this addition has been edited as of january 19, 2020

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

TATOOINE CAME INTO VIEW ALL AT ONCE AS THEY LEFT LIGHTSPEED, and it took nearly everything Artie had not to turn away. There it was—her home. It pained her how easily the word came to mind, though in her heart Artie knew there was no other way to describe it. Hadn't seventeen years of her life happened on that dustball? She glanced at Anakin and saw his face was grim—almost fearful. Artie blew a breath through her teeth; it was going to be a long day for both of them.

They landed just outside Mos Espa. Not even a day's walk was Mos Entha, where Artie had lived and nearly died many times. Perhaps she'd hoped that since they would not exactly be in Entha, the trip might not be so overwhelming, but it became immediately clear that would not be the case. As soon as Artie stepped off the ramp and her boots touched the hot sand, a wave of dizziness took hold of her. The scathing atmosphere was so familiar, so nauseatingly intimate, Artie was reminded of how deeply woven she was with the forsaken planet. How used to comfort she had grown—so accustomed to luxury and convenience she'd forgotten from where she came. From where she belonged.

A nowhere system for a nowhere girl.

They paid a droid-and-rickshaw to take them the last bit of distance to the city. Privately, Artie was glad, because she knew Padmé simply wasn't used to the heat twin suns inflicted on the landscape and to trek as far as they would have to would surely prove torturous. The ride was rocky and uncomfortable and mostly silent, save for the wheels struggling through the golden sand. From her insistent irritation, Artie realized how accustomed she had become to speeders and transport that never dared touch the ground. When Mos Espa came into view over the undulant horizon, however, Artie would have rather stayed on that rickshaw forever than step foot in the city. Had she really thought this would be simple?

They passed into the outpost. Instinctively, Artie pulled her hood over her hair and kept her eyes down. She knew Padmé was watching her closely, but she couldn't explain her actions if she'd wanted to. Every intuition told her to stay hidden, stay inconspicuous. On Tatooine, it helped no one to be interesting. Maybe Anakin felt he could burst back into the hub with all his gusto and demands—Artie supposed having a laser sword to keep challengers away would give anyone confidence—but she had no such luxury. She was still very wanted by Lysander's end of the syndicate. He'd been powerful when she'd left—Artie dreaded seeing what he had now.

Engrossed in her own worries, Artie hardly noticed when the rickshaw slammed to a halt. Anakin stepped down first and helped Padme after him. When he offered Artie his hand she was hesitant to take it, seeing as she could not control the trembling in her own. Still, she accepted his help and for the briefest moment as their fingers touched felt somewhat steadier. "Wait here, if you don't mind," Artie told the droid that operated the rickshaw, casting it a smile despite knowing it could not care less if she was smiling or not.

They had halted outside of a dim, sweltering shop that to Artie's best guess sold and repaired mechanical parts—or, maybe a better word was junk. As they approached, Artie noticed a stout Toydarian sat at the entrance and assumed by his loud, nonchalant swearing and the trio of pit-droids he barked orders at he must be the shopkeeper. His leathery, blue-gray skin was shrouded in a heavy layer of dust, and his trunk-nose swayed as he muttered angrily to himself in Huttese. He was so fixated on repairing a broken sensor he did not even glance up at Artie, Anakin, and Padmé as they stopped in right front of him.

"Watto," Anakin said edgily, squinting against the sunlight. "I need to speak with you."

"What?" the Toydarian, Watto, barked in Huttese, throwing a suspicious look up at Anakin. His orange, beady eyes shifted to Artie and Padmé and narrowed even further. "Leave me alone, I don't know you."

"You do," Anakin replied evenly in Huttese, but the sharp side of his tone did not go unnoticed by Watto, who gave an angered grunt.

"Shut down," he snapped at the pit-droids. He sneered up at Anakin, eyes vexed. "What are you saying? I don't know you, boy . . . ." Watto seemed to think for a moment, and it seemed to be a difficult thing for him indeed. His scowl mellowed a fraction. "But . . . what can I do for you?" He paused again. "You look like a Jedi . . . whatever it is, I didn't do it." Watto suddenly dropped the tool he'd been using and swore vehemently, making Artie very glad Padmé didn't understand Huttese and didn't recognize a word Artie used often.

"Let me help you with that," Anakin offered shortly, taking the sensor head from Watto's three-fingered hands. He began twisting wires and tightening bolts with much more grace than Watto, and though it was hardly an appropriate thought for the moment, Artie noticed how nice his hands looked as he worked. "I'm looking for Shmi Skywalker," Anakin said, loosing a disc from the sensor's circuit board. "Where is she?"

