Star Wars: Shadow of Skywalker

After using the Force Drain on the anoobas, Anakin felt something he had never experienced before. His body, which had been weak and trembling from hunger and exhaustion, now pulsed with energy. The gnawing void in his stomach was gone, replaced by an unnatural fullness. His limbs, once trembling and on the brink of collapse, now felt invigorated. He looked down at his hands, the blood of the creatures dried and crusted over his skin, and flexed his fingers experimentally.

'What was that?' he thought, his mind racing to comprehend what had just happened. He knew it was tied to the cube, the strange artifact now safely tucked in his pocket.

Driven by his curiosity and newfound vitality, he decided to focus on training. The vibroblade, which once felt unwieldy and heavy in his small hands, now felt lighter, more manageable. His grip, though small and clumsy, tightened with purpose. He could feel the influence of the artifact even now, its knowledge seeping into his thoughts, guiding him. The movements of the black figure from his visions replayed in his mind like a haunting memory: slashes, sidesteps, and sweeping arcs, each one precise and devastating.

He raised the blade and swung it with both hands, trying to replicate the figure's deadly grace. The weight of the blade pulled him forward, the edge dipping too low, and he stumbled, barely catching himself before falling. His frustration bubbled up immediately. "It's clumsy," he muttered, his voice sharp, beads of sweat clinging to his brow. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and swung again, harder this time, putting everything into it.

The blade hummed through the air, but the motion was wrong. He could feel it. "Stupid!" he shouted, slamming the hilt of the vibroblade into the sand. Grit flew up in a small plume, coating his hands. His breathing was harsh, his small chest rising and falling in short bursts. He glared at the weapon as though it had failed him, even though he knew it was his own fault.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the hilt again and lifted it. "Do it right," he growled through gritted teeth. "Just do it right!" He swung again, slower this time, focusing on his footing. His stance shifted awkwardly, but it held. The blade wobbled less as it sliced through the air, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of satisfaction.

But it wasn't enough.

The images in his mind grew sharper, more vivid: the Rodian scavenger's mocking face, the Tusken Raider's savage scowl, and the memory of his mother's bloodied body. His chest tightened, his grip on the blade turning almost painful. "You did this," he hissed under his breath, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. He swung again, this time with an edge of violence, imagining the blade cleaving through his enemies.

"Take that!" he spat, his voice raw. Another swing. "And that!" He stumbled forward as the blade caught in the sand, pulling him off balance. The vibroblade slipped from his grip, landing with a dull thud.

"No!" he shouted, slamming his fists into the ground. His hands were raw, his fingers scraped from gripping the hilt so tightly, but he barely noticed. His anger surged, hot and blinding. He reached for the blade, yanking it free from the sand with a grunt of effort.

His small frame trembled as he stood again, his muscles burning, but he didn't care. His vision blurred slightly as tears mixed with sweat, but he blinked them away, forcing his focus back onto the weapon. "You will pay for what you did," he muttered, his voice low and shaking. "all of you will"

He began again, his movements fueled now by anger as much as determination. The blade sliced through the air, its weight still awkward, but it didn't stop him. Each swing was a punishment, each step forward an act of defiance. The figures in his mind—Tusken Raiders, scavengers, faceless enemies—fell before him in his imagination, their taunting expressions erased by his blade.

The twin suns of Tatooine had begun their slow descent, stretching the shadows of the dunes across the sand. Anakin didn't notice. His small hands trembled with the effort of holding the blade steady, his arms screamed in protest, but he pressed on. Each failed swing stoked his frustration, each stumble fanned the flames of his anger.

"I'll show you," he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice a barely audible growl. "I'll show you all." His movements grew more deliberate, more focused, though the strain in his body was obvious. His grip faltered again, the vibroblade dipping low, but he adjusted, biting down on his frustration.

He didn't know how long he had been at it—hours, perhaps. His legs ached, his shoulders felt like they were on fire, and his fingers burned with every adjustment of his grip. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. His anger wouldn't let him. The thought of being weak, of being helpless again, kept him moving, kept him swinging.

But unbeknownst to him, he was not alone.

High above, perched on a craggy outcropping, a figure clad in dark robes watched the boy intently. The zabrak's piercing yellow eyes glinted in the fading sunlight, his expression inscrutable. His hands were clasped behind his back, the hilt of his weapon—a single-bladed lightsaber—visible at his side.

