Chapter Text
The lower levels of Theed were a maze of narrow streets and stone archways, beautiful even in occupation. Naboo's architecture favored elegant curves and soft colors—cream and gold and pale green—but the Trade Federation's presence had scarred it. Battle droids stood at intersections, their skeletal frames illuminated by harsh floodlights, photoreceptors sweeping the streets in methodical patterns. Overhead, patrol speeders hummed through the night air, searchlights cutting through the darkness.
Anakin crouched in the shadows of an alley, pressed against cold stone, his heart hammering. The supply team had split up ten minutes ago—Kain and two Mandalorians taking the main route to a safehouse near the palace, while Javik led Anakin and a Naboo resistance fighter named Reyna through the back passages. The crates they carried were heavy, filled with blaster packs and medical supplies, strapped to their backs in makeshift harnesses.
"Hold," Javik whispered, raising a fist. Ahead, a patrol of four battle droids clattered past, their vocabulators chattering in monotone. "Sector clear. Proceeding to checkpoint seven."
Anakin held his breath, counting the seconds until their footsteps faded. The Force pulsed around him, a living current he could feel in his bones—warning, guiding, pulling him forward. Qui-Gon was close. He knew it with a certainty that had nothing to do with logic.
"Move," Javik hissed, and they slipped across the street, ducking into another alley. Reyna, a young woman with sharp features and a blaster rifle slung over her shoulder, glanced back nervously. "Two more blocks. The safehouse is in the old merchant quarter."
They moved quickly but carefully, avoiding the main thoroughfares, sticking to service passages and forgotten corners. Theed's beauty felt fragile here, like something precious held hostage. Anakin saw scorch marks on walls, broken windows hastily boarded up, abandoned market stalls with goods rotting in the heat. The Trade Federation's occupation had bled the city of life.
They reached the safehouse—a nondescript building tucked between a closed bakery and a textile shop, its windows dark. Reyna knocked three times, paused, then twice more. The door cracked open, revealing a grizzled man with a scarred face and suspicious eyes.
"Supply run," Javik said, low and quick. "From Rally Gamma."
The man's expression softened fractionally. He opened the door wider, gesturing them inside. "About time. We're running low on everything."
The interior was cramped—a single room with sleeping mats, weapon caches, and a small holo-terminal in the corner. Three more resistance fighters sat around a table, cleaning blasters, their faces drawn with exhaustion. They looked up as the team entered, relief flickering in their eyes.
"Bless you," one of them, a woman with graying hair, said as they set down the crates. "We weren't sure anyone was coming."
"How's the situation topside?" Reyna asked, pulling out supply manifests.
"Bad," the scarred man said. "Federation reinforcements arrived yesterday. More droids, more patrols. They're tightening the noose around the palace. Queen—former Queen Amidala's people are dug in with the Mandalorians and those... Jedi." He said the last word with a mix of reverence and unease.
Anakin's pulse quickened. "Qui-Gon Jinn. Is he here? In the city?"
The scarred man nodded. "Saw him two days ago, near the plaza. He and the Amidala woman were coordinating with the Gungan liaison. Trying to convince Boss Nass to commit forces." He paused. "Why? You know him?"
"I need to see him," Anakin said, stepping forward. "Where is he now?"
The man exchanged glances with his companions. "Command post. Old senatorial complex, about six blocks northeast. But it's locked down tighter than a Hutt's vault. Federation's got checkpoints every fifty meters, and even if you get past them, Amidala's people don't let just anyone waltz in."
"I'll get in," Anakin said, his voice flat with determination.
Javik put a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, kid. We're not done here. We deliver the supplies, report back—"
"No." Anakin shrugged off the hand, turning to face Javik. "I came to find Qui-Gon. He's six blocks away. I'm not waiting."
Javik's visor tilted, unreadable. Then he sighed. "Stubborn. Fine. Reyna, you stay here, help them distribute supplies. The kid and I are making a detour."
"That's not the plan," Reyna protested.
"Plans change." Javik adjusted his blaster rifle. "Scarred man—what's your name?"
"Doro."
"Doro, we need the fastest route to the senatorial complex. Low profile, minimal droid contact."
Doro studied them for a moment, then pulled out a datapad, sketching a rough map. "Service tunnels. Run beneath most of the old city. Entrance is two blocks south, hidden under a collapsed fountain. Comes up inside the complex's lower maintenance bay. But—" He hesitated. "Tunnels aren't safe. Refugees hiding down there, and the droids sometimes sweep them. You'll need to move fast."
