Chapter 10: Anakin on Coruscant - Part I

   CHAPTER 10: ANAKIN ON CORUSCANT - PART 1 

   Jedi Temple - Coruscant

   18:5:7945 CRC

The knock at the door was soft, but it cut through the quiet of the room like a blade. Shmi stood, smoothing the front of her tunic. She took a slow breath, then crossed the small room and opened the door.

Sarn stood in the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a few inches taller than Shmi, with close-cropped hair and a face lined by years of work. His eyes were a pale, washed-out blue, his skin the color of old parchment. He wore simple, durable clothing—a grey tunic, brown trousers, scuffed boots. He nodded to her, his expression neutral. "Shmi Skywalker? I'm Sarn. I'll be your supervisor in the textile workshop."

Shmi inclined her head, a small, polite smile touching her lips. "Pleased to meet you, Sarn. I'm ready to begin." She stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

The corridor outside was wide and quiet, lit by a steady line of overhead panels. The stone floor was smooth, worn in the center by generations of footsteps. Sarn turned and began walking, his pace unhurried, and Shmi fell into step beside him.

"The workshop is on the lower levels," Sarn said, his voice a low, even tone. "Near the laundry facilities. It's not the most scenic part of the Temple."

Shmi nodded. She kept her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes taking in the passing doorways, the high ceilings, the occasional glimpse of a Jedi walking in the distance. "I'm accustomed to practical spaces."

Sarn glanced at her, his gaze lingering on her hands for a moment before looking ahead again. "Your file said you were a slave on Tatooine. You worked with machines?"

"I did repairs," Shmi said. "Moisture vaporators, mostly."

Sarn gave a low, acknowledging hum. "The workshop has machines. Sewing units, fabric cutters. They need regular maintenance. That's the reason I got moved here. I keep things running."

Shmi nodded. "I'll do my best to learn quickly. I want to be useful."

Sarn looked at her again, his expression thoughtful. "You'll be sewing, mostly," he said, his voice taking on a practical edge. "Mending Jedi robes, keeping the linens clean. The Temple needs it." He paused, then added, "The work is steady. You'll be near your boy."

Shmi's smile grew warmer at the mention of Anakin. "I'm grateful for that. And for this opportunity."

Sarn's mouth twitched in what might have been the start of a smile. He nodded toward a branching corridor. "The lifts are this way. We'll get you set up."

They spent the morning in the textile workshop, a large, bright room filled with the steady hum of sewing machines and the soft rustle of fabric. Shmi watched as Sarn demonstrated the use of the various equipment - the industrial washers and dryers, the wide cutting tables, the long rows of sewing machines, each with its own intricate pattern programmed in.

Sarn showed her how to load the heavy bolts of cloth onto the rollers, how to thread the machines, how to mend the small tears and worn patches in the Jedi robes that were brought in every day. His hands were deft and quick, his movements efficient. He spoke little as he worked, his attention focused on the task at hand.

Shmi listened carefully to his instructions, asking occasional questions to clarify her understanding. She was surprised to find that many of the principles were similar to her work on the vaporators - the need for regular maintenance, the importance of cleanliness, the way the machines hummed when they were working properly.

The textile workshop was a cavern of sound and motion. High ceilings arched overhead, supported by metal beams. Rows of industrial sewing machines filled the center of the room, their steady thrumming creating a low, constant drone. Along one wall, large washing units churned, their heavy doors sealed shut. On the opposite side, drying racks stood like skeletal trees, draped with damp robes and linens. The air carried the faint, clean scent of soap and ozone, undercut by the warm smell of hot metal and motor oil.

Shmi stood beside a cutting table, her fingers tracing the edge of a bolt of rough-spun brown fabric. The material was simple, durable, meant for daily wear. Sarn moved to a control panel mounted on the wall, his calloused fingers tapping a sequence of buttons.

"Here in a bit I'll take you to your son, he's with Yoda in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. You'll have about an hour with him before he begins his meditation session." Sarn paused, looking at Shmi. "You did well today. It's not easy, learning new machines. But you were quick. Kept your head."

Shmi smiled warmly. "Thank you, Sarn. I'm glad to be useful."