The zabrak closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to feel the waves of emotion radiating from the boy below. Fear, anger, grief, and hatred churned within him, creating a vortex in the Force that was impossible to ignore. The boy was raw, untamed—an ember on the brink of ignition.

He activated his comlink, his voice a low, menacing growl. "Master, I have located the source of the disturbance."

The reply came swiftly, cold and calculating. "And what is it, my apprentice? Another Sith?"

"No, my lord... it is a human child. But his potential... it is unlike anything I have ever felt."

A pause, heavy with intrigue. "How... unexpected. Discover his background. Bring the child to me. I will await you at our base on Mustafar."

"It will be done, Master." zabrak ended the communication, his gaze never leaving Anakin.

For hours, he remained motionless, observing Anakin from a distance. The boy's movements were untrained, erratic, but there was something in his determination—something fierce and unyielding. The zabrak could feel the boy's emotions boiling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

'A fine seedling for the dark side' he thought to himself with a smile.

When the time was right, the zabrak moved.

Anakin froze mid-swing as he felt a vibration in the ground. The vibroblade hung limply in his hand as he turned toward the source of the disturbance. In the distance, he saw a figure descending from the rocky cliffs, each step deliberate and unhurried. The ground cracked slightly beneath the figure's feet as he landed, sending a plume of dust into the air.

The figure's dark robes billowed in the wind, and his yellow eyes glowed like embers. Anakin felt a cold dread wash over him, as if the very air around him had grown heavier.

He clutched the vibroblade tighter. 'Who… what is that?'

The artifact in his pocket pulsed faintly, as if warning him. Anakin's heart raced. Quickly, he found a narrow crack in the cave wall and slipped the artifact inside. He had no idea what this figure wanted, but he couldn't risk losing the only thing that had given him strength.

The figure stopped a few meters away, towering over Anakin. His presence was suffocating, his yellow eyes boring into the boy's soul.

"I can sense your fear, boy," the figure said, his voice low and guttural, the tone almost mocking. "And your anger. Your grief. Your… hatred." He paused, tilting his head slightly as if sizing him up. "You want revenge. No… you want to avenge someone."

Anakin felt his breath catch, his blood running cold. How does he know that? The grip on the vibroblade tightened as he stared at the dark figure. His body was still, but his thoughts raced. What does he want with me?

"But I can also sense your weakness," the figure continued, his sneer becoming more pronounced. "Your doubt. Your hesitation. You seek power… but you lack the strength to take it."

Weak. The word stung like a slap. Anakin's jaw clenched, his small hands trembling as he adjusted his grip on the vibroblade.

'I'm not weak. I'm not!' His heart pounded against his ribs, a mix of fear and anger rising in his chest. He forced himself to stand taller, his defiance outweighing his unease.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice shaking but louder than before. "What do you want?"

The figure chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to echo off the dunes. "Who I am is irrelevant. What matters is what I can offer you. My master wishes to meet you. He can give you the power you crave—the power to take what is rightfully yours."

Anakin's gaze flicked to the figure's side, where a sleek silver hilt hung from his belt. His thoughts were frantic.

'A lightsaber. He's one of them. Like in my vision. But why would they want me?' He felt the heat of the twin suns on his back, the sweat on his brow mixing with the dryness of the air. He licked his lips, trying to process the stranger's words.

"Power?" he asked cautiously. "What kind of power?"

"The kind that ensures no one will ever harm you again," the figure replied. His tone was steady, unflinching. "The kind that allows you to strike down those who stand in your way. Those who wronged you."

The mention of harm made Anakin's thoughts snap back to his mother. Her face, her voice, the way she looked in her final moments—broken, lifeless. His chest tightened painfully.

'I could've saved her if I was stronger.' The thought was bitter, cutting deeper than any insult.

"Is… is that a lightsaber?" he asked, his voice quieter now, though his eyes didn't leave the hilt. He had seen the images in his mind from the artifact, but this was real. It was right there.

The zabrak's lips curled into a cruel smile. Without a word, he unclipped the hilt and pressed a button. The weapon ignited with a sharp snap-hiss, the crimson blade glowing fiercely in the dimming light. The hum was steady, menacing, filling the space between them. Anakin's eyes widened, his gaze locked on the blade. It's real. Just like the one in my vision.

The weapon cast red light across the figure's face, highlighting his yellow, piercing eyes and the intricate tattoos on his skin. Anakin felt a shiver run through him. It wasn't just fear—it was awe. The vibroblade in his hands felt pathetic in comparison, like a child's toy.

