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Chapter Text

The twin suns of Tatooine scorched the dunes, their relentless heat baking the cracked adobe of Mos Espa’s slave quarters into a fragile shell. Survival here was a daily act of defiance, a dance with dust and despair. Anakin Skywalker, a wiry five-year-old with sun-bleached hair and eyes too sharp for his tender years, wove through the market’s chaotic pulse. Stalls overflowed with scavenged wares—rusted droid parts, spiced meats, and the sharp tang of engine oil—while shouts and bartering clashed with the hum of swoop bikes. A stolen hydrospanner, cool against his palm, was his prize today, snatched from a distracted vendor’s table. A restless buzz thrummed in his chest, sharper than the usual hum of the desert, as if the sands whispered trouble. He was late—Mom would worry—but the hope of seeing Qui-Gon quickened his steps, driving him past the leering glances of slavers and the clatter of a collapsing stall.

Qui-Gon had been their secret for nearly a year, a shadow in their dusty existence since he’d seen Anakin race. It was a backwater podrace, a deadly affair far from Boonta Eve’s grandstands, held in a canyon where jagged rocks claimed more lives than skill. Anakin, barely four, had piloted a jury-rigged pod—cobbled from scavenged thrusters and a salvaged engine—through the twists, weaving past fiery crashes with a precision no human should possess. Qui-Gon, cloaked in the stands, had felt the Force surge around the boy, a wild current that lingered in his dreams. Since then, he’d slipped into their hovel under dusk’s cover, teaching Anakin to shield his mind with quiet exercises, his voice a steady anchor. Shmi watched these lessons with wary hope, her hands twisting a rag, her gaze occasionally drifting as if catching echoes beyond the room.

That afternoon, as Anakin approached home, the hum of voices drew him to pause at the hovel’s warped door. Inside, Qui-Gon’s low timbre mingled with Shmi’s softer tones. He pressed his ear to the crack, catching fragments. “Shmi, the boy’s power grows. We must discuss Clovis—he’s a threat from your past,” Qui-Gon began, his voice gentle yet probing. “Tell me… is Clovis his father?” Shmi’s breath hitched, a shudder running through her, and her eyes flickered toward the horizon, as if sensing a distant storm. “No, none of them were. Ani came to me in a way I can’t explain—something beyond the men they forced on me, a light in the dark. The Hutts made me sleep with Clovis, a cruel man they used to break me, and others like him, all harsh and vicious. But Ani… he’s different. Kind, pure, not tainted by their cruelty.

He’s a gift, Qui-Gon, not their spawn.” She paused, her voice dropping. “Lately, I’ve felt a weight, a pull from somewhere else—not Clovis, but something greater, closing in.” Qui-Gon nodded slowly, his tone softening. “I sense it too—a force beyond us. But Clovis tried to claim him once, didn’t he? As if he had rights?” Shmi’s voice hardened. “Yes, he did. Thought he owned us both. I thought he was gone, but the Hutts’ shadow lingers. If he returns, I’ll fight.” Qui-Gon’s response was firm. “I’ll stand against him. But Ani’s destiny—it pulls him beyond this sandpit.” Shmi’s sigh carried a mother’s ache. “I can’t lose him, Qui-Gon. Not to that monster, not to whatever looms out there.” Anakin lingered, the name “Clovis” and her strange words etching into his thoughts, a shadow he couldn’t name, before slipping inside with a grin to hide his unease.

The day wore on with small comforts—Anakin tinkering with a broken droid arm, its gears clicking under his small fingers, while Shmi hummed an old lullaby, her voice faltering as her gaze drifted to the window, as if tracking an unseen presence. The Toydarian’s ownership hung over them like a storm cloud, Watto’s gruff demands echoing from the shop as he haggled with a Jawa trader. Shmi’s hands paused over her mending, her brow furrowing as a chill seemed to settle despite the heat, a sign Anakin noticed but couldn’t grasp. But as evening fell and the suns dipped low, that shiver deepened, a silent tremor she couldn’t shake. She called Anakin inside, her voice tight. “Stay close, Ani.” He frowned, sensing her fear in the way her hands clenched, her eyes searching the darkening sky. “Something’s coming, not just Clovis,” she murmured, more to herself than him, but before he could ask, a sharp knock rattled the door. Three strangers stood outside, their robes stark against the cooling sand, their faces hidden in shadow. “We’ve come for the boy,” the lead one said, his tone cold and unyielding. Shmi’s eyes flared with defiance. “He’s not yours to take. Leave us be.”