Sarn nodded. "The Temple needs it." He turned back to the control panel, his voice taking on a practical edge. "You're off the rest of the day, but tomorrow, we'll start on the drying racks. They need a full cleaning. The filters get clogged with lint."

> Shmi Skywalker finishes her first day at work.

The path from the textile workshop to the gardens was a gradual ascent, moving from the utilitarian lower levels toward the Temple's heart. The corridors grew wider, the stonework more ornate, the light softer. Shmi followed Sarn's directions, passing arched doorways that led to libraries and training halls, the air growing warmer, carrying the faint, living scent of soil and water.

She pushed open a heavy wooden door.

The Room of a Thousand Fountains stretched before her, a landscape contained within walls. A high, curved ceiling glowed with diffuse light, mimicking a clouded sky. Waterfalls, some no taller than a person, others cascading down artificial rock faces, filled the air with a constant, gentle rush. Streams meandered through lush grass, winding between clusters of ferns and flowering shrubs from a dozen different worlds. The air was thick with humidity, rich with the smell of wet stone and blooming nectar.

The air in the garden was heavy, alive. Shmi walked along a flagstone path, her steps quiet on the damp stone. She passed a small pond where blue-green lilies floated, their petals open to the artificial light. In the distance, she saw robed figures sitting motionless on the grass, their backs to the path. The sound of the water was everywhere, a soft, constant whisper that seemed to soak into the stone.

She saw him near a low waterfall that spilled into a shallow, rocky pool. Anakin sat on the grass, his legs crossed, his small hands resting on his knees. His eyes were closed. A few feet away, Grand Master Yoda sat on a flat stone, his gimer stick planted firmly beside him. The ancient Jedi's eyes were also closed, his three-fingered hands resting in his lap. They were both perfectly still, as if carved from the same living rock as the garden itself.

The waterfall's gentle roar filled the space between them. Shmi stood for a moment, watching. Anakin's brow was furrowed, a faint line of concentration between his eyes. Yoda's ears twitched once, then stilled.

Shmi took a few steps closer, the damp grass muffling her footsteps. She stopped a respectful distance away, waiting.

Yoda's eyes opened. They were deep, ancient, and they settled on her without surprise. He gave a slow, slight nod.

Anakin's eyes snapped open a moment later. He blinked, disoriented for a second, then his face lit up. "Mom!"

He scrambled to his feet, grass clinging to his trousers, and hurried over to her. Shmi opened her arms and he hugged her tightly, his small frame warm against hers. She rested her cheek against his hair.

Anakin pulled back, his eyes bright. "It's so big here," he said, his voice a mixture of awe and exhaustion. "And Master Yoda is… really quiet."

Yoda smiled gently. "Silent, the Force speaks. Listen, we must." His eyes twinkled with patient amusement.

Shmi looked down at Anakin, her hand resting on his shoulder. "It sounds like you've had a busy morning," she said, her voice warm. "I'm glad you're finding your way."

Anakin nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. "There's so much to learn," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "Master Yoda says the Force is like a river. It flows everywhere, connects everything." He glanced back at the ancient Jedi, who watched them with a calm, knowing gaze.

Shmi smiled. "That's a beautiful way to think of it," she said, her hand giving Anakin's shoulder a gentle squeeze. She looked at Yoda. "Thank you for showing him these things," she said, her voice sincere. "I know this is all very new to him."

Yoda inclined his head, his expression kind. "A strong swimmer in the river, he will be," he said, his voice rich with assurance.

The waterfall's soft thunder was a constant background, like the hum of a starship's engines. Anakin looked up at his mother, his small face serious. "He said I have to learn to be still," he confided, his voice a low murmur. "I'm not very good at it yet."

Shmi brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Stillness takes practice," she said. "Like fixing a vaporator. You don't learn it in a day."

Yoda's gimer stick tapped softly against the stone beside him. "A lesson for another time, that is," he said, his gaze shifting to Shmi. "Time with your son, you have earned. Tomorrow morning with Mace Windu, your journey continues young Anakin."

The path back through the garden was quieter. Anakin walked beside his mother, his small hand finding hers. He kept looking back at the waterfall, at the still form of Yoda now alone on the stone, before turning forward again.