The blade disappeared as quickly as it appeared, the zabrak deactivating it with a flick of his wrist. "You see it, don't you? The gap between what you are and what you could be," he said coldly. "If you want power, boy, you must abandon your weakness. Power belongs to those willing to take it."

Anakin's knees felt weak. He wanted to run, but his feet stayed planted. 'Power to stop them. Power to make them pay.' The words echoed in his mind, mingling with the weight of his memories—the scavengers, the Tusken Raiders, his mother's body. His lips tightened into a thin line as he tried to push the rising heat in his chest down.

He dropped to his knees, the vibroblade slipping from his grasp and landing in the sand. "I'll follow you," he said, his voice trembling but resolute. His small hands balled into fists as he forced himself to meet the zabrak's gaze. "Please… I need power. I need to make them pay."

The zabrak studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Revenge," he finally said, his tone harsh and unforgiving. "It is a privilege of the strong. Begging for it makes you pathetic. If you want revenge, you must first prove you deserve the power to do so."

Anakin flinched, but he nodded, his resolve hardening. "I don't care what it takes. I won't be weak anymore. Never again."

The zabrak straightened, gesturing toward a nearby speeder half-buried in the sand. "Then follow me, boy. Your new life begins now."

Anakin stood shakily, his body exhausted but his mind sharper than ever. He left the vibroblade where it lay, his gaze fixed on the zabrak's back as he followed him across the sand. His legs ached with every step, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. 'This is my chance. My only chance. I'll do whatever it takes.'

The suns had dipped below the horizon now, leaving the desert in shadow. But in Anakin's mind, there was only fire—burning hotter with each step. 'They'll never hurt me again.'

The journey to Mos Eisley was grueling, the desert winds whipping against them as the twin suns blazed overhead. Anakin remained silent for most of the ride, his thoughts consumed by the figure beside him. He glanced at the zabrak occasionally, his fear and curiosity battling for dominance.

When they arrived at the spaceport, Anakin's eyes widened at the ship before them. Its angular, predatory design was unlike the patchwork junkers and freighters he had grown up around in Mos Espa. Its hull was matte black, its surface unbroken by ornamentation, a vessel built for efficiency and intimidation. He barely had time to take it in before his eyes shifted to the group gathered near the landing pad.

Three rodians, a massive chistori clutching a vibro-axe, and two humans loitered by the ship, their mismatched armor and cobbled-together weapons marking them as mercenaries. They were arguing, their voices sharp and irritated, one of the humans gesturing wildly with a blaster.

The zabrak walked forward without hesitation, his posture commanding, his gaze locked on the group. Anakin followed a few paces behind, his chest tightening. The air seemed heavier as they approached, and even the mercenaries fell silent when they noticed the zabrak's approach.

One of the humans stepped forward, his sneer unmistakable. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" he spat, raising his blaster slightly as if to emphasize the threat.

The zabrak didn't answer. His yellow eyes bore into the man's, his expression devoid of emotion. With a slight motion of his hand, the man's body jerked violently upward, his boots leaving the ground as his hands flew to his throat. His blaster clattered to the tarmac as he clawed desperately at his neck, gasping for air. The zabrak's hand curled into a fist, and with a sickening crack, the man's head twisted unnaturally, his body falling lifeless to the ground.

Anakin froze, his mouth dry. His gaze darted between the zabrak and the corpse, the sound of the man's neck snapping still echoing in his ears. 'He didn't even touch him.'

The mercenaries erupted into action, their blasters raised. Red bolts tore through the air, their sharp report echoing across the tarmac. The zabrak didn't flinch. His lightsaber snapped to life with a flash of crimson, the blade a blur as it intercepted the incoming fire. The zabrak advanced without hesitation, the weapon moving with precision and overwhelming force.

The first rodian went down with a single, brutal strike, the saber cutting diagonally through his torso. The wound sizzled as the two halves of his body fell apart, crumpling to the ground. The second rodian fired wildly, his aim desperate, but the zabrak closed the distance in seconds, the saber piercing through his chest in a swift, efficient motion. The rodian let out a guttural cry before collapsing, smoke rising from the blackened hole where the blade had struck.

The chistori bellowed in rage, charging forward with his massive vibro-axe raised high. His strength was evident in the way the weapon tore through the air, aimed directly at the zabrak's head. But the zabrak moved like a predator, sidestepping the blow with effortless precision. His lightsaber came down in a brutal arc, cleaving through the chistori's arm at the elbow. The severed limb hit the ground with a wet thud, and the chistori roared in pain, dropping to his knees.

