Chapter Text
Discretion is a necessary trait a servant must possess. Thus, the news was whispered in her ear by a passing kitchenhand. There was a new slave in the palace. Gardulla had taken them off of some spice runners that had shorted her. Apparently they’d be moving down to the mechanic shop with her and the other barge-slaves. She let herself feel sympathy for a moment, always sorry for the unfortunate souls around her. Of the many hard lives one could helm in the galaxy, the slave of a hutt is one of the worst.
The next whisper came at mealtime from an old rodian who couldn’t remember what most of their life was like. They knew they had been happy, but when Shmi asked in the quiet hours of dawn, when the guards were still asleep or unattentive, they would trail a finger over the smooth skin of her baby’s cheek and shake their head, offering no answers.
They were the one who first saw the newcomer. The guards had dropped him, a human, at the rodian’s feet unconscious and told them to set him to work once he awoke. He was wearing a shock collar, an uncommon and expensive accessory reserved for the most unruly of Gardulla’s slaves. They were never worn long. The slave either learned their place, or a new use was found for them. Some of the guards kept massiffs that could always use some extra meat.
Shmi drifted toward the old rodian’s work area over the course of an hour, cautious eyes stuck to the guards letting sabacc hold their attention by the hangar doors. The old rodian watched her progress out of the corner of their eyes, nervous reproach for her curiosity written into their wrinkled flesh. She merely returned the gaze and shuffled a step closer, her hand moving to cup her sleeping child’s back in the sling across her chest. The rodian frowned, but pointed a wrench toward the slump of a body a few feet away.
He was young, younger even than Shmi herself. Freshly caught, given how the bruises peppered warm brown skin across his face and arms, covering thick muscle and a slight layer of healthy fat. Slaves did not have healthy fat.
His hair was thick, dark and curly, and it stuck to his sweat-slick forehead. His clothes were ripped, and stuck to his chest and back. One eye was swollen shut, and his lips were split and crusted over with dried blood and saliva. His breathing was coarse, and he looked to be in pain even while unconscious. Shmi resisted the urge to go to his side and soothe him.
She kept herself busy, twisting wiring here and there, partially assembling bits and pieces of machines she could get her hands on. It didn’t matter really what they were, she just needed to appear occupied. None of the guards knew what she was doing anyway. It was simply covering her continued observation of the newcomer.
It was nearing the first sunset, the sky coloring through the tiny windows above the garage doors, when he stirred. A quiet groan caught her attention, and she glanced down at him. He blinked an eye open and made an attempt to sit up. When he failed, he dropped back down to the garage floor with a groan, clutching his side with an arm. Shmi dropped to her knees, laying her arms across him to cease his movement with a quiet, soothing warning. He furrowed his eyebrows, squinting at her.
“ Tion’gar ?” He said, arms pushing defiantly against her grip.
“I don’t speak whatever language that is, but try to keep it quiet. We don’t want to alert the guards that you’re awake.” She whispered back in basic, flicking her gaze pointedly over her shoulder. He parsed out her meaning and craned an undoubtedly sore neck, and when he saw them, he nodded, his youthful face turning grim.
“Do you speak huttese?” She asked next.
“It’s passable.” He croaked. “Where am I?” Shmi frowned in sympathy.
“The garage under Gardulla the Hutt’s palace. I am sorry, newcomer. You’ve been enslaved.”
Shmi had seen many reactions to that sentence over her twenty years of life. It was usually some form of horror, or despair. The realization of such a change in one’s life, especially for the negative, had strong effects on people. The look that spread over this young man’s face, however, was like nothing she had ever seen before. She suddenly became very aware of why he was wearing the shock collar. Every inch of his body tensed, and she felt the overwhelming understanding that he was very dangerous, and very, very angry .
He ripped his arms away from her grip and moved to stand with a grunt and several hissed curses in a language she didn’t recognize, likely the same he’d spoken a moment ago. She rose hastily, putting her hands on his chest in an attempt to stop his movement toward the guards.