"He's nice," Anakin said after a moment. "But he talks… different."

Shmi smiled. "Many people talk different ways. It doesn't mean they're not kind."

They passed a Jedi Knight kneeling beside a stream, her fingers trailing in the water. She did not look up.

> Shmi Skywalker looks with Anakin for an apartment near the Jedi Temple they will be able to live in. 

Anakin was quiet for a few steps, his brow furrowed. "He asked me about my dreams. The ones about flying. And the ones about…" He trailed off, his free hand making a vague, frustrated gesture. "The bad ones. With the fire."

Shmi's hand tightened around his. She kept her voice steady. "What did you tell him?"

Anakin shrugged, his small shoulders tense. "I told him the truth. That I don't remember them very well. Just bits and pieces." He kicked at a pebble on the path, sending it skittering into the grass. "He said that was okay. That I should tell him if I remember more."

Shmi nodded, her eyes scanning the garden ahead. "That sounds wise," she said, her voice thoughtful. "Dreams can be important. But they can also be confusing."

Anakin looked up at her, his blue eyes wide. "Do you think… do you think the Force is in my dreams?"

Shmi's smile was gentle, reassuring. "The Force is in everything," she said, her voice soft. "In us. In the air we breathe. Master Yoda says it's like a river, remember? It flows through our lives, even when we're sleeping."

The street outside the Temple's main landing platform was wide, paved with smooth grey flagstones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. The buildings here were low, made of the same pale stone as the Temple, their roofs slanted and tiled with dark slate. Vines climbed some of the walls, their leaves a deep green against the stone. The air was cooler than in the lower levels, carrying the faint, clean scent of the Temple's gardens mixed with the distant ozone of repulsorlift traffic far below.

Anakin walked beside his mother, his head swiveling as he took in the new surroundings. He pointed at a small park across the street, a patch of grass with a few benches and a single, twisted tree. "That's nice," he said.

Shmi followed his gaze. "It is," she agreed. "Quiet."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly off the stone facades. The neighborhood felt almost deserted compared to the bustling lower levels. A few other pedestrians passed them—a Rodian woman carrying a basket, an elderly human man leaning on a cane. They nodded politely but did not speak.

Anakin's steps slowed as they approached a branching alley. He peered down its length, where a series of arched doorways were set into the wall. "Do you think any of those are for rent?"

"Perhaps," Shmi said. She stopped, turning to look at the buildings around them. "We should ask someone. There must be a housing office."

The housing office was a small, ground-floor unit two blocks from the Temple's western gate. A single transparisteel window displayed a list of available units, the text scrolling slowly in Basic. Inside, a human woman with short grey hair sat behind a cluttered desk, her attention on a datapad.

Shmi pushed the door open, a small bell chiming softly overhead. The woman looked up, her expression polite but weary. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for an apartment," Shmi said, her voice calm. "Something near the Temple. For the two of us."

The woman's eyes shifted to Anakin, who stood close to his mother, his hands tucked into his pockets. She gave a small, understanding nod. "Temple staff?"

"I work in the textile workshop," Shmi said. "My son is… attending the Temple. They set a stipend for rent would be part of my pay."

The woman tapped at her datapad, her eyes scanning the screen. "There's a unit on Spire Lane. Third floor. One bedroom, a small kitchen. It's not large, but it's clean. The building is quiet."

Anakin leaned forward slightly. "Does it have a window?"

The woman's mouth twitched. "Two, actually. One faces the street, the other looks into the courtyard."

Shmi glanced at her son, then back at the woman. "May we see it? We'd be more than interested in any two bedrooms in the area as well."

The woman stood, retrieving a keycard from a drawer. "Follow me."

The building on Spire Lane was narrow, its stone facade blending into the others around it. The lobby was small, tiled in faded blue ceramic, and smelled faintly of polish and dust. The turbolift hummed as it carried them to the third floor.

The door slid open onto a short hallway. The woman led them to a door marked 3-C and slid the keycard through the reader. The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open.

The apartment was small, but the light from the two windows made it feel larger. The main room held a low couch, a table, and two chairs. A doorway led to a bedroom just big enough for a single bed and a chest. The kitchenette was a narrow alcove with a small conservator and a two-burner heating unit. The floors were bare, polished wood.