Anakin ducked behind a crate, heart hammering against his ribs, as their voices clashed. “He’s too dangerous to remain,” another snapped, the words clipped. Shmi’s reply was a fierce whisper: “I won’t let you tear him from me!” The air thickened—Anakin peeked through a gap, seeing only shifting shadows and flashes of light that danced on the walls, their forms a blur in the dimness. Shmi’s sudden cry sliced through him, a sound of pain and resistance, and a wave of terror erupted from his core. The hovel shuddered, walls cracking with a groan, dust swirling like a sandstorm. Screams pierced the chaos, then fell silent, and Anakin’s vision swam, the memory fracturing into jagged pieces.

His mind reeled, the buzz in his chest fading to a hollow void. He didn’t know what had happened, only that Mom was gone, her absence a gaping wound. Hours later, as the twin moons cast a pale glow over the wreckage, the surviving stranger returned, his face pale and drawn beneath a hood. He dug through the rubble, pulling Anakin from the debris, the boy limp and unresisting as a cloak was draped over his shoulders.

Locals gathered, their murmurs a soft tide against the night. The stranger spoke in hushed tones, his hands trembling despite his steady voice. “It was Clovis,” he said, holding up a tarnished medallion—an old Hutt-allied sigil, glinting faintly in the moonlight, planted amid the chaos. “He came for revenge, a shadow from her slave days. The woman fought, but the house collapsed. I’ll take the boy to safety.” The locals nodded, their whispers weaving a story of vengeance, the lie taking root like sand in the wind. The stranger lifted Anakin, carrying him into the shadows, toward a fate shrouded in mystery. The boy’s power… it changes everything, the stranger thought, a flicker of doubt in his mind as the desert swallowed them.

Chapter Text

The Jedi Temple rose above Coruscant's sprawl like a monument to serenity, its spires catching the morning sun in a wash of gold and white. Inside, the halls hummed with the measured pace of meditation and discipline, the air thick with incense and the muted shuffle of robes. Anakin Skywalker, twelve years old and already taller than most Padawans his age, walked those halls with a tension that never quite left his shoulders. His sandy hair, longer than the traditional crop, fell across eyes that darted to corners and shadows—old habits from Tatooine's slave quarters, where watching meant survival. Seven years in the Temple hadn't smoothed those edges; if anything, the marble floors and vaulted ceilings made the itch worse, like wearing boots two sizes too small.

He passed a cluster of Masters near the meditation gardens, their voices low but urgent, and slowed his pace just enough to catch fragments. "—another one left last week," a Twi'lek Master murmured, her lekku twitching with irritation. "Padawan Tyrell. Disappeared in the night. No note, nothing."

"Qui-Gon's doing," another replied, a human with a graying beard and a scowl etched deep into his face. "His lies spread like rot. We need to increase surveillance on the younger ones—catch the doubts before they fester."

The Twi'lek sighed. "How many does that make now? Fifteen? Twenty?"

"Too many." The bearded Master's tone hardened. "The Council meets today to discuss containment. We can't let his heresy hollow us out from within."

Anakin kept walking, their words trailing him like smoke. Qui-Gon. The name surfaced often in Temple whispers, always tinged with venom, always followed by warnings. Heretic. Traitor. Defector. But Anakin remembered a different Qui-Gon—a tall man with kind eyes and a deep voice, sitting in their hovel on Tatooine, teaching him to quiet his mind while Mom watched with that careful hope she wore like armor. That Qui-Gon hadn't seemed like a villain. But then, seven years was a long time, and memory could lie.

He turned a corner toward the training halls, where Obi-Wan Kenobi would be waiting. His master. The word sat wrong in Anakin's mouth, too formal, too cold for what should've been a bond. Obi-Wan was dutiful, precise, and distant as the stars. Their lessons felt less like guidance and more like corrections, a constant litany of too fast, too reckless, too much. Anakin had stopped asking why years ago. The answer was always the same: Control yourself. This is the way.

The training hall was empty except for Obi-Wan, who stood near the center mat, arms crossed, his brown robes immaculate. His auburn hair was neatly trimmed, his beard precise, and his expression carried the weight of a man who'd learned to bury softness under duty. He didn't smile when Anakin entered—hadn't in months, maybe longer.