“Newcomer, no! They will hurt you, and you’re already injured!” She dug her feet into the sandy floor of the garage, leaning her weight against him. He didn’t stop moving, the strength of youth and athleticism more than enough to overpower her undernourished, overworked body. She glanced over her shoulder. The guards had not looked up yet, but she could see the control for the shock collar on the belt of a gamorrean. She grit her teeth and looked back at the young man, boy really, pushing against her.
“I’m sorry, but this is for your own good, newcomer.” She muttered to him, and when he met her eyes, she drove a fist into his side, right where he’d held it earlier. He barked in pain and folded, bending at the waist until his knees gave out and he fell at her feet. She dropped and grabbed his shoulders to keep him steady, glancing at the guards again. They did not look up.
“I know you’re angry, but if you attempt something right now, they will kill you. See that gamorrean? He has control of the shock collar around your neck. You try anything, and he’ll hit that button, and in your condition, I don't exactly give you a good chance of living. Don’t be stupid.” She hooked a finger under the device and gave it a tug for emphasis. He lurched forward with a small yelp and glowered at her. She returned the sentiment, meeting his eyes with a stubborn gaze of her own.
Their battle of wills was interrupted by a quiet coo. They both looked down at Shmi’s chest, where her child looked at the boy’s face with a mixture of concern and confusion. He blinked a few times, before grunting softly, lifting a tiny hand, and reaching for the boy.
His anger melted off his face and surprise filled in the gaps. He offered up his hand without a word, and her baby took it, pulling it closer to his face to inspect it carefully. After a few stunned seconds in which Shmi and the boy watched in silence, the child looked at his face, back at his hand, and then pressed a slobbery kiss to his palm. He turned back to the boy and cooed softly, a smile and breathy giggles showing his gums.
This was more effective than anything Shmi could've thought of. The boy’s breath hitched, and he softened, all the power and anger coiled in his muscles falling away. His eyes stayed on her baby and glazed over simultaneously, and they flickered around the child's face lethargically. His mind saw more than just a little slave's son with an open mouth of gums holding his hand. How many different images flew across the inside of his eyes, she couldn't guess, but it was more than he had any reason to behold. He sagged against her grip, and she did her best to keep him upright. There was nothing else she could do for him.
“Shmi!” The old rodian hissed, and when she met their gaze, they jerked their head toward the guards. The winner of their latest round of sabacc was gleefully stuffing her pockets with loose credits and trinkets, while the owner of the cards shuffled them and put them away. The others stood with grumbles, stretching stiff joints and grabbing their prods and whips. The second sun had set, and it was time for the slaves to be put up.
“To your feet, newcomer. We cannot be vulnerable yet.” She whispered to him and pulled him up. He sniffed once and swiped a thumb under his swollen eyes, setting his jaw as the guards approached.
The daily procession to and from the slave quarters was a ritual of continuous submission. Shmi and the rodian drifted to either side of the newcomer, keeping him moving forward and preventing him from doing anything rash. The rodian elbowed him when his gaze drifted to a guard jabbing someone with a prod. It was best not to let him think he has any power here. He was stiff again, and simmering under his skin.
Shmi didn’t have a clue what had brought him to this unfortunate point in his life. Whatever it was, she was sorry for him. He was a warrior, without a doubt, though in her humble opinion, far too young to be looking at his surroundings with the kind of calculating, militant eyes he employed. The more she observed him through her periphery, the more scars she could make out on his skin.
They were old, some more than others. She couldn’t tell what had caused some of them, but the rest were clearly weapons. Blades, blasters, maybe others. Things that had cut and torn and burned his flesh. Some were marked with the evidence of care, the traces of flesh menders and even thread and needle stitches around the edges of a few larger marks. The signs of medical treatment calmed her a small amount. Someone had been watching his back, or at least helped stitch it shut when they didn’t. The apprehension toward whoever had raised this boy lessened slightly, though it didn’t fade entirely.