Anakin went to the window facing the street. He leaned his forehead against the cool transparisteel, looking down at the quiet lane below. "You can see the Temple spire from here," he said, his voice soft.

Shmi walked to the other window, which overlooked a small, enclosed courtyard. A single tree grew in the center, its branches bare. A stone bench sat beneath it. "It's peaceful," she observed.

The housing agent waited by the door, her hands clasped. "The rent is within the Temple's stipend range," she said. "All utilities are included. The building superintendent lives on the first floor. He's a retired Republic clerk. Keeps to himself."

Shmi turned from the window, her gaze sweeping the room once more. She looked at Anakin. "What do you think?"

Anakin turned from the street view, his expression thoughtful. "It's good," he said. "It's close."

The housing agent gave a single nod. "I'll need your identification and a signature. The lease is standard—month-to-month, with a thirty-day notice."

Shmi moved to the table, accepting the datapad the woman offered. Her fingers moved with practiced efficiency, entering the required information. Anakin wandered into the small bedroom, running his hand along the wall.

"It's empty," he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the unfurnished space.

"We'll get what we need," Shmi said, finishing the entry. She handed the datapad back. "Thank you."

The agent offered a thin smile. "The keycode will activate at noon tomorrow. You can move in then." She turned and left, the door sighing shut behind her.

The afternoon light through the window painted a long rectangle across the bare floorboards. Anakin stood in the center of the empty bedroom, turning slowly. "Where will we get a bed?" he asked.

"We'll share the room I stayed in last night tonight," Shmi said, joining him in the doorway. "We can buy furniture tomorrow. The Temple staff get a discount at some of the local shops."

Anakin nodded, his eyes scanning the room again. "I want a bed near the wall," he decided. "So I can put my tools on the other side."

Shmi's smile was warm. "We can do that," she agreed.

The walk to the room Shmi had stayed in the previous night was quiet, the corridors of the Jedi Temple growing peaceful as the afternoon stretched on. The two of them, mother and son, walked side by side, their steps echoing softly off the stone walls. Anakin's excitement about their new apartment was palpable, his hands gesturing animatedly as he chattered about where they would put their things, what kind of tools he could keep there, and how he might be able to see the stars from the window at night.

As they approached the guest quarters, Shmi saw a familiar figure in the hallway ahead. Paril Zannfel was just closing the door to his own room, his hand resting on the handle for a moment as he checked something on his datapad. He looked up as they approached, a smile touching his worn features.

"Shmi, Anakin," he greeted warmly. "How was your day?"

Shmi returned his smile, her hand resting lightly on Anakin's shoulder. "It was good. We found an apartment near the Temple."

Paril's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "That's wonderful news! I'm glad to hear it." He glanced at Anakin, who was looking up at him with a mixture of excitement and curiosity. "Did you get to see it? The apartment?"

Anakin nodded vigorously. "It's nice. It has two windows, and one of them looks out on a courtyard. And it's close enough to the Temple that we can walk there in just a few minutes!"

Paril smiled at Anakin's enthusiasm. "That sounds perfect," he said, his voice warm. "It's always good to be close to where you need to be." He glanced at Shmi. "And your work in the textile workshop? How was your first day?"

Shmi's smile grew a little more wry. "It was... educational," she said, her voice taking on a tone of good-humored resignation. "I'm learning a lot about the Temple's sewing machines."

Paril chuckled, a low, rich sound. "Well, every place has its own quirks," he observed philosophically. "The Falcon's got more than a few of her own."

Anakin looked up at him, his eyes bright. "Are you going to fix your ship now?" he asked, his voice filled with interest. "Can I help?"

Paril considered the boy's question, his gaze drifting toward the direction of the landing platforms. "The Temple engineers already gave her a once-over after we landed," he said. "But I've got a list of things that need a pilot's touch. The inertial compensator's a little soft, and the starboard sublight motivator is making a sound I don't like."

He looked back at Shmi. "I was just heading down to the hangar now, actually. See if I can't get my hands dirty before dinner."

Shmi nodded. "We won't keep you, then."