"You're late," Obi-Wan said, voice clipped.

Anakin bit back the retort that he'd been on time, that the Masters' conversation had delayed him. "Sorry, Master."

Obi-Wan's gaze flicked over him, assessing, and found something lacking. "Your focus has been scattered lately. I can feel it in your forms, in your meditation. You're distracted."

"I'm fine," Anakin said, moving to the mat, igniting his training saber with a snap-hiss. The blue blade hummed, a familiar weight in his hand.

"You're not." Obi-Wan ignited his own saber, green light casting sharp shadows across his face. "Again. Form III, defensive sequence. And this time, think before you move."

They began, the clash of blades filling the silence. Anakin moved through the forms—parry, deflect, counter—but his mind wandered, dragged back to the fragments that had haunted his sleep for weeks now. Flashes of darkness, of voices he couldn't place, of his mother's scream cutting through the night. He stumbled, his guard dropping for a heartbeat, and Obi-Wan's blade snapped toward his shoulder, stopping a hair's breadth from contact.

"Dead," Obi-Wan said flatly, deactivating his saber. "What's wrong with you today?"

Anakin lowered his blade, chest heaving. The question hovered on his tongue, the one he'd asked a hundred times in a hundred ways, always met with the same cold wall. But today, the fragments felt sharper, more insistent. "Master... I've been having dreams. About my mother."

Obi-Wan's jaw tightened, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. "Dreams are the mind's way of processing what it cannot release. You know this."

"I know, but—" Anakin hesitated, searching for words that wouldn't sound like madness. "They don't feel like just dreams. They feel... real. Like memories, but wrong. Pieces that don't fit what I was told."

"Then let them go." Obi-Wan's voice sharpened, each word precise as a scalpel. "Dwelling on the past, clinging to what's gone—this attachment you insist on nurturing—it's dangerous, Anakin. It clouds judgment. It leads to suffering."

"I just want to understand—"

"Understand what?" Obi-Wan's control slipped, frustration bleeding through. "She's dead. You were five. The trauma fragmented your memories—that's normal. But picking at those wounds, trying to reconstruct what you can't remember, that's not the Jedi way. That's..." He paused, visibly reining himself in, but the next words came out bitter, loaded. "That's exactly the kind of thinking that led Qui-Gon Jinn astray."

The name hit like a slap. Anakin stared at his master, the training saber suddenly heavy in his hand. "Qui-Gon? What does he have to do with—"

"Everything." Obi-Wan deactivated his saber, clipping it to his belt with a sharp motion. "He was my master once, and he taught me that sentiment, that attachment to people and places and feelings, was more important than the Code. He let his emotions dictate his choices, and it destroyed him. He's exiled now, disgraced, peddling lies to anyone foolish enough to listen. And you—" He pointed at Anakin, the gesture almost accusatory. "You're walking the same path. These questions about your mother, this refusal to let go—if you're not careful, you'll end up just like him."

Anakin's chest tightened, anger and confusion warring beneath his ribs. Qui-Gon had been kind. He'd sat with his mother, taught Anakin to breathe when the world felt too loud. That didn't sound like a villain. But Obi-Wan's face was granite, unyielding, and the conversation was clearly over.

"Understood, Master," Anakin said, the words hollow.

Obi-Wan studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it came. "Good. We're done for today. Meditate. Clear your mind. I'll see you this evening."

He turned and walked out, leaving Anakin alone in the hall, the hum of the ventilation system the only sound. Anakin stood there, fists clenched, the anger simmering into something colder, harder. Qui-Gon Jinn. The Jedi spoke his name like a curse, but all Anakin remembered was warmth. If caring about his mother was wrong, and Qui-Gon had believed in caring, then maybe the Jedi were lying about more than just the Code.

The meditation chamber was crowded that afternoon, twenty Padawans seated in concentric circles, eyes closed, breathing synchronized. Anakin sat near the back, cross-legged on a cushion, trying to sink into the stillness Master Windu had demanded. Focus on the Force. Let it flow through you, not around you. But the Force felt slippery today, like water through his fingers, and the harder he reached, the more it pulled away.

Then the vision slammed into him.