They reached the slave quarters. One of the guards moved forward to open the gate, and the rest of them started pushing their procession into the meager space. The boy was the only one who allowed a grunt to escape his lips when thrown to the ground with the rest of them. Shmi caught his hand under her own before he tried to rise again, using the point of resistance to meet his eyes. He glowered at her, but relaxed. The guards left with smirks on their faces.
Shmi held her breath until the gate clanged shut, and then released it, going limp on the floor with an exhale.
“I am sorry.” She muttered after a moment, gazing up at the ceiling above her.
“What?” The boy’s accented voice was clearer now without the fear of guards. It was gentle.
“You are here now, and it is not a fate I would wish on anyone. I am sorry that it has fallen to you.” There was a beat of silence, and she reached up to lay a hand over her child’s small back in his swaddle. The boy shifted to face her.
“Shmi, right?” He said instead of acknowledging her words. “I’m-.” She held up her hand abruptly.
“Your name is still your own, newcomer. Don’t give it up so easily.” He clamped his jaw shut and sat back, assenting.
“How old are you?” She muttered next, her free hand drifting to join its counterpart on her baby’s body.
“I’m 18 standard. You?” She heard him stand, exhaling slowly to balance what would’ve likely been a noise of pain.
“20. Roughly. I think.” The number was her best guess. It wasn't like she had any way of keeping track, or cared enough to try.
“Thanks.” His voice was further away now, and she pushed herself onto her elbows. He had moved across the room, and now stood by the door, inspecting the grate with a measured gaze and a light brush of his fingers.
“For?” She got to her feet and joined him, watching his activities with something more cautious than curiosity.
“Stopping me from doing something stupid.” He muttered, rubbing a small crack where the hardening of the metal had left a weak point. She nodded, brushing the pad of a finger over the same crack when he drifted to another area of the structure.
He knew what he was looking for, based on the way he moved along the door and surrounding wall. He paused in random intervals to tap at rusty metal or dark sandstone. Shmi felt pity seep in at the base of her chest. He was looking for an escape route.
“Well let me repeat the favor. You’re not going to find an exit. We’re under a mountain, and the furthest room from the surface. Even if you managed to get through the door, you’ve got the whole palace to fight through, and if you managed that too, Gardulla would just detonate your chip.” She flicked a small piece of flaking rust off of the door frame and followed the path he'd taken around the cell perimeter, stopping at his elbow. He paused, and she felt it more than saw it when he looked at her.
“What chip?" It was a question, but his voice was so flat and clipped it came out sounding like a statement. Shmi was so stunned by the inquiry that her surprise must've shown through on her face.
“I don’t know where you were, or what you were doing before you wound up here newcomer, but you have to know what a slave chip is.”
His hands dropped to his sides and twisted into fists tight enough for his knuckles to lose color. It had to hurt. His face turned away from her, and he drew his shoulders up around his face.
“Let’s just say my education was cut short unexpectedly.” The sound that escaped him was too throaty to be a hiss, but it was just as sharp, and she flinched away at his tone, instinctively wrapping her hands around her baby. He didn't apologize.
They stood in silence, and Shmi allowed her eyes to drift across the room. None of the other slaves were paying them any mind, aside from a handful of sympathetic head shakes or the odd disdainful sneer, too impatient with the interruption to empathize.
Most of the present slaves were in captivity their whole lives. Gardulla was not a patient being, and older catches were unruly, and harder to tame. Newly acquired slaves in her repertoire were either life-long slaves already, or below five years standard, and the hutt openly encouraged the breeding of her property. It was not always a choice. Guards would show up to the slave quarters sometimes, grab one of them, and disappear for a few hours. No one batted an eye. Shmi’s pregnancy didn’t raise any questions, only pity. Her own mind was not so easily pacified, because for all that she was aware of the way such things worked, she hadn’t been subjected to it in quite some time. Her son had no father.