Paril hesitated, his hand still on the door handle. "Actually… I was going to ask if you'd both like to join me. Anakin's got a good eye for machinery, and I could use a second opinion on that motivator whine." His eyes met Shmi's. "If you're not too tired. I can wait for you guys to settle in."

Shmi glanced at Anakin, noting the eagerness in his expression. "We'd be happy to join you," she said, her smile warm.

The temporary guest room was a small, neat space, the bed already made and their few belongings stacked in a corner. Anakin dropped his bag onto the floor with a soft thump. He looked up at Paril, his eyes bright. "You really want me to help with the motivator?"

Paril leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded. "I do," he said, his voice carrying a quiet certainty. "But first, I need to ask you both something." He glanced at Shmi, who was folding a spare tunic and placing it on the bed. "The Falcon got us here because of what you did on Tatooine, Anakin. That hyperdrive fix saved my contract. The Jedi pay on delivery, and without that delivery, I'd be grounded."

Shmi paused, the tunic held in her hands. She watched him, her expression thoughtful.

Paril's gaze held steady. "I've got a bit of credit saved. I want to use some of it to stock your new place. Food, basics. A proper start." He kept his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing engine tolerances. "It's not charity. It's a pilot settling a debt."

Shmi's hands stilled. She looked from Paril to Anakin, who was watching her, waiting for her reaction. Her instinct tightened in her chest—a lifetime of weighing the cost of every offer. But Paril's eyes held no hidden edge, no calculation. Only a plain, worn sincerity.

"We have nothing," she said, the words quiet, not as refusal but as simple fact.

Paril nodded once. "That's why I'm asking." He pushed off the doorframe. "My ship needs parts. The market in Uscru has what I need, and it's got good grocers. We can do both."

Anakin's face broke into a wide smile. "Can we get some of those red fruits? The sweet ones?"

Shmi let out a slow breath, the tunic finally placed on the bed. She met Paril's gaze. "Alright," she said. Her voice was soft, but firm. "But we'll carry the bags."

The turbolift descended with a soft hum, the numbers flashing by on the display. Anakin pressed his face against the transparisteel viewport, watching the layers of Coruscant stream upward. "It's like a waterfall of buildings," he murmured.

The causeway was a wide, clean span of pale permacrete, edged with low safety rails. The air here was cooler, fresher than the lower levels, carrying a faint breeze from the ventilation shafts far below. Office windows lined the inner wall, some still lit with the soft glow of late workers. A small park nestled in an alcove, its artificial trees a vibrant, impossible green under carefully calibrated lights. A few people sat on benches, datapads in hand.

Paril walked with a steady, ground-covering stride, his hands in his pockets. Shmi kept pace beside him, her eyes taking in the orderly quiet. Anakin darted ahead a few steps, then back, his energy barely contained.

"The market's just ahead," Paril said, nodding toward the far end of the causeway where the architecture shifted, becoming more crowded, more brightly lit. "Stick close once we're in. It gets thick."

The shift was immediate. The causeway opened into a wide, vaulted concourse. Neon signs in a dozen scripts flickered and hummed overhead, casting shifting colors on the crowd below. The air grew warmer, thick with the smell of sizzling meat, frying dough, and the sharp, clean scent of ozone from a nearby power-tool vendor. Voices called out in a mix of Basic and other tongues, haggling, laughing, shouting orders. A steady flow of beings moved through the space—humans, Twi'leks, Rodians, a pair of Gran diplomats deep in conversation, a family of Ithorians browsing a stall of glowing fungi.

The noise was a living thing. Anakin's head swiveled, trying to take in everything at once. A droid repair stall to their left sparked and hissed as a mechanic welded a servo joint. To the right, a Devaronian woman turned skewers of spiced meat over a glowing grill, the smoke curling up to join the haze beneath the high ceiling.

Paril placed a hand lightly on Anakin's shoulder. "Parts first," he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard. "Then groceries. Easier to carry the food after."

They moved through the crowd, Paril leading them toward a section where the stalls shifted from food to hardware. The parts vendor was a Chadra-Fan perched on a high stool, his large ears twitching as he sorted through a bin of connectors. His stall was a wall of small drawers and hanging components, a faint smell of lubricant hanging around it.