Darkness. The hovel's cracked walls, shadows thick as smoke. Three figures in robes, their faces obscured, standing over his mother. Her voice, sharp with terror: "I won't let you take him!" A strange green light, bright and sharp, moving through the darkness like a blade cutting the air. His own fear, a knot in his chest, tightening, tightening until it burst—

Anakin jerked awake, gasping, his hands clutching the cushion. The chamber was silent, every Padawan's eyes on him. Master Windu, a Korun Jedi with a presence like a storm held in check, stood at the front, his expression unreadable.

"Skywalker," Windu said, voice low and controlled. "Control yourself."

"I—sorry, Master," Anakin stammered, heat flooding his face.

"Visions can deceive," Windu continued, his gaze boring into Anakin. "They show fragments, not truths. Do not let them distract you from the present."

Anakin nodded, but his mind raced. Three figures. Not one. Not the Clovis they'd told him about—a lone attacker seeking revenge. Three. And that green light, moving like... like what? He couldn't finish the thought, but it gnawed at him, a splinter he couldn't dislodge.

The other Padawans returned to their meditation, but Anakin felt their glances, the weight of their judgment. He was always the anomaly, the one who didn't fit, whose power made them nervous and whose past made him untouchable. By the time the session ended, the whispers had already started.

The refectory at midday was a sea of noise—clattering trays, laughter, the hum of conversations blending into a dull roar. Anakin took his tray to a table near the far wall, the one always empty, and sat alone. It had been this way for years. Other Padawans gave him a wide berth, their wariness tinged with resentment. He was too strong, too volatile, too other. And the Masters' suspicion only fed the divide.

He picked at his food, appetite gone, when a scrap of conversation drifted from the next table over. Two older Padawans, a Rodian and a human girl, leaned close, voices low but not low enough.

"—heard Master Kolar talking about it," the Rodian said. "Qui-Gon's gathering more to the Outer Rim. Mandalorian space, maybe. Dozens have gone."

The girl frowned. "Why? What's he offering that the Order isn't?"

"Freedom, I guess. No rules about attachment, no politics. Just..." The Rodian shrugged. "A different way."

"Sounds like heresy."

"Yeah, well, some people are buying it."

Anakin's fork stilled mid-air. Qui-Gon, out there somewhere, building something separate from the Temple. And people were leaving to join him. The Jedi called it lies, but what if it wasn't? What if—

The Rodian glanced over, caught Anakin's stare, and his expression shuttered. "Come on," he muttered to the girl, and they grabbed their trays, moving to another table. Anakin watched them go, the familiar sting of isolation settling deeper.

The archives were quieter than usual that afternoon, rows of datapads and holocrons glowing softly in the dim light. Anakin slipped between the shelves, searching for anything—records of Tatooine incidents, reports from the year he was taken, anything that might fill the gaps in his memory. He found a terminal near the back, punched in his clearance code, and navigated to the planetary archives.

Tatooine. Mos Espa. 32 BBY.

The screen flickered, then displayed a single line: ACCESS RESTRICTED. MASTER-LEVEL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

Anakin stared at it, frustration boiling over. He tried another angle—incident reports, deaths registered in Mos Espa that year. Same message. Restricted. Why? What was so dangerous about his mother's death that they had to lock it away?

"Looking for something, young Skywalker?"

He spun, heart lurching. Jocasta Nu, the archives' chief librarian, stood behind him, her expression stern but curious.

"Just... research," Anakin said quickly, closing the terminal.

"Research that requires clearance you don't have?" Her tone was knowing, not unkind, but firm. "If your master approved this inquiry, he'd have granted you access. Since he hasn't, I suggest you return to your studies."

Anakin nodded, mumbling an apology, and left before she could press further. The corridors outside felt smaller, the walls closing in. Every door he tried, they slammed shut. Every question, they turned away. The Jedi didn't want him to know. But why?

That evening, as the sun dipped below Coruscant's skyline, Anakin found himself in the Temple gardens, a rare pocket of green amid the city's metal sprawl. He sat on a stone bench, watching the light fade, when a voice broke the silence.

"You look troubled, young one."

Anakin looked up. Chancellor Palpatine stood a few paces away, his hands clasped behind his back, his smile warm and grandfatherly. He was a fixture at the Temple lately—meetings with the Council, consultations on Republic business—but he'd never spoken directly to Anakin before.