The young newcomer didn’t possess the docility that her son will have; that those born and raised into slavery always had. There was clearly a fight in him, and a deep rage that Shmi feared, more fitted for cage fighting than garage detail. She’d only had a tiny glimmer of it, but the way he changed in the garage that evening, his body turning into something she wanted to run from… combined with the scars, whatever he’d done before his current situation must have been violent. No one with a peaceful life could become a weapon like that at the drop of a hat. She didn’t want to think about how deep that anger went.
“Where would a chip be?” He muttered, breaking her out of her thoughts.
“Well, got any new scars near important parts?” She asked bluntly, her hand drifting to the base of her child’s arm, where she knew his chip was. The newcomer snorted and gestured broadly to himself. Shmi snorted in response and tapped a gentle finger against the area where he’d been showing the most pain.His shirt was detailed with splotches of blood around the area. He winced and pulled away, cupping the wound with a quiet snarl. She let her face fall neutral and retreated, turning around to find a spot to lay in. Rest was sparse, and she desperately wanted some. Her departure was encouraged by a not-inconsiderable degree of apprehension toward his temper.
She did not fall asleep for a considerable time. First, her baby fussed until she tiredly adjusted her clothing to allow him a latch. Once he had quieted, she thought of the new boy.
He worried her. She'd always been more empathetic than was good for her.
She woke the next morning and scanned the area to find him. At some point in the night, he had sat down against the wall, and when the guards arrived before dawn, he jumped awake. He then swayed, put a hand against the wall, and vomited. Against her better judgment, Shmi broke away from the sparse grouping the slaves had started forming in preparation for the day. She steadied him with a firm grip on his arm and willed him to stand upright. He straightened and she allowed him to lean on her until they reached the group.
The old rodian came over and helped relieve the weight he was placing on her shoulder. After a few sharp breaths, he shook off both of them and stood on his own.
"You will stay with me, newcomer. You're assigned to work near me, and she will be close by." The rodian muttered before the guards threw open the gate with a clang and the group began filing out to start the work for the day.
Shmi and the rodian took up their positions on either side of him again, and they stayed near the center of the column, away from the slavers. It was initially meant to shelter the boy, but the more she stood near him, the more she saw his eyes, the more certain she was that it would be important to consider the physical integrity, let alone the lives of the slavers. He looked prepared to tear their throats out with his bare hands.
The garage was dark. A larger gamorrean Shmi was somewhat sure was named Foshtei elbowed a new guard she didn't recognize, and the slaver growled, slapping a hand onto the light paneling.
The lights overhead fizzled and came on, casting the parts-filled compound in a murky yellow. The gamorrean shoved the slaves through the door, and they all split apart, trudging to their work areas. Shmi and the rodian flanked the newcomer and steered him toward an area between them, giving mumbled instructions on the broken speeder in front of him. He swallowed, nodded, and got to work. They left him to it.
Shmi wasn’t able to get away with the same slack she could the day before. She would’ve finished her current assignment by noon yesterday if she was working at her normal rate, and that didn’t slip past Foshtei's notice. He was… passionate about his job. After a few minutes of work, she heard his heavy pants and pounding steps approaching her.
“That bike should’ve been done yesterday, filth.” His breath was hot on her face, and he stank. She did her best not to recoil.
“It needed more work than it looks like. The guidance was shot.” She muttered. He grabbed her cheeks and turned her face to his, hard.
“Funny. The soldering iron hasn’t been used in two days.” He grumbled throatily, his lips slick with spittle.
“It wasn’t salvageable. I had to find a replacement for the board.” She explained, her cheeks burning from the pressure of his thumbs.
“That runt slowing you down?” He grinned, his face turning down to her child, swaddled and tucked tightly against her chest. “I can take it off your hands for you. Might be good eating.” Shmi did not swallow, or draw her arms around the baby, no matter how desperately she wanted to.
“He isn’t. He’s been chipped already.” The great lump of a sentient frowned, his brows pulling down over his beady eyes, and shoved her face away. She let him, bringing her head around and tucking her chin into her chest.
“Shame. You know what they say. The younger, the more tender.” He grunted, stomping away with his hand on the whip at his hip.