Paril leaned on the counter. "I need a Series Seven inertial compensator dampener. And a diagnostic on a Corellian YT sublight motivator whine."

The Chadra-Fan's whiskers twitched. "Got the dampener. For the whine, I'll need the frequency." His voice was a high, chittering buzz.

Paril pulled a small scanner from his belt, its screen showing a jagged readout. He handed it over. "Starboard side. It peaks at 2.4 kilohertz under half-thrust."

The Chadra-Fan took the scanner, his large black eyes scanning the readout. He chittered softly, then hopped down and began pulling drawers open with quick, precise movements. "Bearing race is pitted," he announced, holding up a small, cylindrical component. "Common on older YTs. The whine is the magnetic field wobbling." He placed the bearing next to the dampener on the counter. "These'll set you back eighty-five credits."

Paril pulled a credit chit from his pocket and slid it across the counter. The vendor tapped it against a reader, the transaction light blinking green, and handed it back with the parts in a small mesh bag.

"Thanks," Paril said, tucking the bag into his coat.

The Chadra-Fan gave a brisk nod and turned to his next customer, a harried-looking Bothan clutching a smoking power converter.

Paril turned back to Shmi and Anakin. "Now for the important cargo."

They moved deeper into the market, the food section a riot of color and scent. Stalls overflowed with produce from across the galaxy: purple tubers from Alderaan, waxy yellow gourds from Sullust, bundles of fragrant herbs Shmi didn't recognize. Anakin's gaze locked onto a vendor selling small, glossy red fruits piled high in woven baskets.

"Those?" Shmi asked him.

He nodded, eyes wide.

The fruit vendor, a stout human woman with flour-dusted forearms, smiled as they approached. "Sunberries," she said, plucking one from the top and offering it to Anakin. "From the Duros hydroponics rings. Sweet as a kiss."

Anakin took it, biting into the thin skin. Juice trickled down his chin. His eyes lit up. "They're good!"

Shmi selected a small basket, careful not to take too many. Paril was already at the next stall, examining wrapped cuts of meat. He chose a package of nerf steak and a coil of seasoned sausages, adding them to a growing stack in his arms.

Paril watched Shmi's hands as she chose a packet of grain, her fingers tracing the label. He added a container of dried milk substitute to the pile. "For caf," he said, when she glanced at him.

They moved from stall to stall, the stack in Paril's arms growing. A block of hard cheese, a can of cooking oil, a jar of preserved vegetables, a small sack of root vegetables that looked similar to Tatooine tubers but with a darker skin. Anakin carried the sunberries carefully, cradling the basket.

At a dry goods stall, Shmi paused before a shelf of spices. Her hand hovered over a small tin labeled Corellian Pepper Blend. Paril saw her hesitation, the way her shoulders tightened. He reached past her and took two tins, adding them to his load.

The spice vendor, a Togruta with faded white markings on her montrals, gave a knowing nod. "Good for stews," she said. "Warms the bones."

Shmi watched Paril add the tins without a word. She let out a slow breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. "Thank you," she said, her voice soft.

The walk back was slower, weighed down by their purchases. Paril carried the bulk of the bags, his steps steady. Anakin insisted on carrying the sunberries and a smaller bag of grain, his small frame determined. Shmi carried the remaining bag, her arms wrapped around it as if still learning the feel of holding something that was truly hers.

The causeway was quieter now, the late afternoon light from the upper levels deepening into a soft amber glow. The office windows were mostly dark. In the park, the benches were empty.

The guest quarters were silent and empty when they returned. Paril set the bags down just inside the door of Shmi and Anakin's room—a tangible weight of new beginnings. "That should get you started," Paril said, straightening. He rubbed the back of his neck. "The rest you'll figure out as you go."

Shmi looked at the array of food, the spices, the simple staples. Her throat felt tight. "It's more than we've ever had at once," she said, the words quiet, almost to herself.

Anakin placed his basket of sunberries on the table and looked up at Paril, his expression serious. "The motivator whine. It might also be the housing alignment. If the bearing seat is worn, a new bearing will just wear out faster."

Paril raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You think I should check the mount?"

