “Threepieo was able to disable the transmitter. It would have exploded if you left with it otherwise. Maybe now you can study it and finish your scanner. Your mother was always kind like that. Said that her son would free the slaves.”

He shook his head, a sob escaping.

“Please, take it. And Threepio. He’s yours after all, and the stories he could share about Shmi might bring you peace.”

He nodded. The chip was small in his hand, but felt heavy when he pocketed it.

Anakin was nineteen when he lost his hand.

When he got married.

He was nineteen when he became a commander in a galactic war.

Nineteen when he was promoted to the role of Jedi Knight.

To general.

Anakin was nineteen when they entrusted a padawan in his care and a battalion of men.

He had placed the chip in between the wiring of his false hand, pretending that he could still feel the hum of his mother’s life force within. He kept the scanner among his lightsaber, two extensions of his identity.

When nights were quiet he tinkered, still unable to crack the slave code. Sometimes, other clones joined him, watching as he took apart the scanner only to put it back together with the force alone. Other times, he was alone. 

He continued to press salve to his raw ear, never having been able to drop the habit once picked up. He shared the recipe with Kix when he asked, and helped Ahsoka gather the herbs when they were planet side.

He laughed and smiled. He fought and bled. He cried and mourned the loss of his men.

Most importantly, he threw himself into his promise to free the slaves.

Anakin was twenty-one when he became a slave again.

The plan had been foolish, he would be the first to admit that, but he had been so determined to keep his promise that he had rushed in.

Zygerria had made his insides feel like they were crawling out. When they became free, he didn’t believe it. He refused to let anyone leave the planet before he was able to figure it out entirely.

“ Pateesa,” Ahsoka sighed, because Anakin refused to be called anyone’s master, “they didn’t chip us.”

“You don’t know that,” he shot back, his ear once again raw. “Were you awake that entire time? How would you know if they got you?”

The sixteen year old shuffled from foot to foot, embarrassment creeping on her. “Wouldn’t there be a scar?” She tried again. “An indicator?”

Anakin closed his eyes tight, remembering the graphic image of his youth. Of the man bleeding out on his mother’s dining room table, the medical droid’s butcher job gone askew.

“Besides, there are too many of us to chip. I mean, come on, Anakin. A whole planet? Why would they waste resources on that?”

“It’s not a waste,” he whispered. “Not to the slave owner.”

Chastised again, Ahsoka retreated back to Plo Koon, her mission unsuccessful. 

Two more days planet side was all Obi-Wan seemed to be able to take. His patience was running thin, even for the young adult he saw as kin.

“Anakin,” he sighed over tea.

“I’m close,” was all the young general could muster between yawns. “I’ve almost cracked the code.”

“And once you’re done and find nothing? What then?”

“Then we can leave. I promise.”

Obi-Wan rubbed his chin, a habit he had picked up well into Anakin’s youth. “Alright then.”

Anakin was twenty-one when his scanner finally worked. He had been tired and his eyes stung from exhaustion, but his scanner pinged nonetheless. He flipped over the screen and read over the characters.

Chip located.

Right arm.

“Wake up, snips.”

Ahsoka glared at her teacher as she sat up groggily. “What is it, Skyguy? More clankers to fight?”

He shook his head and waved the scanner in front of her unfocused eyes. “It works. It works!”

She blinked before yawning wide, her fangs glistening in the moonlight. “So? Are we chipped or not?”

The Jedi General shook his head. “I’m not.” He flipped a few switches. “Nor you.”

She pulled at his arm so that she could read the screen herself. “What’s this?”

“My mother’s. I kept it. I was able to reverse engineer it so that we could pick up on any transmitting chips.”

The togruta nodded. “So then, what’s that?”

Anakin followed her finger and skimmed the reading. “It seems like some of the others were chipped.”

She frowned. “So we can’t leave?”

Anakin rubbed his ear, earning himself a small tug from his student. “No. I mean, not yet. I don’t want anyone to die because we were careless.”

He couldn’t lose anyone else. He refused.

“Sleep, Anakin,” Ahsoka yawned. “No one else is awake. We’ll be able to look better in the morning.”

She was right, he knew she was right. He had been up for days agonizing over the scanner. “Yeah, okay.”

Come morning, Anakin was sure he had messed up.

“General?” Rex gave his commanding officer a look, his brow raised high.

Anakin glared at his scanner, “I think it’s busted.”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, for starters, it’s picking up a chip in you.”

“Yes, sir. I was on planet when we were enslaved.”

“ And every other clone here.”

Rex frowned. “But only I was captured, sir.”

“Right.”

They stared at the screen before Anakin pressed a finger into his captain’s head. “You don’t have an incision,” he pointed out. “Must be an old chip.”

“Maybe it was placed in by the Kaminos. We are Republic property.”

Anakin’s frown deepened. “Don’t remind me.” 

“Sir?”

“Head to Kix’s medical bay once we’re back aboard the Resolute. I want to get a closer look at this chip.”

“Sir,” Rex pressed. “General Skywalker.”

“It’s a transmitter chip,” he answered. “No man under my authority will be here against their will. I refuse to be a slaver for the republic.”

Rex gawked at him, his eyes drifting to the tethered and reding skin of his general’s ear. “Of course. Thank you, sir.”

Anakin was twenty-one when he discovered a plot against the Republic. It hadn't just been him. Not really. He had old friends who were better at circuitry than he had been. Old friends who could reverse engineer a behavioral modification biochip apparently, and relay all the information infused within.

Order 66 was a surprise.

The bigger surprise happened to be where the transmitter was actually transmitting to.

Anakin was twenty-one when he arrested the Chancellor, much to Commander Fox’s amusement. When the evidence was given to the Senate, those who had been loyal to Sheeve Palpetine attempted to backtrack. No one wanted the title of slaver infecting their legacy.

Anakin was twenty-one when Mace Windu killed the sith lord formally known as chancellor after he attacked Anakin with the ancient dark art of force lightning. He was twenty-one when Dooku surrendered and the war ceased. 

The republic, now led by Bail Organa, recalled all the clones, preaching their sentiency and the removal of their chips placed there against their will.

Scanners were distributed to the Outer Rim, accompanied by clone volunteers serving as medics to assist in the removal of chips.

Slavers got more creative, sure, but without a war holding back Anakin Skywalker, he had the time to become more creative. 

Anakin was twenty-two when his children were born into a galaxy where slavery was quickly being stamped out. Born into a life of freedom and love.

Anakin was twenty-two years old when there was a ripple across the force - akin to that of a mother smiling at a promise well kept.