Anakin's eyes fluttered open to the dim glow of the twin suns filtering through the tattered curtains. He felt the weak, unsteady pulse of his infant body as his tiny lungs drew in the stale air of the slave quarters. It was a frustratingly feeble vessel for the mind that stirred within—a mind that burned with ambition, strategy, and an unrelenting will.
So small… so weak, he thought, his infant mouth unable to form the words. It was maddening. His once-powerful presence, capable of commanding fleets and bending the Force to his will, was trapped inside a body barely able to lift its own head.
But the Force—his Force—was still there. He could feel it, pulsing faintly around him like a forgotten melody. It was not gone; it was dormant. Waiting for him. Like an old friend.
Days passed, and Anakin adapted to his infantile limitations. He observed Shmi, his gentle and kind-hearted mother, as she worked tirelessly to keep their lives bearable. Her love was a balm to his frustrations, yet every time Watto barked orders or sneered at her, a flicker of rage threatened to boil over. He had no patience for injustice, especially against her.
It was during one of Watto's fits that Anakin decided to test the Force.
Watto's voice was a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the small home. He waved a stubby finger in Shmi's face, scolding her for some minor error. Anakin, cradled in the corner, concentrated. He focused on the emotion—the anger at seeing his mother berated. It was a small thing, but it was his.
The Force responded.
A ceramic pot on the shelf behind Watto trembled. Anakin gritted his nonexistent teeth, his tiny hand twitching. The pot lifted an inch, then two, before it wobbled precariously in the air. With a flick of intent, he sent it hurtling toward Watto's head.
The Toydarian squawked in surprise as the pot shattered against him, shards raining down like a small storm. Watto buzzed angrily, spinning to find the culprit, but Shmi's nervous apologies distracted him. Anakin smirked internally, even as his body sagged from the exertion.
The effort drained him quickly, and sleep claimed him soon after.
As the weeks turned into months, Anakin pushed his infant body to its limits. His movements were clumsy, his coordination nonexistent, but his mind was sharp. He experimented with small bursts of telekinesis, rolling objects across the floor or nudging tools from their shelves. Each success built his confidence, though the toll on his underdeveloped body was severe.
When he wasn't practicing, he schemed.
The slave chip. It was the key to everything. As long as it remained embedded in their bodies, neither he nor Shmi could escape Tatooine. He studied Watto's shop, memorizing the patterns of its security, the tools on its shelves, and the visitors that passed through. He would need a scanner—something small, portable, and capable of locating the chip. Then he would need a way to disable it.
But he couldn't act too soon. His body was still too frail, too uncoordinated. Instead, he focused on the Force, drawing on its power to accelerate his progress.
Anakin meditated often, or as much as an infant could. Lying in his makeshift crib, he reached out with his mind, feeling the ebb and flow of the Force around him. He experimented with both the Light and Dark sides, testing their limits and his own.
The Light came easily. It soothed him, like a warm embrace, and made his connection to Shmi even stronger. But the Dark… the Dark was intoxicating. It promised power, strength, and freedom from his chains. He felt its whispers, encouraging him to take what was rightfully his.
But his body was weak, and the strain of drawing on the Dark Side left him exhausted. More often than not, his experiments ended in him passing out, leaving Shmi to fret over his constant sleeping.
Anakin's mind burned with ideas, plans to augment his body and increase his power. He had recalled ancient rituals, whispered about in holocrons and forbidden texts.
The Zabrak trials on Dathomir—their brutal challenges could harden him into a warrior. The Nightsisters' dark magic could enhance his connection to the Force. The Mandalorian rites of passage offered unmatched combat training, while the Wookiees' coming-of-age rituals could build his strength to unparalleled levels.
But he would need to escape first.
He envisioned constructing tools from scavenged parts to remove the slave chip. Once free, he would leave Tatooine, seeking out the knowledge he needed to grow stronger. He even practiced swinging a stick telekinetically, simulating lightsaber forms to build muscle memory. His movements were crude, but they would improve with time.
Every step brought him closer to his goal.
Anakin's days were filled with quiet rebellion and relentless preparation. He feigned helplessness, biding his time while he honed his abilities in secret. Shmi often watched him with concern, unaware of the storm brewing behind his innocent gaze.
He dreamed of freedom—not just for himself, but for her. He dreamed of power—not for destruction, but to ensure no one could ever harm them again.
As he lay in his crib one night, staring at the stars through a crack in the ceiling, Anakin felt something stir within him. The Force hummed softly, a promise of what could be.
He would rise. He would break free. And when he did, the galaxy would tremble before him.
For now, though, he waited. He waited and planned.
The Chosen One was coming.
AN: Liked it, got any suggestions on improvement, comment down below and give me them Powerstones, I'd appreciate it.