Anakin nodded. "The scanner only hears the vibration. It doesn't see the cause."

"He's right," Shmi said, her voice carrying a quiet certainty born of years listening to machines. "A misalignment stresses everything downstream."

Paril looked from mother to son, a genuine laugh escaping him. "I'm being schooled by the best." He checked the chrono on the wall, then gathered the mesh bag of parts. "I should get these parts installed before it gets any later. Let the new bearing seat in properly." He gave them a nod, turned, and stepped out, the door sighing shut behind him. The room felt smaller now, quieter – just mother and son and the weight of a full cupboard.

   Coruscant

   18:5:7945 CRC

About eight kilometers away, the Scimitar rested silent in the industrial sector, its dark hull blending into the cracked concrete and rusted gantries of the old platform. The platform had been decommissioned for years; warning lights on the approach path were dark, and the only sound was the low whistle of wind through broken transparisteel panels. Inside the cockpit, the Unknown Assailant sat cross-legged on the deck, his eyes fixed on the grainy video feed from the probe droid. The live image showed Shmi, Anakin, and Paril talking in the hallway outside their adjoined rooms at the Jedi Temple.

The hallway was quiet, the lighting soft and even. Shmi stood near her door, her hand resting on Anakin's shoulder. Paril leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, his expression easy. Anakin gestured, his small hands moving with excitement, and Paril nodded slowly. The feed had no sound, but the Unknown Assailant had watched long enough to read their body language. The boy was eager. The mother was warm but guarded. The pilot was relaxed, comfortable, as if he belonged there.

The holoprojector chimed softly, a single clear tone. The Unknown Assailant tapped a control on the deck, and a hologram shimmered into view—the same dark, hooded figure, features hidden, voice filtered through a harsh vocoder.

The Unknown Assailant inclined his head, his horns glinting in the dim light. "My lord."

The hooded figure did not answer immediately. The hologram's dark robes swayed slightly, as if caught in a breeze that did not exist. The vocoder hissed once, a soft exhalation of static, before the figure spoke in a modulated voice that left the words flat and genderless. "Report."

"The boy is in the Temple," the Unknown Assailant said, his voice low and even. "The mother is nearby, in the service quarters. The pilot lingers."

The hologram nodded slowly, the dark folds of the hood shifting. "I sense the Jedi Council is divided," the voice said, each word precise. "They see the boy's potential but fear his age. His attachment to his mother clouds their judgment."

The Unknown Assailant's yellow eyes glinted. "Shall I remove her? Cut the tie?"

The vocoder emitted a low, static-laden hum. "No. You are Inquisitor – a hunter of secrets, a shadow among shadows. Serve well, and higher stations may yet open to you. But for now, patience. When the time is right, we will move with precision and purpose. Observe and report. Let the Jedi reveal their intentions."

The Unknown Assailant nodded, his gaze flicking back to the video feed. "As you command, my lord. I will await your signal."

The hooded figure was silent for a heartbeat longer than before. When the vocoder spoke again, the words came slower, each one deliberately placed. "Then go, Darth Maul. Watch. Wait. The moment will come."

The holoprojector deactivated with a sharp click, leaving the cockpit in the dim glow of the secondary screen. The probe droid's feed continued to play silently. On the screen, Shmi smiled at something Anakin said, and Paril pushed off the wall, gesturing toward the end of the hallway. The three of them stood together for another moment, then Paril gave a casual wave, turned, and walked away. The hallway door slid shut behind him, the hydraulic hiss captured only as a faint visual blur. Shmi and Anakin watched him go, then Shmi put her arm around her son and led him back into their room. The door closed, leaving the hallway empty.

Darth Maul watched for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the Scimitar's cloaked systems. His gloved fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm on his knee.

He did not know the pilot's full history, but he had seen the man's file. Paril Zannfel. Freelance, competent, with a ship that had survived an encounter it should not have. The man's lingering presence was a variable, but a minor one. The mother was the anchor. The boy was the vessel.

The feed flickered, then held steady. The hallway remained empty. Darth Maul did not move. He had been trained to wait, to watch, to strike only when the moment was absolute. The master had spoken. Patience was its own weapon.