Shmi waited a few beats, let out a breath, and turned around. Out of the corner of her eye, the newcomer stared. The way he held that hydrospanner turned her stomach over. His gaze flicked between her and Foshtei, unbridled fury tightening his shoulders like a screw about to pop. She met his eyes with a single shake of her head.
He grit his teeth and turned back to his speeder, the hydrospanner moving far more forcefully than was necessary. That aggression was unfortunate, but she had to acknowledge his restraint. She could practically feel how much he wanted to turn and beat the gamorrean’s skull in. Who had he been, that channeled so much anger? A soldier? Bounty hunter?
He wasn’t a guard of slaves at least. The guards weren’t so much skillful as they were well-fed and healthy, and really that’s all you needed to overpower a malnourished slave. Foshtei must’ve weighed four times Shmi, and could certainly kill her with ease. It didn’t take skill to activate a chip, or snap a scrawny neck.
No, the boy had skill, that much was clear. He was young, he was a combatant, he spoke at least three languages, and he was a handy mechanic. He strategized as well, if his careful analysis of their holding quarters was anything to go by.
Shmi briefly considered asking about it later, but decided against it. Your past is one of the only things you can truly keep for yourself, as is your identity, and your mind. It would be unfair to ask him to share his. She would support him a while, get him acclimated to his new situation, and they would part ways. A distant acquaintance, even a friendship, and that was all she could, would, ask of him.
The rest of the day passed slowly. Mealtime passed in a flash, dusk approached at a crawl, and when the first sun set, she welded the last panel of the bike shut and walked it to the other side of the garage to pronounce it finished. Foshtei grinned at her from across the complex, his lips pulling around his tusks. She looked down and returned to her station, putting her tools away quickly. The guards started rounding them up a moment later.
The old rodian took up position on the newcomer’s side again without a word. No one made eye contact, but Shmi felt the boy’s hand slip along her arm, giving it a brief squeeze, before releasing it again. She saved the smile until they were put away for the night.
The newcomer got used to things quickly. It only took four more days for the guards to deem him submissive enough to remove his collar. The skin underneath was raw, torn and bleeding in some areas when they removed it, and there was a massive bruise in a ring below where the device had sat. He was especially jumpy that night. Shmi tried to soothe him, and once he realized she was the one touching him, laid her cool hands on the inflamed area, offering what relief or comfort she could.
He asked questions sometimes. About her, about the slaves, Gardulla, the guards. She couldn't tell if it was simple curiosity or planning. Either way, she answered as best she could.
"Why do y-, we, why do we hide our names?" He asks one night, leaning into the brush of her hands, chilled by poor circulation, pressing around the site of a throbbing burn wound on his shoulder blade she couldn't ascertain the cause of.
"We are slaves. We can have no personal property, so we hold on to what we have: our minds, our names, and our pasts."
"Oh." He said quietly. She could see him turn the answer over in his mind, pick it apart and file it away. Whatever his past was, it certainly wasn't sabaac. His thoughts and feelings flowed across his skin, clear for the world to read. She may have thought it was endearing in a different scenario, when they were different people.
"I'm sorry your name isn't a secret anymore." He mumbled after his pause. She just smiled with melancholy and shook her head. She’d made peace with it long ago. They laid in silence until sleep overtook them.
The newcomer and her baby got along well. She would feed the child in the evening, and then the boy would offer to hold him for a while, to give her a break. She was hesitant the first time, but after the baby had practically fallen out of her hands to get to him, she allowed it. It was a good choice. The child, whose name she was thinking would be Anakin, delighted in the boy, and they would play games while Shmi relaxed for a few minutes. They formed it into a bit of a routine over the following days. They’d walk with the old rodian to and from the garage, gently soothe each other's small injuries from the day, the newcomer would ask a few questions, and then he would take Anakin for a few moments while she watched.