Watto eyed him, doubt crawling across his face. "Ani?" he guessed, almost laughing. "Little Ani? Naaah." Watto jerked his head in disbelief, cackling to himself. He was cut short, however, as Anakin handed him the part, now fully repaired. Watto's orange eyes lit up with something that was almost excitement. "You are Ani!" he shouted, abandoning Huttese. "It is you, you little womp rat!" His small wings flapped clumsily and he hovered eye-level with Anakin, searching his face intently before grabbing him in a hug. Anakin glared at Watto in disgust and pushed him away.

"I'm not here for a reunion, Watto," he snapped. Artie frowned. Reunion?

"You sure sprouted," Watto went on, ignoring him. "A Jedi," his eyes swept to the lightsaber on Anakin's belt, "well, what do you know . . . say, maybe you could help me with a few deadbeats who owe me—"

"My mother, please."

"Oh," Watto shifted, "yeah, uh . . . see, she's not mine no more. I sold her."

Artie felt Anakin's worry. His fury. "You sold her?" he spat.

"Years ago," Watto said with a limp shrug. "Sorry, An." He didn't exactly sound very sorry. "But, you know, business is business. I sold her to a moisture farmer named Lars," he frowned, his heavy brow squashing down, "at least, I think it was Lars. Believe it or not, I heard he freed her and married her—can't beat that, huh?"

Anakin hardly moved, his darkening face not shifting a hair. "Where?"

"Long way from here," Watto waved a hand. He was losing interest in the conversation. "Someplace over on the other side of Mos Eisley, I think . . . ."

"I'd like to know," Anakin spoke so softly one might mistake him for calm, but Artie felt the firestorm churning in his chest and was, for a moment, wary of him.

Watto blinked a few times. "Uh, yeah, sure . . . absolutely. Let's, uh, let's go look in my records . . . ." He flew up and bobbed into the shop, Anakin trailing close behind.

It hit Artie later than it should have. She realized, with a rush of embarrassment and warmth that had nothing to do with the suns, that this shop was where Anakin had been enslaved all those years ago. And here he was again, reliving a terrible past, all for the sake of his mother. It moved Artie greatly, and suddenly she had an urge to go to him, be there beside him, but she thought better if it. It was his burden, his task, and there was still a line between them it was not yet time to cross.

• • •

THE HOMESTEAD WATTO HAD DIRECTED THEM TO WAS, BY TATOOINE STANDARDS, LAVISH. They had taken the starship this time, as the suns were beginning to set and both Anakin and Artie knew it would be unwise to get caught in the desert wilderness after dark. The humble moisture farm was the only sign of life as far as the eye could see, solitary amid a sea of yellow nothing. They had found their way to Jundland Wastes, on the Great Chott salt flat, territory Artie had never dared venture. Why anyone would live there was beyond her.

"Artoo," Padmé said as they descended, "stay with the ship. Alert us of any transmissions, all right?"

R2-D2 whistled and swiveled back up the ramp. The three of them began the brief walk to the farm, guided by no path, only hoping the cruel desert was not luring them with a mirage. As they finally approached the homestead, they were met by a protocol droid, humanoid in size and stature, but without any plating—its wiring and inner circuits were completely exposed.

"Oh, oh my—visitors," it yelped, sort of dancing about in place. "Good evening, how can I help you?"

Anakin frowned and peered closer at the droid. "Threepio? Is that you?"

"Oh my . . . oh my!" the protocol droid, which Artie took to be a 3PO unit, lifted its stiff arms in delight. "Master Anakin! My goodness, I can hardly believe it! And oh," it pivoted to look at Padmé and Artie, "Miss Padmé! It's so wonderful to see you."

She smiled. "Threepio. I'm so glad you're well."

C-3PO gestured to Artie. "And who might this be? I'm afraid we haven't met."

Artie tried to muster a sincere smile. "I'm Artie. I'm Padmé's apprentice."

"I've come to see my mother," Anakin said, effectively squashing the pleasantries. His stare was dark and again, Artie was wary.

The 3PO unit flinched back in surprise. "Oh dear," it fussed, "oh, I'm so terribly sorry, Master Ani . . . ."

"Threepio," Padmé risked, "what's happened?"

The droid shifted awkwardly, looking unsure what to say. Suddenly the suns were more scorching than ever, the air too dusty to breathe in. Somehow, they all knew there was terrible news. "Oh," 3PO mumbled mournfully, "I think you better come inside."

So they ventured through the main entry dome, through the primarily-underground home, into a large courtyard pit. No one said a word. Anakin marched ahead alongside 3PO, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Even without the Force, Artie was sure she'd be able to feel his dread pulsing off him. Padmé gripped Artie's arm, pressing close, and whispered, "I'm worried. What could have happened to Shmi?"

"I don't . . . ." Artie thought back to Anakin's nightmares, the pain and death they foretold, and her stomach dropped. "I don't know."