"Chancellor," Anakin said, standing quickly. "I didn't see you—"

"Sit, sit." Palpatine waved a hand, settling onto the bench beside him. "I was merely taking a walk. The Temple's gardens are so peaceful, don't you think? A shame more don't appreciate them."

Anakin sat, unsure what to say. Palpatine studied him, the smile fading into something more thoughtful.

"You do look troubled," Palpatine repeated, gentler now. "The other Padawans... they don't speak to you much, do they?"

Anakin's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."

"Of course you are." Palpatine's tone held no mockery, only understanding. "But being fine and being alone aren't mutually exclusive, are they? I've seen how they watch you. Fear and envy make poor companions."

Anakin glanced at him, surprised. No one at the Temple acknowledged it so plainly. "They think I'm dangerous."

"Perhaps you are." Palpatine's smile returned, faint and knowing. "Power often is. But that doesn't make you wrong. It makes you... exceptional." He paused, letting the word settle. "I knew someone like you once. Brilliant, misunderstood, burdened by gifts others couldn't comprehend. Qui-Gon Jinn."

The name hit like a spark. Anakin straightened. "You knew him?"

"I did." Palpatine's gaze grew distant, almost nostalgic. "A remarkable Jedi. He had principles, convictions that the Council found... inconvenient. He believed the Force was more than rules and restrictions. That it was about life, connection, compassion. The Order disagreed, of course. They always do when someone challenges their orthodoxy."

"They say he's a heretic," Anakin said, the words tasting bitter.

"Do they?" Palpatine chuckled softly. "Power often brands truth as heresy, young Skywalker. Qui-Gon left because he refused to compromise his beliefs. He's somewhere in the Outer Rim now, I believe, with others who share his vision. Mandalorian space, perhaps, or beyond. The Council would have you think he's dangerous, but I wonder... what if he simply saw what they refuse to?"

Anakin's pulse quickened. Qui-Gon, out there, away from the Temple's cold walls. With people who believed in something different. "Why did he leave?"

Palpatine tilted his head, considering. "A matter of principle, I think. And conscience. The Order's involvement in politics, their rigid adherence to dogma—it troubled him. Some say there was an incident, something that broke his faith in them entirely. But the details are... murky. The Council doesn't like to air its failures."

An incident. Anakin's mind raced, pieces clicking together—Qui-Gon's presence on Tatooine, his mother's death, the Jedi's locked records. What if—

"Chancellor," Anakin began, then hesitated. "Do you think... if someone wanted to know the truth about something the Jedi won't talk about... where would they look?"

Palpatine's eyes gleamed, sharp and calculating beneath the warmth. "Sometimes, young Skywalker, the truth hides in the places we're told never to look. The Jedi guard their secrets well, but secrets have a way of surfacing. Patience, and the courage to ask the right questions—those will serve you far better than any archive."

He stood, adjusting his robes. "I should return to my duties. But if you ever need counsel, or simply someone who listens without judgment, you know where to find me." He placed a hand briefly on Anakin's shoulder, the touch light but deliberate. "You're not alone, Anakin. Remember that."

And then he was gone, leaving Anakin on the bench as the stars began to prick through Coruscant's haze.

That night, Anakin lay in his quarters, the ceiling above lost in shadow. His roommate, a Nautolan Padawan, snored softly across the room, oblivious. But Anakin couldn't sleep. The vision lingered—three figures, his mother's terror, the green light. Obi-Wan's evasion. The locked archives. Palpatine's words, gentle and pointed: The truth hides in the places we're told never to look.

Qui-Gon. The name circled his thoughts like a prayer, or a curse. The Jedi hated him, warned against him, but Anakin remembered kindness. And if Qui-Gon had left because of an incident, something that broke his faith—what if that incident involved Anakin? His mother?

The pieces didn't fit the story he'd been told. One attacker, Clovis, seeking revenge. But the vision showed three. Robes, not street clothes. And that green light, moving like—

A lightsaber. The thought crystallized, cold and certain. He'd seen training sabers a thousand times, the way they hummed, the way they cut light from shadow. The green glow in his vision had moved the same way.

Jedi. They'd been Jedi at his mother's death. Not Clovis. Not revenge. Something else entirely.

Anakin sat up, heart pounding, the room suddenly too small. If the Jedi had been there, if they'd lied, then Obi-Wan—his master—might've been one of them. The thought was poison, but it explained the evasions, the locked records, the way Obi-Wan flinched when Anakin asked about Tatooine.