Her earlier assumptions of a military past were confused by his ease and quick ability with Anakin’s care. He knew what games and exercises would be stimulating to play with him, and when Shmi asked about them, he explained with ease and certainty. A warrior, fluent and naturally skilled with child rearing, too much so to be an older brother, but too young to be an experienced father. It was a mystery, and she was too curious about it for her own good. Any ideas that fluttered to the surface of her mind soured in her gut, and she wouldn't bring herself to ever ask him.
Several weeks into their new system, and nearly two months into their acquaintance, the newcomer laid down next to her in the dark. She turned over and adjusted Anakin against her body, relaxing him into the new position. He met her eyes, and she waited for him to speak, sensing the words that were buzzing under his skin. In the end he only said one.
“Shmi?” It was soft, and he said it quietly enough that she was the only one to hear.
“Yes.?”
“Can I tell you my name?” She tensed. She searched his face, trying to find an explanation. She’d explained how personal that information was, several times. What was his motive for asking this?
“I- I want you to know it.”
“Why? It is-”
“One of the only things I can keep for myself, I know. I just,” he sighed and looked away, his teeth catching his lower lip. “You’ve shared so much with me. You’ve helped me get used to all this, told me about the chips, let me hold your child, osik , you probably saved my life within seconds of first speaking with me. You didn’t get to keep your name from me, and I think you deserve to know mine.”
Shmi sat up, opened her mouth, then shut it. Opened it again. Shut it again. Her mind was blank. She was stunned. Then, after a moment of silent processing, her emotions came flooding in. Apprehension, gratitude, flattery, and dare she say affection poured into her, and her heart swelled in her chest.
"Newcomer, once you tell me, you can't take it back. That is a monumental choice to make, an incredible gift." Anakin squirmed in her arms, a small whine indicating a reaction to the torrent of her feelings.
The boy chewed on his lip again, and his gaze drifted to the tuft of blond named Anakin in her arms. She saw when he set his mind to it.
"Jango. My name is Jango."
Tears welled in her eyes and slid down her face. They dropped off, hitting her skirts and the sand below them with quiet 'paps'.
“Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I’m sorry Shmi, oh no.” Jango sat up quickly and cupped her cheeks without a second thought, wiping away the tears with his calloused thumbs. Concern and regret were written blatantly in the furrow of his brow and corners of his frown.
She sobbed once and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him, and sandwiched Anakin’s little body between them. The baby whined again, then relaxed into the cocoon of warmth. Jango tensed, and then returned her embrace, squeezing the sides of her smaller shoulders firmly. She sniffled against his neck, and they held each other for some time.
At some point, they detangled and laid down again, facing each other. Shmi sniffled a few times, and Jango returned his poor lip to its abuse between his teeth beside her. Anakin cooed in his sleep. They came down from the emotional high, and reluctantly, unfortunately, eventually let sleep take them out of the moment.
If any of the other slaves had been awake to witness their exchange, they didn’t make light of it the next morning. The old rodian smiled at their mutual good mood when they grouped together, but did not ask them any questions. Shmi was glad for it. She wanted that moment for her own, to hold in her heart next to Anakin’s, and now Jango’s name. She had a new possession, a gift, and it meant the world to her.
The day went quickly. Foshtei lumbered his way into Jango's area later in the afternoon and managed to hit him across a wound on his back, but the anxiety of the rest of the time they were working was very soon swamped that night by larger worries.
As soon as they got back, Shmi tugged at his shirt, muttering about the blood spotting where Foshtei had hit him. Jango nodded and turned around, pulling the piece off with a slight shiver. Shmi wandered over to their usual little area and sat down with a sigh.
“Shmi?” His voice was a whisper, hesitant and just pitching into concern. “Do they let us have solid blades in the garage?”
“Hmm?" She hummed in response, folding her legs on the floor to rest Anakin against.
“I think I found my chip.” Her neck snapped toward him, and she looked up to see him with his shirt under his arm, pulling his skin taut over a map of scars, bruising, and a subtle blinking light below the surface of a festering wound on his ribs. His face betrayed a wave of frustration, and just the tiniest hint of panic.