"Fast is what we do," Javik said, taking the datapad. He looked at Anakin. "You ready for this?"
Anakin's hand rested on his lightsaber, hidden beneath his cloak. "I've been ready for seven years."
The tunnels were worse than Doro had suggested. Damp, narrow passages carved from old stonework, lit only by scattered glow rods and the occasional crack in the ceiling that let in slivers of moonlight. Water dripped from somewhere above, pooling in uneven puddles that reflected their hurried movements. Anakin followed Javik through the gloom, his senses stretched thin, feeling for threats.
They passed huddled groups of refugees—families pressed into alcoves, children with hollow eyes, elderly clutching meager possessions. No one spoke. Fear hung heavy in the air, thick as the mildew that clung to the walls. Anakin felt their desperation through the Force, a collective ache that made his chest tighten.
"Keep moving," Javik murmured, not unkindly, but firm. Stopping to help would draw attention, and attention here meant death.
They were halfway through when Anakin felt it—a disturbance, sharp and immediate. He grabbed Javik's arm. "Wait. Something's—"
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed ahead, accompanied by the mechanical whir of servos. Battle droids. At least six, maybe more, sweeping the tunnels.
"Back," Javik hissed, pulling Anakin into a side passage. They pressed against the wall, barely breathing, as the droids marched past. Photoreceptors swept the darkness, their vocabulators crackling with static.
"Sector nine, lower level. No targets detected. Proceeding."
The droids moved on, their footsteps fading. Javik exhaled slowly. "Too close. Come on, we're almost there."
They emerged ten minutes later in the maintenance bay of the senatorial complex—a cavernous space filled with deactivated cleaning droids and supply crates. Dim emergency lighting cast everything in shades of blue and gray. Javik checked the datapad, then pointed to a stairwell. "Up two levels. That should put us near the command center."
The stairwell was blessedly empty. They climbed quickly, boots echoing on metal grates, until they reached a heavy door marked with faded Naboo script. Javik tested it—unlocked. He pushed it open cautiously, and they stepped into a corridor lined with closed offices, the air noticeably cleaner, less oppressive.
Voices drifted from somewhere ahead, muffled but distinct. Javik gestured for Anakin to stay close, and they moved toward the sound, rounding a corner to find—
Two Mandalorians in full armor, standing guard outside a set of double doors. They turned as Javik and Anakin approached, weapons rising instinctively.
"Halt," one said, a woman's voice filtered through her helmet. "Identify yourselves."
"Javik Ordo, Clan Ordo," Javik said, raising his hands slightly, non-threatening. "Came in through the tunnels. I've got someone who needs to see Qui-Gon Jinn."
The guards exchanged glances. "Qui-Gon's in a briefing. No interruptions."
"Tell him Anakin Skywalker is here," Anakin said, stepping forward. "He'll want to see me."
The female guard's helmet tilted. "Skywalker?" She tapped her wrist comm. "Commander, we've got a situation. Javik Ordo and a kid claiming to be Anakin Skywalker. Says Qui-Gon will want to—"
The doors opened.
Qui-Gon Jinn stood in the threshold, and for a moment, the galaxy seemed to hold its breath.
He looked older than Anakin remembered—lines etched deeper around his eyes, his hair more silver than brown, a weariness in his posture that spoke of years carrying burdens too heavy to name. But his eyes—those calm, steady eyes—were the same. They widened as they took in Anakin, recognition and disbelief warring across his face.
"Anakin," Qui-Gon breathed, the name a prayer and a lament.
Anakin's throat tightened. "Master Jinn."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Qui-Gon stepped forward, and Anakin met him halfway. The Jedi—former Jedi—pulled him into an embrace, and Anakin felt something inside him crack, the wall he'd built around his grief fracturing under the weight of this simple, unexpected kindness.
"I told you to stay safe," Qui-Gon murmured, his voice rough. "I told you not to follow."
"I couldn't," Anakin said, the words muffled against Qui-Gon's shoulder. "I needed to know. I needed—"
"I know." Qui-Gon pulled back, his hands on Anakin's shoulders, studying his face with an intensity that felt like being seen for the first time in years. "You've grown. You're so much taller. And your eyes..." He trailed off, something sad flickering in his expression. "You carry too much pain for twelve years."
"I carry the truth," Anakin said, his voice harder than he'd intended. "Or pieces of it. Enough to know the Jedi lied."