And Qui-Gon. He'd known. He'd left. Maybe he'd even tried to stop it.

Anakin needed to find him. Needed to hear the truth from someone who wouldn't lie. But how? The Outer Rim was vast, and the Jedi would never let him leave.

Palpatine's voice echoed: Patience, and the courage to ask the right questions.

Anakin lay back down, staring at the ceiling, the decision hardening in his chest. He'd find a way. He'd find Qui-Gon, no matter what it took. The Jedi had stolen his mother's truth. He wouldn't let them steal his.

Outside, Coruscant's lights glittered like stars, indifferent and cold. And somewhere in the Outer Rim, beyond the Republic's reach, a heretic waited—holding answers the Temple would kill to keep buried.

Chapter Text

The Temple woke to news that rippled through its halls like a shockwave. Anakin heard it first from the HoloNet terminal in the common room, where a cluster of Padawans had gathered before morning meditation. The holographic anchor's voice was crisp, urgent: "—reports confirm former Queen Padmé Amidala of Naboo has issued a formal declaration from exile, calling for the liberation of her homeworld from Trade Federation occupation. Sources suggest she's secured backing from an unlikely alliance: the Mandalorian clans and a splinter faction of rogue Jedi led by the exiled Qui-Gon Jinn."

The image shifted to a recording—Padmé Amidala, barely seventeen but carrying herself with the poise of someone twice her age, her face composed but fierce. "Naboo has suffered long enough under corporate tyranny," she said, her voice steady despite her youth. "The Republic abandoned us. But we have not abandoned hope. With the aid of those who still believe in justice over politics, we will reclaim our home."

Anakin's breath caught. Qui-Gon. The name was right there, broadcast across the galaxy, no longer a whisper but a declared ally of a political insurgent. The Padawans around him erupted in murmurs—some shocked, others scornful.

"Jinn's finally shown his hand," one muttered, a tall human boy with a sneer. "Treason, plain as day."

"They'll send a task force," another said, a Mirialan girl with worry creasing her brow. "The Council won't let this stand. Aligning with Mandalorians against the Republic? That's sedition."

Anakin slipped away before anyone could draw him into the conversation, his mind racing. Qui-Gon, out in the open now, tied to a brewing conflict. And if the Jedi sent a task force—if they moved to stop him, to arrest or kill him—Anakin's window to find answers would slam shut. The urgency he'd felt since the vision sharpened into something concrete, a countdown ticking in his chest.

The Council chamber was closed when Anakin passed it an hour later, but the muffled voices within carried through the heavy doors—raised, tense. He slowed, pretending to adjust his boots, and caught fragments.

"—cannot ignore this. Jinn's aligned himself with a Mandalorian coalition and a deposed queen. This is a direct challenge to Republic authority." That was Master Windu, his tone hard as durasteel.

"We must consider the optics." Master Yoda's rasp, cautious. "Move against Jinn openly, we do, martyrs we make of him and his followers. Caution, the Force urges."

"Caution won't stop a war." Another voice, clipped and impatient—Master Kolar, perhaps. "If Amidala retakes Naboo with Jinn's backing, it legitimizes his sect. More will defect. We need to act decisively. A strike team, surgical, before this escalates."

"And who would you send?" Windu's question hung heavy. "Jinn was one of our finest. Underestimating him would be fatal."

A pause. Then, quieter, a voice Anakin knew too well: Obi-Wan. "I'll go. If it comes to that. He was my master. I know how he thinks."

Anakin's stomach twisted. Obi-Wan, sent to capture or kill Qui-Gon. The man who'd been kind to his mother, who might hold the truth about her death. And Obi-Wan—his master, who flinched at every question, who might've been there that night—would be the one to silence him forever.

"Skywalker."

Anakin jerked upright. Master Windu stood in the now-open doorway, his expression unreadable. "Eavesdropping is unbecoming of a Padawan."

"I wasn't—" Anakin began, but Windu's raised hand cut him off.

"Return to your quarters. Meditation and reflection. You've been distracted lately. I suggest you address that before it becomes a larger problem."

Anakin nodded stiffly, backing away. As the door closed, he caught Obi-Wan's gaze through the narrowing gap—sharp, searching, almost suspicious. Then it was gone, and Anakin was alone in the corridor, his pulse hammering.

