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Spiraling. Out of control.
The world tilted sideways. Then again. And again.
Anakin clung to the pilot’s chair as the ship spun, lights across the console flaring in wild bursts—red, white, red, blinking emergency after emergency. He mashed his palm against a series of switches, trying to reroute power, steady the damn descent, anything—but the controls were dead, fried, blinking in silent rebellion.
He barely had time to register the ground rushing up to meet him.
Impact.
Metal screamed—a shriek of tortured durasteel as the shuttle plowed through brush and rock, crashing like a meteor into the forest. Branches snapped like brittle bone, and something heavy struck the hull with enough force to send Anakin lurching sideways, shoulder slamming into the nav controls. The acrid stink of burning plastoid stung his nose.
No, not plastoid—wires. Something was on fire.
Sithspit.
Another bone-jarring crack—a tree caved in under the shuttle’s weight, and the ship lurched again. It tumbled with chaotic inertia, more metal ripping free, chunks of it flung like shrapnel into the wilds of the forest.
Anakin swore under his breath, one hand braced against the co-pilot seat, the other trying to push the console away, though it might as well have been fused to his ribs. The lights glared like dying stars in his face, casting sharp shadows over the cracked viewport.
Then—silence. Deafening in the aftermath.
The world stopped spinning. The ship didn’t.
It gave one last groan, a death rattle of a vessel far beyond repair, then collapsed into itself with a hiss of escaping steam.
Anakin slumped forward.
Head throbbing.
Vision dancing.
Blood pooled at his temple and crawled down into one eye, warm and sticky, turning everything rose-tinted. He blinked sluggishly, brain fogged. Every bone in his body ached like he’d been trampled by a gundark. At least three ribs were probably broken. Spine? Jury was still out.
This was not one of his better landings.
If Obi-Wan had been there, he would’ve made some scathing comment about Anakin’s piloting skills. Again.
Too bad he was going to kill him instead.
A shrill whistle cut through the smoke.
Anakin flinched hard, his nerves shot.
“Artoo?” His voice came out as little more than static—dry, cracked, like his throat had been lined with sand. It hurt just to speak.
The droid answered with a frantic series of beeps, wheeling through the debris, soot-streaked and battered but miraculously intact.
Anakin let his head drop back against the still-warm panel. The heat radiating from it singed his scalp through his tunic.
“Buddy,” he croaked, “you made it.”
Artoo whirred with a high-pitched beep that sounded, in Anakin’s foggy mind, suspiciously judgmental.
“I know,” Anakin sighed, ribs protesting with a sharp stab, “not my finest moment.”
The astromech let out a low, mournful chirp as he rolled toward the ruined controls, plugging in with a click. Sparks flew.
The communications panel sizzled, then died.
Artoo beeped once. Flat. Final.
Anakin slumped sideways with a grunt, dragging in a shaky breath. “Well,” he muttered, “looks like we’re on our own.” He braced himself against the hull and began dragging his body forward. His limbs felt like duracrete, and the motion sent electric shocks of pain through his shoulder and ribs.
The moment he reached the hatch and tried to pull it open manually, the ache in his body morphed into something molten. He trembled.
“C-can you get a m-message t-to Obi-Wan?” he asked, barely managing to form the words.
Artoo bumped him gently, the closest thing a droid could do to affection. Then he beeped twice—assurance—and rolled toward the exterior comms override.
Anakin’s vision blurred.
The sky outside was startlingly blue. Vibrant. Mocking.
Then it flipped sideways again.
He collapsed face-first in the dirt.
⸻
He awoke on a cot.
The sterile stink of medigel filled his nose.
Canvas stretched overhead, dim shadows playing along the seams—a Republic field tent. Outside, clone troopers were talking. Laughing. One of them howled something that got a chorus of groans in return.
Anakin didn’t care.
He felt like he’d been thrown from orbit.
Every breath tugged at his ribs. His chest was bound in clean white wrappings, tight enough to dull the sharp edge of pain but not enough to let him move freely. His stomach growled in protest, and he grit his teeth.
Pushing himself upright was a Herculean task. Arms trembling, body weak, he fought through the dizziness and managed to sit up halfway.
The flap rustled.
A familiar sound. A familiar sigh.
“Anakin,” came the exasperated voice, tired and worn like old leather. “What in the name of the Force am I going to do with you?”
Obi-Wan stepped inside, tunic stained from travel, beard a little more unkempt than usual, eyes shadowed like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked more like a man carrying the galaxy on his shoulders than a Jedi Master.
Anakin grimaced. “How’d you find me?” His voice rasped, throat still raw.
Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow. “You were broadcasting like a hyperspace beacon.”
Anakin blinked, not entirely understanding.
“Your presence in the Force,” Obi-Wan said, tone dry. “It was like being hit in the chest with a turbohammer. Artoo helped too—sent a distress ping just before your crash site fried the relay. But we would’ve found you regardless.”
Anakin let his head drop back against the cot. Stars danced behind his eyelids.
Obi-Wan’s expression softened—just a bit.
He moved to the edge of the cot and draped a blanket over Anakin’s shoulders. “You’re awake now. You’ll eat something. Then we’ll talk.”
With that, he left the tent.
Anakin blinked at the dim ceiling, pulling the blanket tighter. The wind bit through the seams of the canvas, sharp as daggers.
The ache in his chest hadn’t left.
But, for now, he was warm.