Qui-Gon's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Yes. They did." He glanced past Anakin to Javik, who stood quietly observing. "Thank you for bringing him safely. I'm in your debt."
Javik inclined his head. "No debt. The kid's got fire. Reminds me of someone."
Qui-Gon's smile was faint, fleeting. "Indeed." He looked back at Anakin. "Come. We need to talk. Privately."
He led Anakin through the double doors into a smaller adjoining room—an office that had been converted into a makeshift strategy center, with maps of Naboo spread across a desk, holographic projectors dark and dormant. Qui-Gon closed the door, muffling the sounds of the command center beyond, and turned to face Anakin fully.
"Sit," he said gently, gesturing to a chair. "Please."
Anakin sat, though his body thrummed with tension, every nerve on edge. Qui-Gon took the chair opposite, leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
"I didn't think you'd come," Qui-Gon admitted. "When I left that message, I hoped... I thought maybe you'd wait, stay safe until this was over."
"I couldn't wait," Anakin said. "Not after what I learned. Not after the visions."
Qui-Gon's eyes sharpened. "Visions?"
"Of the night my mother died." Anakin's voice was steady, but his hands clenched the armrests. "I saw things. Felt things. Pieces that don't match the story I was told. Three figures in robes. Lightsabers. My mother fighting to protect me. And then—" His voice cracked slightly. "Then everything collapsed. And I woke up with the Jedi."
Qui-Gon closed his eyes, pain etched across his features. "The Force is giving you back what was taken. Memories they suppressed to make you compliant."
"They?" Anakin leaned forward. "The Jedi? The Council?"
"Yes." Qui-Gon opened his eyes, meeting Anakin's gaze squarely. "But this isn't the conversation to have now, Anakin. Not here, not while you're exhausted and we're in the middle of preparing for battle. You deserve the full truth, and I will give it to you. But not in pieces, not rushed. When this is over, when we have time—"
"No." Anakin's voice cut through, sharp as a blade. "I didn't cross the galaxy to be told to wait. I didn't leave the Temple, didn't risk everything, just to hear 'later.' Tell me now."
"Anakin—"
"Was Obi-Wan there?" The question exploded out of him, raw and desperate. "That night. Was he one of them?"
Qui-Gon's silence was answer enough.
Anakin's breath came faster, his vision tunneling. "He was. He was there when she died. And then he took me. Raised me. Trained me. All while knowing—"
"It's more complicated than that," Qui-Gon said quietly. "And worse. But Anakin, if I tell you everything now, while you're angry and hurt and surrounded by war, I'm afraid of what it will do to you. The truth is a weapon, and you're already bleeding."
"I'm bleeding because of the lies!" Anakin shot to his feet, the chair scraping back. "Every day I spent in that Temple, trusting them, believing them, while they lied about the most important thing in my life—that's what's killing me! Not the truth. The absence of it."
Qui-Gon stood as well, his expression torn between compassion and something darker—guilt, perhaps, or dread. "You're right. You deserve to know. But not tonight. Tonight, you're exhausted, you're in danger, and I need to know you're safe before I shatter what's left of your world." He stepped closer, his voice softening. "Stay with us. Fight with us if you must. Let me see who you've become, let us rebuild the trust that was stolen. And when the battle's done, when we have space to breathe, I'll tell you everything. I swear it on your mother's memory."
The invocation of Shmi stilled Anakin's rage, just for a moment. He stared at Qui-Gon, searching his face for deception, for evasion. But all he saw was sincerity, and a pain that mirrored his own.
"Promise me," Anakin said, his voice breaking. "Promise you won't lie. That you won't protect me from it."
"I promise," Qui-Gon said. "No more lies. Not from me."
Anakin nodded slowly, the fight draining out of him, leaving only exhaustion. "All right. After the battle."
Qui-Gon's shoulders sagged with relief. He reached out, resting a hand on Anakin's shoulder again. "Thank you. For trusting me enough to wait. I know it's hard."
"It's the hardest thing I've ever done," Anakin admitted.
"I know." Qui-Gon's grip tightened briefly, then released. "Come. Let me introduce you to the people who are risking everything to make things right. You should know who you're fighting alongside."
The command center was larger than Anakin had expected, a converted assembly hall with holographic displays casting blue light across a dozen faces. Mandalorians in armor stood alongside Naboo soldiers in ceremonial green and gold, while a handful of beings in simple robes—Qui-Gon's splinter Jedi, Anakin guessed—conferred quietly near a tactical map. The air buzzed with controlled urgency, the sense of people on the edge of something monumental.
