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The swamp fell silent, the hum of the newly balanced Force nexus fading into the background as Peter stared at Yoda, his mind reeling. For a moment, he wondered if he'd misheard—or if the cave's residual darkness was playing tricks on him. But Yoda's gaze was steady, his expression unflinching.
"The Chosen One, you are…"
The words echoed in Peter's skull, sharp and dissonant. He'd always known the Jedi treated him differently—their sidelong glances, the way they'd fast-tracked his knighthood despite his unorthodox methods, even the most 'by the book' Master's, like Windu, seemed to favor him. But this? This was beyond anything he'd imagined.
He barked out a laugh, the sound brittle and humorless. "You've gotta be kidding me."
Yoda's ears twitched, his expression unmoved. "Joke, I do not. The Chosen One, you are."
Peter's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his earlier calm shattered. "No. That's not how this works. The Chosen One is supposed to be—" He bit down hard on his tongue, stopping himself before he could blurt out 'Anakin.' The name hung unspoken in the air, sharp as a blade.
Yoda tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Supposed to be… what, Peter?"
'Shit.' Peter scrambled for composure, his mind racing. He couldn't explain the movies, the lore, the future he'd *seen.* Instead, he latched onto logic. "The prophecy says the Chosen One will be 'born of no father,' right? Well, guess what? I had a dad. He might have ditched us, but I still had one. Check your notes."
Yoda's gaze didn't waver. "Interpretations, many there are. 'Born of no father,' literal it may not be. A metaphor, perhaps—for one unshackled by tradition. Unbound by dogma. Or perhaps, in your case, abandoned by a father, hmm?"
Peter scoffed, pacing now, his boots sinking into the swamp's softened earth. "Oh, come on. You're stretching harder than a Wookiee in a yoga class. Since when do Jedi bend prophecies to fit their hopes?"
"Since hope, all we have left is," Yoda said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that gave Peter pause. The Grandmaster stepped closer, his cane sinking into the mud. "Centuries, the Jedi have sought the Chosen One. Studied the prophecy, we have. Vague, its words are. 'Through him, ultimate balance in the Force will come.' *How?* Know, we do not. But you…" He gestured to the cave, now radiating equilibrium. "Balance, you have brought. Not destruction—harmony. A power, this is, that no Jedi—no Sith—has ever wielded."
Peter froze, the truth of Yoda's words slicing through his defiance. The memory of purging the Sith shrine beneath the Temple flashed in his mind—the way the force had bent to his will, the light and dark intertwining like threads in a tapestry. And now Dagobah, a planet steeped in corruption, transformed by his mere presence.
But Anakin's face surfaced next—the boy's wide-eyed admiration, his hero worship, his trust. Peter had promised Shmi he'd protect him. If the Council turned their attention to Anakin, if they dragged him into their rigid world of codes and councils…
'He'll break. Just like he did before.'
Just as Peter was thinking this, Yoda suddenly said something that took him by surprise. "Lately, your apprentice the chosen one might be, we thought. But after today's miracle, certain I am, Peter, that you are the chosen one."
"What about Anakin?" Peter snapped.
Yoda's ears drooped slightly, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "Noticed, we have. A candidate, young Skywalker is. But you…" He tapped his cane against the ground, the mud squelching. "Born of two worlds, you are. Light and dark, you wield as one. The Force itself
breathes through you, Peter. Today, proof you have given."
Peter's jaw tightened. "So what? You're just… demoting him? Erasing him from your little prophecy checklist?"
"Protect him, you wish to," Yoda said softly, seeing through him instantly. "Fear his fate, you do."
The words hit like a punch. Peter turned away, his throat tight. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Yoda sighed, the sound weary. "Clouded, your mind is. But clear, your heart is. Love for the boy, I sense. Love, and fear." He stepped into Peter's line of sight, forcing him to meet his gaze. "But hide from destiny, you cannot. The Council's eyes, on Skywalker they have already turned. Suspect his potential, they do. Protect him from that, you cannot—unless accept your own role, you do."
Peter's breath caught. 'They know about Anakin. Of course they did. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan must have tested his blood somehow.' But if Yoda believed Peter was the Chosen One, if the Council would shift their focus…
The realization coiled in his chest, cold and heavy. He'd have to play along. To become the Jedi's savior, their prophecy-child, to keep their scrutiny off Anakin.
'Maybe being the Chosen One isn't so bad… if the Jedi don't make it their life's mission to complicate mine," he thought dryly. A beat later, it hit him: of course they would. Of course. But then, a flicker of resolve—'Fine. I've spent years trying to drag the Jedi out of their ways. Maybe now they'll actually listen.'
He met Yoda's gaze, his voice low. "Let me guess—this is an ultimatum. I play the Chosen One, and the Council leaves Anakin alone?"
Yoda's expression hardened. "An ultimatum, this is not. Truth, it is. Believe Skywalker to be the Chosen One, some Council members do. But after today…" He nodded to the cave. "Convince them, this will. You are the balance. You are the prophecy."
The swamp seemed to press in around them, the weight of Yoda's certainty suffocating. Peter closed his eyes, the faces of his crew, his lovers, his apprentices flashing behind his lids. Anakin's laughter echoed in his memory, bright and unburdened.
He opened his eyes, resolve hardening like durasteel. "Fine. You want me to be your Chosen One? I'll be your Chosen One. But Anakin stays with me. The Jedi doesn't touch him. Doesn't look at him. And if they do, I won't be responsible for what happens to anyone that steps out of line…"
Yoda studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head. "Agreed."