"Master Lars—Master Owen!" 3PO called out. "There's visitors here to see you!"

A door in the side of the packed-sand wall slid open. Artie could see more of the homestead through the threshold, but soon it was blocked by an approaching young man and woman. They were similar in appearance, both fair-haired and slightly pink from the suns, but the way the man walked with a light hand on the woman's hip told Artie they were not related—at least, she hoped not.

Anakin stepped forward, not even bothering to smile. "I'm Anakin Skywalker. I'm here looking for my mother."

"M' Owen Lars," the young man said, offering Anakin a hand, and they shook. Owen gave an awkward half-smile. "Skywalker, you said? Huh. I uh, I guess I'm your stepbrother." He looked to the girl beside him. "This is my girlfriend, Beru."

"Hello," Beru said with a tentative wave. She smiled softly at Artie and Padmé. Artie mellowed her scowl and managed a smile. She liked Beru's hair—it was secured into two elaborate knots near the back of her head.

"I'm Padmé," the senator said in her most diplomatic voice, reaching to shake Beru's hand. Artie did the same.

"Artie," she said, hoping her forced grin did not seem too insincere. It was difficult, seeing as she could feel Anakin practically imploding with anxiety beside her.

"I had a feeling you might show up one day," Owen said, squinting against the scathing sunset. In another world it could have been an innocent remark, but one got the idea that Owen would like to tack "with your problems" on the end of his statement. It was certainly not lost on Anakin.

"Is my mother here?" he asked again, shorter. Angrier.

"No," a deeper, older voice broke in from the same doorway Owen and Beru had come through. "No, she's not." A man of about fifty joined them, gliding out on a hover chair. Artie watched him approach and realized with some alarm that he was missing a leg, and it looked freshly gone. The other was swollen and heavily bandaged. Blood stained them both. "Cliegg Lars," the man said, and Artie decided he must be Owen's father. He did not offer a handshake or even a smile, but Artie could not say she blamed him; even as he introduced himself, his face twisted in pain. "Shmi is my wife—I assume you're her boy the Jedi took." He sighed heavily, eyes trailing Anakin grimly. "You all should come inside. We have much to talk about."

• • •

"THEY CAME JUST BEFORE DAWN," CLIEGG SAID HOARSELY ONCE THE SIX OF THEM were inside and gathering around a small dining table. The fit was tight—Artie was very squished between Padmé and Anakin—but no one mentioned it. No one dared say a word. "Out of nowhere. I've never . . . I've never seen anything like it."

"Who came?" Anakin demanded.

"Hunting party," Cliegg sighed. He sounded heartbroken, to say the least. "Tusken Warriors. Your mother had gone out early, like she always did, to pick the mushrooms that grow on the vaporatos. From the tracks, she was about halfway when they took her." Anakin's fear skyrocketed, a burning beacon through his entire body. It was enough to physically sway Artie, and his emotions seeped into hers; all his terror and fury became just as much her own. Cliegg went on, "Those Tuskens walk like men, but they're vicious, mindless monsters. Thirty of us went after her . . . four of us came back. Three more are still out there looking, and I'd be with them, only . . ." he shifted uncomfortably and glanced miserably at what stump remained of his leg. "I just couldn't ride anymore. Not . . . not until I heal." Cliegg shut his eyes for a moment, letting go another desolate sigh. "This isn't the way I wanted to meet you, son—this isn't how your mother and I planned it. I . . . more than anything, 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."

There was an uneasy silence. Owen and Beru offered nothing. Padmé was dumbstruck, staring at Cliegg with dark eyes flooded by horror and pity. And Anakin . . . Anakin sat, smoldering, his eyes blue discs of fire that burned, burned, burned. Artie couldn't speak. She was afraid, yes, but she pinpointed the fear and found it was her own. She feared, like a child fears the dark, the shadow that fell over Anakin's face. It belonged to something inhuman. He rose from his seat.

"Where are you going?" Owen demanded, shrinking away slightly as Anakin's stare found him.

"To find my mother," he said. His voice was impossibly calm. Unnaturally steady. The plainest warning he could give. Cliegg did not protest, and Anakin stalked soundlessly out of the homestead.

Again, no one spoke. The only sound was the thrum of the pulsing vaporators. Artie's mind raced, heart wild in her chest like a caged, feral creature. She couldn't let him go. Something terrible would happen if she let him go. Blind with fear, Artie shot to her feet.

Padmé grabbed her wrist. "Artie—"

She wrenched herself away. Gracelessly, she climbed over Padmé and bounded after Anakin, thoughts ringing with a single command.

Do not let him fulfill this ambition.

note.
ok that was both the longest and saddest chapter ever. Who read this far? Gosh, this is over 2000 words. Well, anyway, I love love love you all and I hope you enjoyed!