At the center of it all stood Padmé Amidala.
She was younger than Anakin had imagined—seventeen, maybe eighteen—but carried herself with a poise that made her seem ageless. Her dark hair was pulled back in an intricate braid, her gown practical but elegant, deep crimson trimmed with gold. Her face was serious, focused, as she listened to a Mandalorian in blue and silver armor—a tall man with a commanding presence, his helmet under one arm.
Qui-Gon cleared his throat, and the room's attention shifted.
"Everyone, a moment," Qui-Gon said, his voice carrying easily. "I'd like to introduce someone. This is Anakin Skywalker. He's... a friend. And he's come a long way to be here."
The Mandalorian in blue and silver—his armor bore the sigil of Clan Kryze—raised an eyebrow. "Skywalker? That's the boy you mentioned? The one from Tatooine?"
"Yes," Qui-Gon said. "Anakin, this is Commander Rhan Kryze, leading the Mandalorian forces here on behalf of his father, Adonai Kryze."
Rhan studied Anakin with sharp, assessing eyes. "You're young."
"I'm capable," Anakin said, meeting his gaze evenly.
A flicker of approval crossed Rhan's face. "We'll see. Any friend of Qui-Gon's is welcome, but this isn't a training ground. You'll need to pull your weight."
"I will," Anakin said.
Padmé stepped forward, her expression curious but warm. "Anakin Skywalker. Qui-Gon has spoken of you, though not as much as I'd have liked." Her voice was calm, melodic, with an undercurrent of steel. "Welcome to Naboo. I'm Padmé Amidala."
"Your Majesty," Anakin said, inclining his head, suddenly unsure of the protocol.
She smiled faintly. "Just Padmé, please. I'm no longer Queen, and we're all equals in this fight." She tilted her head, studying him. "You came from the Jedi Temple?"
"I left it," Anakin corrected. "I'm not a Jedi. Not anymore."
"By choice or necessity?" Padmé asked, her tone gentle but probing.
"Both," Anakin said. "They lied to me about something important. Someone important. I couldn't stay."
Padmé's expression softened with understanding. "Lies have a way of fracturing trust beyond repair. I know that well." She glanced at Qui-Gon. "He told me you were strong in the Force. That you had potential."
"He's more than potential," Qui-Gon said quietly. "Anakin's power is... extraordinary. But more importantly, he has a good heart. He came here seeking truth, not revenge."
"Truth is a worthy pursuit," Padmé said, her gaze lingering on Anakin with something like approval. "And bravery, too. Not many would leave the Jedi Order and cross the galaxy alone at your age."
"I wasn't alone," Anakin said, gesturing toward where Javik stood near the door, arms crossed. "Javik Ordo helped me."
Padmé nodded to Javik. "Then we're doubly grateful." She turned back to Anakin. "You're from Tatooine, Qui-Gon said. Were you... born there?"
"Born into slavery," Anakin said, the words tasting bitter. "My mother and I. We belonged to a junk dealer named Watto. The Jedi took me when I was five, after she died."
Padmé's eyes widened, shock rippling across her face. "Slavery? But that's—" She stopped herself, visibly recalibrating. "Forgive me. I didn't realize. Slavery is illegal in the Republic, but the Outer Rim..." She trailed off, her expression hardening. "No child should grow up in chains."
"Most don't have a choice," Anakin said. "The Republic doesn't enforce its laws where it's inconvenient."
The observation landed with uncomfortable weight. Rhan Kryze grunted. "The kid's not wrong. Republic talks a good game, but the Outer Rim's been abandoned for generations. Laws only matter where there's someone to enforce them."
"Which is why we're here," Padmé said, her voice firming. "To prove that justice doesn't require Senate approval. That people can fight for what's right, even when the institutions fail them."
Anakin studied her, this young woman who'd walked away from a throne to fight for her people. There was something magnetic about her—a clarity of purpose, a refusal to compromise. She reminded him, oddly, of his mother. Different in every way, but carrying the same fierce determination to protect those she loved.
"You're braver than the Jedi," Anakin said suddenly. "They talk about justice, but you're actually doing something."
Padmé's smile was sad. "Bravery and desperation often look alike. But thank you." She glanced at Qui-Gon. "He's welcome to stay, if he wishes. We could use someone with his abilities."