The zabrak didn't hesitate. He drove his saber through the chistori's chest, the tip of the blade emerging from his back before he wrenched it free. The massive body toppled forward, blood pooling beneath it as steam rose from the cauterized wound.

Human bolted, dropping his blaster as he sprinted toward the edge of the tarmac. The zabrak turned sharply, extending his free hand. The man froze mid-stride, his body jerking backward as though caught by an invisible rope. He screamed, kicking wildly, but the zabrak dragged him closer with a flick of his wrist. The crimson blade plunged into the man's abdomen, silencing him instantly.

The final rodian dropped his weapon, falling to his knees with his hands raised. He babbled something in Huttese, his voice high-pitched and pleading. The zabrak's expression didn't change. He stepped forward and swung the saber in a clean, horizontal arc, the rodian's head separating from his body with a sickening squelch. The lifeless body toppled to the ground, blood soaking the sand beneath it.

Anakin stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. The air was thick with the stench of charred flesh and burnt ozone. The bodies were sprawled across the landing pad, their wounds still smoking, the ground stained with dark streaks of blood. He could barely process what he had just witnessed. 'He didn't hesitate. Not once. They were nothing to him. Just obstacles.'

The zabrak deactivated his lightsaber with a sharp hiss, the crimson blade disappearing into the hilt. He turned to Anakin, his expression unreadable. "Let's go," he said, his voice curt and emotionless.

Anakin hesitated, his legs refusing to move. His gaze lingered on the chistori's body, the severed arm lying a few feet away. His stomach churned, but beneath the nausea was something else—something darker. 'This is power. This is what it means to be strong.'

He nodded, forcing himself to step forward. His foot brushed against the rodian's head, and he flinched, quickly stepping over the corpse. The zabrak was already ascending the ramp to the ship, not sparing a second glance at the carnage he had left behind.

Anakin's jaw tightened as he followed, his thoughts swirling. 'If I had this strength, they'd all pay. All of them. No one would ever hurt me again.'

Anakin followed him onto the ship, his awe growing with each step. The interior was pristine, filled with sleek consoles and advanced technology. He had never seen anything so clean, so efficient.

As the ship took off, Anakin watched Mos Eisley shrink beneath them. The twin suns glared against the horizon, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the view. "It's… it's so beautiful," he whispered.

The zabrak ignored him, turning to face him. "What's your name, boy?"

"Anakin," he replied. "Anakin Skywalker."

"Tell me about yourself, Anakin," the zabrak said, his tone neutral.

Anakin hesitated, then began to speak. He told the zabrak about his life as a slave, about his mother and the events that had led him here. He spoke of the crash site, the tuskens, and the loss of his mother. His voice trembled with emotion, but his grief quickly gave way to hatred as he recounted the story.

The zabrak listened silently, a faint smile playing on his lips. 'A fine seedling indeed,' he thought.

As the ship entered hyperspace, Anakin stared out the viewport, mesmerized by the swirling lights. For the first time in days, he felt a glimmer of hope—a dangerous, seductive hope.

Hours later, the ship exited hyperspace, and Anakin's awe turned to unease as the red planet of Mustafar loomed before them. Its surface was a hellish landscape of molten lava and jagged mountains, the air thick with ash and smoke.

The ship descended toward a massive facility made of black durasteel, its jagged architecture blending seamlessly with the harsh environment. As they landed on the platform, a droid approached them.

"Welcome, Lord Maul," the droid said, its voice metallic and monotone. "The master awaits your report. I will escort the subject for medical evaluation."

The zabrak nodded curtly and walked away, leaving Anakin standing awkwardly with the droid. For a moment, he hesitated, unsure of whether to follow or flee. But the droid's unblinking photoreceptors turned to him, and it repeated, "Please follow me."

Anakin finally complied, his legs stiff as he moved. Maul. So that's his name. But who's this master? Why did he bring me here? Questions churned in his mind as he trailed behind the machine.

The droid led him across a narrow bridge suspended high above a roiling river of molten lava. The oppressive heat made it hard to breathe, his sweat-soaked tunic clinging to his back. He kept his eyes locked on the grated floor beneath his feet, determined not to look at the violent, churning lava below.