The word hung between them, a pact sealed in the mud and mist of Dagobah. Peter turned away, staring at the horizon where the first hints of dawn tinged the sky.
'What have I just signed up for?'
————
The shuttle ride back to Atlas was unnervingly quiet. Peter sat rigid in his seat, his gaze fixed on the retreating figure of Dagobah outside the viewport. Yoda, ever serene, meditated in the seat behind him, but Peter's mind churned like a storm.
'The Chosen One.'
The title clawed at him. He'd spent years sidestepping the Jedi's expectations, laughing off their cryptic nonsense. Now, it felt like a collar tightening around his neck. If only Yoda knew how absurd this all was—how the real Chosen One was a five-year-old currently learning to braid Groot's twigs in the Atlas's rec room.
But then, memories flickered: Anakin's mother, Shmi, pressing his hands to hers, her eyes desperate as she begged him to keep her son safe. The boy's laughter, bright and unburdened, as he raced through Atlas's corridors with Rocket and Lylla. The way he'd looked at Peter after his first lightsaber lesson, as if he'd hung the stars himself.
'If the Jedi or the Sith gets their claws into him…'
Peter's jaw tightened. He'd seen how that story ended—in fire and betrayal, a galaxy scorched by one man's fall. Anakin wasn't ready. But Peter? He could fake it. He could play the hero, the prophet, the myth, if it meant shielding the boy from that fate.
A bitter laugh escaped him. Yoda's ears twitched, but the Grandmaster said nothing.
'Maybe I'm not a fraud...'
The stray thought startled him. This universe had already diverged from the "lore" he remembered—Cybertronians, the Ancient One wielding the Force, him balancing dark and light like it was second nature. What if the prophecy here wasn't about bloodlines or fatherless births? What if it was about choices?
'What if it's about me?' He shook his head, clenching the armrests until the leather creaked.
No. Prophecies were bullsh*t, stories told by fools who thought the future was set in stone. But if playing along kept Anakin safe…
'Then I'll be the galaxy's worst Chosen One.'
————
The moment Atlas's hangar doors opened, Peter felt it—the crew's collective gaze, heavy with unease. They'd gathered in a loose semicircle: Natasha with her arms crossed, Mikaela fidgeting with her jacket zipper, Padmé's regal composure fraying at the edges. Even Rocket had paused his tinkering, a hydrospanner dangling forgotten in his paw.
"You feel… different," Natasha said bluntly, her sharp eyes scanning him. "Calm. Jedi calm, but… weirder."
Peter forced a grin, stepping off the shuttle ramp. "Calm's my middle name, Nat. Right after 'Dashing' and 'Handsome.'"
No one laughed.
Mikaela stepped forward, her brow furrowed. "The whole planet changed, Peter. The swamps—they're green now. Like, actually alive. What the hell did you do down there?"
Before he could deflect, Padmé cut in, her voice softer but no less urgent. "We felt it. A… shift. Like the air itself was holding its breath."
Peter glanced at Yoda, but the old Jedi had already slipped away, leaving him to explain everything alone.
"It's nothing," he said, shrugging. "Just a little Jedi spring cleaning. Yoda wanted me to—"
"Bullshit," Rocket snapped, tossing the hydrospanner onto a workbench. "Spill it, Quill."
Peter hesitated. "Ugh… well…"
————
While Peter was dealing with his crew's curiosity…
Far from the humid swamps of Dagobah, in a dark chamber deep within the capital of the Republic, Darth Plagueis jolted upright. His skeletal fingers clawed at the armrests of his obsidian throne, the sudden surge in the Force ripping through his meditation like a supernova. The air around him crackled, ancient Sith artifacts rattling on their pedestals as the dark side itself seemed to recoil—not in retreat, but in recognition of something new.
Balance.
The word hissed through his mind, venomous and alien. Plagueis's sunken eyes narrowed, their milky-white irises flickering with rare unease. The disturbance had been subtle at first, a tremor in the Force's endless void. But now, it pulsed like a heartbeat—steady, radiant, unifying. Light and dark intertwined in a harmony that made his very bones ache.
"Impossible…" he rasped, his voice like grinding stone.
He cast his awareness into the Force, tracing the disturbance's ripple back to its source—only to grasp shadows. The harder he pressed, the more it slipped away, like chasing smoke.
"Master?"
The hologram of Dooku flickered to life before him, the Count's image wavering slightly as he bowed. His voice carried a veneer of respect, but Plagueis sensed the tension beneath—the lingering humiliation of his recent failure, the simmering resentment.
Plagueis wasted no time. "The Clone Army. Accelerate its production."
Dooku blinked, caught off guard. "Master, the Kaminoans already work at maximum efficiency. To push them further would risk—"
"Risk?" Plagueis's voice cracked like a whip, the hologram distorting under the weight of his rage. Dark tendrils of energy coiled around the throne, hissing like serpents. "Do you feel it, Dooku? The shift? Our window narrows. The Republic must fracture now."
Dooku straightened, his pride prickling. "And what of the Jedi? If they uncover our plans—"
"Silence." Plagueis leaned forward, his pallid face looming in the hologram's glow. "Your repeated cowardice disgusts me."
For a moment, Dooku hesitated. Plagueis saw the questions in his eyes—'What has happened? What do you fear?'—but the Count knew better than to ask.
"It will be done," Dooku said stiffly.
"See that it is." Plagueis severed the connection with a flick of his hand, the hologram dissolving into static.
Alone again, he stared into the darkness, the echoes of the disturbance he felt gnawing at him. 'This is an aberration. A threat.'
But threats could be exploited.
A/N: 2017 words:)
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