"He'll stay," Qui-Gon said, looking at Anakin. "For now, at least. Until we've had time to talk properly."
"Good." Padmé turned back to the tactical display. "Then let's catch him up. We're coordinating with the Gungans for a two-pronged assault. Boss Nass has agreed to commit his forces, but he's wary of the Naboo's history with his people. We need to prove this alliance is genuine."
"It is," Qui-Gon said. "The Gungans and Naboo share this world. It's past time they stood together."
Rhan nodded. "Our forces will support the ground assault. Adonai's committed three battalions—heavy infantry, air support, the works. But we need to neutralize the droid control ship in orbit. Without that, the Federation's army keeps regenerating."
"I have pilots," Padmé said. "Volunteers from Naboo's defense force, Gungans with experience in atmospheric combat. But getting to the control ship..." She frowned. "That's the hard part."
Anakin listened, his mind racing. A control ship. Droids. This was bigger than he'd imagined—not just a skirmish, but a full-scale battle. And he was standing in the middle of it, surrounded by people who'd chosen to fight when no one else would.
For the first time since leaving the Temple, he felt something other than anger or grief.
He felt purpose.
The briefing continued for another hour, plans refined, contingencies discussed. Anakin absorbed it all, his strategic mind—honed by years of Jedi training—identifying weaknesses, potential solutions. When Rhan mentioned the difficulty of coordinating ground and air forces, Anakin spoke up.
"What if you used the Gungans' knowledge of the swamps? They know the terrain better than the droids. If you draw the Federation forces into the wetlands, their heavy units will bog down. Then your air support can hit them from above while the Gungans strike from cover."
The room fell silent. Rhan turned to Anakin, eyebrows raised. "That's... not a bad idea. Risky, but it could work."
Padmé smiled. "See? Already earning his place."
Qui-Gon's expression was unreadable, but Anakin caught the flicker of pride in his eyes.
When the briefing finally ended, people dispersed—Mandalorians to check their gear, Naboo soldiers to rest before the coming battle, Qui-Gon's Jedi to meditate or whatever they did. Padmé lingered, approaching Anakin as he stood awkwardly near the edge of the room.
"You're very perceptive," she said. "That observation about the swamps—it showed strategic thinking. Have you studied military tactics?"
"Some," Anakin said. "The Jedi teach it. But mostly, I just... see patterns. How things connect."
"A valuable skill." Padmé's gaze was thoughtful. "You said you were a slave. How did the Jedi find you?"
Anakin hesitated, the question dredging up pain he wasn't ready to voice. "It's... complicated."
"I understand." Padmé didn't press, but her expression softened. "Slavery leaves scars that don't heal easily. I grew up sheltered, privileged. I didn't truly understand suffering until the Trade Federation occupied my world. Even now, I know my pain is nothing compared to what you've endured. But I want you to know—" She met his eyes. "—you're not alone here. Whatever brought you to Naboo, you're among friends."
The sincerity in her voice cracked something in Anakin's chest. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Padmé smiled gently. "Get some rest. Tomorrow will be difficult, and you'll need your strength."
She left, her gown swishing softly, leaving Anakin standing in the dimming command center. Qui-Gon approached, his footsteps quiet.
"She's remarkable, isn't she?" Qui-Gon said.
"Yeah," Anakin agreed. "She reminds me of someone."
"Your mother?"
Anakin nodded.
Qui-Gon's expression grew distant, sad. "Shmi was remarkable, too. Brave, kind, fiercely protective. You carry her strength, Anakin. I see it in you."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they felt like a knife twisting. "If she was so strong, why couldn't she protect herself? Why did she have to die?"
"Because the galaxy is cruel," Qui-Gon said quietly. "And because people in power make choices that destroy the innocent. Your mother didn't deserve what happened to her. But she would be proud of you. Of the man you're becoming."
Anakin's throat tightened. "You'll tell me. After the battle. Everything."
"Everything," Qui-Gon promised.
That night, Anakin was given a small room in the senatorial complex—sparse but clean, with a narrow bed and a window overlooking Theed's darkened streets. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind a storm of thoughts.
Qui-Gon was here. The truth was close. And tomorrow, he'd fight in a real battle, not a training exercise, surrounded by people who'd chosen honor over comfort.
But beneath the anticipation, a cold certainty settled in his chest.
When Qui-Gon told him the truth—the full, unvarnished truth—nothing would ever be the same.
And Anakin wasn't sure he was ready for that.
But ready or not, the truth was coming.
And with it, war.