They entered the facility, and the temperature dropped sharply. The cold, sterile air sent a chill through Anakin's body, making the contrast even more jarring. The hallways were pristine, their walls gleaming under harsh white lights. Droids moved with mechanical precision, operating consoles, transporting equipment, and performing tasks in synchronized, silent efficiency.

Eventually, they arrived at a small medical chamber. The room was stark, clinical, and brightly lit, its walls lined with advanced diagnostic equipment. Two humanoid medical droids waited inside, their metallic bodies gleaming under the harsh lighting.

"Please sit on the examination table," one of them instructed, its voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Anakin hesitated before climbing onto the table, the cold surface making him shiver as he swung his legs nervously. One of the droids approached, extending a scanning device from its arm. "Hold still," it said, and a faint blue light swept over him from head to toe.

"Baseline vitals recorded," the droid announced. "Heart rate elevated. Blood pressure slightly elevated. Core temperature within acceptable range. No immediate medical concerns detected."

The second droid stepped forward, extending a needle from its arm. "Blood analysis required. Please extend your hand."

Anakin tensed, his gaze fixed on the needle. His breathing quickened, but he forced himself to stay still, extending his hand. It's just a needle. Nothing compared to the anoobas. He winced as the sharp point pierced his skin, but the discomfort was brief. The droid withdrew the sample with precision, sealing it into a vial that it inserted into a sleek analyzer embedded in the wall.

The machine whirred softly as it processed the sample. Numbers and graphs began to populate on a nearby screen, but Anakin couldn't decipher their meaning. He watched nervously as the droid examined the results.

"Blood analysis complete," it announced. "Iron levels slightly below optimal. Glucose levels normal. Signs of dehydration present. Trace indicators of stress-related hormonal imbalance detected. Administering hydration supplement."

A small nozzle extended from the droid's torso, releasing a fine mist into the air around Anakin. He flinched at first, but the vapor was cool and refreshing, the faint scent of minerals filling his nose. He breathed deeply, his muscles relaxing slightly as the hydration spray did its work.

The droid continued, "Blood sample retained for internal processing. Nutritional data stored. Subject condition stable. No critical medical intervention required."

Anakin exhaled softly, relieved that the examination hadn't revealed anything alarming. But his reprieve was short-lived as the second droid approached again, this time holding a small cylindrical device.

"Midichlorian count measurement required," it stated. "Remain still."

"What's a midichlorian ?" Anakin asked, his brow furrowing. His voice was quieter this time, tinged with unease.

The droid didn't respond, simply activating the device. A soft hum filled the air as blood sample was placed inside the device. Numbers flashed on the device's screen as it began its analysis.

"Midichlorian count detected," the droid reported. "4,000… 6,000… 11,000… 16,000… 20,000… 25,000. Maximum limit exceeded."

Anakin's heart skipped a beat. "What does that mean?" he asked, his voice sharper now. "Is it bad?"

The droid retracted the scanner and turned away. "Midichlorian count data uploaded to the master's database. Subject condition stable. Awaiting further instructions."

The first droid returned, extending a small handheld scanner. It passed the device over Anakin's head, chest, and limbs. "Neurological response within acceptable parameters," it said. "No anomalies detected. Muscle density slightly above average for age. Surface abrasions noted. Administering localized treatment."

A faint hissing sound filled the room as the droid sprayed a transparent gel over the scrapes on Anakin's arms and legs. The gel hardened quickly into a flexible coating, sealing the wounds.

"Treatment complete," the droid announced. "Evaluation concluded. No critical concerns noted. Awaiting next phase of instructions."

The escort droid returned, standing in the doorway. "Please follow me," it said, its tone as flat and mechanical as ever.

Anakin slid off the table, his feet landing softly on the cold floor. His hands balled into fists as he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the equipment that had so easily scanned and cataloged his body. 'They didn't explain anything. They just collect data and move on. What do they need it for?'

Reluctantly, he followed the escort droid back into the labyrinthine corridors. The harsh, sterile lights made his skin crawl, and the constant hum of machinery grated on his nerves. Finally, they stopped before a massive steel door, its surface smooth and imposing.

The droid turned to him, its glowing photoreceptors unwavering. "The master is inside. Please wait for permission to enter."

Anakin nodded stiffly, his fists still clenched at his sides. His thoughts churned as he stared at the door, the silence stretching.

'I wonder who is this master really? Why did he want to meet with me ? Well, whatever it may be it doesn't matter if he can give me power' His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to stand taller.