Chapter Text
Anakin Skywalker feels like it isn't very Chosen One of him to feel queasy after throwing himself through space and time.
Admittedly, he isn't sure what would be very Chosen One of him. He had never been given an instruction booklet, or even one of the little pamphlets like he had been given when assigned Ahsoka the first time (Togruta Biology and you: a Galactic Guide to Girlhood, Volume 216). The closest he got to an idea of what was happening was his mother's bedtime stories, and the cryptic rambling of the Daughter, a Force Goddess he had been heavily involved in murdering- oh, ten lifetimes ago, now?
Her dagger (shortsword, really) was heavy at his hip as he looked around. Inexplicably, it was still decorated with old blood, which was not helping the stomach problems. He kept thinking of other deaths he had caused - lightsabers didn't leave bloodstains, but that hardly helped him feel better.
The rain did, though.
Anakin was a desert child at heart. He threw his head back and felt the water hit bare skin, soak his clothes, drip down his synthleather boots. His entire body feels strange, not quite his yet. The water soothes the prosthetic port on his arm, which has the gentle sting of a long days use, and slides off the Mortis Sword without appearing to dislodge any of the ghostly godly blood on it, which he is resolutely ignoring. He closes his eyes for a second, figuring the Force will tell him if someone is coming to murder him right this minute.
He could deal with where he ended up - some sort of landing pad outside a nondescript metallic building - whenever the rain stopped.
Or when someone comes to bother him. Kriff, couldn't immortality come with some kind of break?
He opens his eyes as he feels the approaching ball of fear-anger-stubbornness. Part of the plain metal paneling slides open, and a tiny blond humanoid rockets out. The kid rushes towards the hanger exit - more specifically, a stack of crates piled beside the exit - and stops dead upon seeing Anakin. At some point in his life, he'd really like to become the kind of being that people looked at without any sort of terror.
“Hi, kid.”
The kid snaps to attention, but doesn't speak. The door opens again, and two beings step through at a much more sedate pace. One is thickly armored in red, with a rather overkill looking slugthrower over their back, while the other is-
Kaminoan. Great.
“67, you know this area is off limits,” said the Kaminoan, in soft and emotionless tones. It made the scar tissue over Anakin’s heart itch.
“Come out, runt. This is against procedure and you know it.” The child finally moves when this voice filters out, heavy with vocoder static. They- and now that Anakin is looking for it, he can see the clone facial features hidden under the baby fat- close their eyes, lip wobbling. They feel resigned.
“It's standard procedure to terrify children?” asks Anakin, mildly. Any Jedi could've told him that his mild voice was the most dangerous - he was thinking, plotting, in control. A fiery Anakin was easily defeated. It was Darth Vader’s ice that was truly worth fearing.
The armoured figure - a Mandalorian, fabulous - moves their hand to hover over their blaster. The Kaminoan’s face doesn't change by any metric Anakin can see, but he can feel distaste.
The Mando cocks his head. “Are you the new trainer the Prime notified us of?”
“Sure am,” lied Anakin. “And if I'm going to train these kids, you're going to tell me why exactly this one is so terrified.”
The Mandalorian is sizing him up. Anakin knows, and can't quite decide how to feel about it. It had been a long time since he'd been sized up, rather than folk just knowing who he was and acting accordingly. He decides he rather likes it, and grins. He feels like the Sons fangs are resting against his lips. He feels like Vader's life support system is dragging down his jaw. He feels like his own blood is in his mouth.
“I don't believe it. Why would Jango choose you?”
“Would you like to test me?”
The Mando scoffs. Anakin throws off his overcloak, and is slightly relieved to realise he’s wearing a training outfit below it that moves smoothly with him. It doesn't look like anything he had ever owned on first glance, but that's probably for the best, given that he's hanging around with a bunch of Mandalorians raising an army against the Jedi.
The Mando moves closer. They're ten paces apart, now. His hand is still over his blaster. Anakin reaches for the Mortis dagger, and the Mando laughs, loud and cold. “Do you think you can beat a blaster with a child's knife?”
Anakin shrugs. Admittedly, he'd like a blaster, but he was mostly thankful whatever mystical Force (ha) transported him here left him with a working prostheses. “Do you think you're capable of anything without a blaster to hide behind?”
The Mando didn't respond. The kid visibly grimaced.
Anakin judges them six paces apart, and charges.
Time always seemed to slow down when Anakin was fighting. He got two paces in before the Mando was able to raise his blaster and fire. He dodged left - his opponent was right handed - and covered another pace and a half in a hail of blasterfire before the Mando was too close to fire accurately. He threw himself forward as the Mando produced a vibroknife from his right gauntlet.
Now within arms reach of each other, Anakins smile was distinctly meaner. “How do you like my odds now?”
The Mando growled, and dived for his gut. Anakin let him, slicing at the joints between his leg armour as the mando failed to conserve his momentum and dove past where Anakin had been.
The Mando hissed like a wet cat, and Anakin smiled. He could see it now, how the fight would end. The Mando would fall trying to to turn back around, and Anakin would get him in the gap between his helmet and his chest armour, and with a little twist-
Anakin stopped. The mando was on one knee, looking up at him. “Not planning to finish the job?”
“Don't think I need to. I'm fast, I'm sly, and I hit like a truck. You got crew quarters around here somewhere, or should I try painting a map in blood?”
The Mando struggled to his own feet, ignoring his outstretched hand. He limped towards the door, cocking his head at the Kaminoan, who had watched all this without any emotion. As Anakin passed by, they went for the child.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I've no idea what kind of operation you're running here, but I know that kid is terrified. He comes with me.”
“Sentiment won't get you very far in this place, Mister-”
“Skywalker,” said Anakin, before he could think better of it. Kriff. Wasn't there some sort of secret Mando code to tell people to butt out of your past? He didn't know it if there was. He wished he could ask Obi-Wan- sure, his old master was alive right now, but a random comm for information would go over poorly.
“That's a slave name,” the Mando said. He seemed to be sizing Anakin up again. He wished he wouldn't. One of these days, he'd manage to be anonymous for more than five minutes without screwing everything up.
“Yes.”
“That explains why you think the product are people.”
“I think that because I'm not an asshole. Want me to cut your other kneecap?”
“Not particularly,” said the Mando. He seemed dismissive now, in the falsely casual way of one who knows they cannot win the argument and has decided not to try. “I'll take you to the trainers cabins. You can argue with the quartermaster yourself about the pet.”
Anakin went to place his hand on the kid's shoulder, but paused before the little one had time to do more than stiffen. He recognised that stubborn jaw, those resigned eyes. “You hurt, or can you keep up on your own?”
“I'm fine,” said Rex.