He let the silence fill the cockpit, the hum of the ship a lullaby of the dark. The probe droid continued its vigil, its tiny lens capturing nothing but the stillness of an empty corridor. Darth Maul's eyes never left the screen. He was a patient hunter, and his prey was not yet ready to be taken. But when the order came, he would be ready. He was always ready.

   Coruscant

   18:5:7945 CRC

About eight kilometers away, the Scimitar rested silent in the industrial sector, its dark hull blending into the cracked concrete and rusted gantries of the old platform. The platform had been decommissioned for years; warning lights on the approach path were dark, and the only sound was the low whistle of wind through broken transparisteel panels. Inside the cockpit, the Unknown Assailant sat cross-legged on the deck, his eyes fixed on the grainy video feed from the probe droid. The live image showed Shmi, Anakin, and Paril talking in the hallway outside their adjoined rooms at the Jedi Temple.

The hallway was quiet, the lighting soft and even. Shmi stood near her door, her hand resting on Anakin's shoulder. Paril leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, his expression easy. Anakin gestured, his small hands moving with excitement, and Paril nodded slowly. The feed had no sound, but the Unknown Assailant had watched long enough to read their body language. The boy was eager. The mother was warm but guarded. The pilot was relaxed, comfortable, as if he belonged there.

The holoprojector chimed softly, a single clear tone. The Unknown Assailant tapped a control on the deck, and a hologram shimmered into view—the same dark, hooded figure, features hidden, voice filtered through a harsh vocoder.

The Unknown Assailant inclined his head, his horns glinting in the dim light. "My lord."

The hooded figure did not answer immediately. The hologram's dark robes swayed slightly, as if caught in a breeze that did not exist. The vocoder hissed once, a soft exhalation of static, before the figure spoke in a modulated voice that left the words flat and genderless. "Report."

"The boy is in the Temple," the Unknown Assailant said, his voice low and even. "The mother is nearby, in the service quarters. The pilot lingers."

The hologram nodded slowly, the dark folds of the hood shifting. "I sense the Jedi Council is divided," the voice said, each word precise. "They see the boy's potential but fear his age. His attachment to his mother clouds their judgment."

The Unknown Assailant's yellow eyes glinted. "Shall I remove her? Cut the tie?"

The vocoder emitted a low, static-laden hum. "No. You are Inquisitor – a hunter of secrets, a shadow among shadows. Serve well, and higher stations may yet open to you. But for now, patience. When the time is right, we will move with precision and purpose. Observe and report. Let the Jedi reveal their intentions."

The Unknown Assailant nodded, his gaze flicking back to the video feed. "As you command, my lord. I will await your signal."

The hooded figure was silent for a heartbeat longer than before. When the vocoder spoke again, the words came slower, each one deliberately placed. "Then go, Darth Maul. Watch. Wait. The moment will come."

The holoprojector deactivated with a sharp click, leaving the cockpit in the dim glow of the secondary screen. The probe droid's feed continued to play silently. On the screen, Shmi smiled at something Anakin said, and Paril pushed off the wall, gesturing toward the end of the hallway. The three of them stood together for another moment, then Paril gave a casual wave, turned, and walked away. The hallway door slid shut behind him, the hydraulic hiss captured only as a faint visual blur. Shmi and Anakin watched him go, then Shmi put her arm around her son and led him back into their room. The door closed, leaving the hallway empty.

Darth Maul watched for a long moment, the only sound the low hum of the Scimitar's cloaked systems. His gloved fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm on his knee.

He did not know the pilot's full history, but he had seen the man's file. Paril Zannfel. Freelance, competent, with a ship that had survived an encounter it should not have. The man's lingering presence was a variable, but a minor one. The mother was the anchor. The boy was the vessel.

The feed flickered, then held steady. The hallway remained empty. Darth Maul did not move. He had been trained to wait, to watch, to strike only when the moment was absolute. The master had spoken. Patience was its own weapon.

He let the silence fill the cockpit, the hum of the ship a lullaby of the dark. The probe droid continued its vigil, its tiny lens capturing nothing but the stillness of an empty corridor. Darth Maul's eyes never left the screen. He was a patient hunter, and his prey was not yet ready to be taken. But when the order came, he would be ready. He was always ready.