They were planning a strike. Soon. And if Obi-Wan went, if Qui-Gon was captured or worse, Anakin would never know the truth. The urgency wasn't just a feeling anymore. It was a knife at his throat.

The message arrived that afternoon, delivered by a protocol droid in the training hall. Anakin had been running solo drills, trying to burn off the restless energy gnawing at him, when the droid approached with its stilted gait.

"Padawan Skywalker, you are summoned to the office of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine at your earliest convenience. He requests a private audience."

Anakin frowned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Now?"

"The Chancellor emphasized flexibility, but noted urgency in discussing matters of mutual concern."

Obi-Wan, who'd been observing from the sidelines with his usual critical eye, stepped forward, though his tone was more resigned than disapproving. "The Chancellor again. Well, the Council sees value in maintaining good relations with the Supreme Chancellor's office. They approve of these meetings—politically advantageous, they say." His expression soured slightly. "Though I still question what business he has taking such personal interest in a Padawan."

"He's just... interested in the Jedi," Anakin said, the lie tasting stale. "Wants to understand us better. The Council thinks it's good for relations."

"The Council thinks it's politically useful," Obi-Wan corrected, his voice tight. "But political advantage and your wellbeing aren't the same thing. I don't trust Palpatine's interest in you, even if the Council does. Just... be careful."

Anakin bristled. "He's been kinder to me than anyone here."

The words landed like a slap. Obi-Wan's jaw tightened, a flicker of something—hurt, maybe guilt—crossing his face before it hardened again. "Go, then. But remember where your loyalties lie. The Jedi raised you, Anakin. Not the Chancellor."

No, Anakin thought, the anger flaring hot beneath his ribs. My mom raised me. Until something happened to her. Until the Jedi had something to do with it.

But he didn't say it aloud. Anakin didn't respond, just grabbed his robe and left, the droid trailing behind. Obi-Wan's voice echoed in his head—where your loyalties lie—but loyalty was built on trust, and the Jedi had given him nothing but locked doors and half-truths.

Palpatine's office was a study in understated power: high ceilings, polished floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Coruscant's sprawl. The Chancellor stood at one, hands clasped behind his back, watching the traffic lanes weave through the afternoon haze. He turned as Anakin entered, his smile warm, welcoming.

"Anakin, my boy. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, sit."

Anakin settled into one of the plush chairs, the leather soft beneath him, a stark contrast to the Temple's austere furnishings. Palpatine poured two glasses of water from a carafe, handing one to Anakin before taking the seat across from him.

"I imagine you've heard the news," Palpatine began, his tone conversational. "Padmé Amidala's declaration. Quite bold, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah," Anakin said cautiously. "The Council's... concerned."

"As they should be." Palpatine sipped his water, his gaze thoughtful. "Qui-Gon Jinn's involvement complicates matters. The Jedi view him as a heretic, but the galaxy sees a man standing against corporate tyranny. Perception is a powerful thing, Anakin. The Council fears losing control of the narrative—and perhaps of their own members."

Anakin shifted. "Master Windu mentioned sending a strike team. To stop Qui-Gon."

Palpatine's expression grew somber. "I suspected as much. The Council doesn't tolerate dissent, even when that dissent is rooted in principle. Qui-Gon left because he refused to compromise his beliefs, and now they'll paint him as a traitor to justify silencing him." He paused, leaning forward slightly. "You admired him, didn't you? From what little you remember."

"I—" Anakin hesitated, then nodded. "He was kind. To me and my mother. The Jedi say he's dangerous, but I don't... I don't know what to believe."

"Then perhaps you should seek the truth for yourself," Palpatine said gently. "Which brings me to why I asked you here." He stood, moving to his desk, and retrieved a datapad. "After our last conversation, I took the liberty of making some inquiries. Nothing official, you understand—just a Chancellor's prerogative to ensure transparency within his own government. And I found... discrepancies."

He handed the datapad to Anakin, who took it with trembling fingers. The screen glowed, displaying a Republic Intelligence summary, stamped with high-level clearance codes. Anakin's eyes scanned the text:

INCIDENT REPORT - CLASSIFIED
Date: 32 BBY, Day 286
Location: Tatooine, Mos Espa, Outer Rim
Summary: Two Jedi casualties reported during sanctioned mission. Knight [REDACTED] and Knight [REDACTED] killed in structural collapse. Mission objective: [REDACTED - Council Authorization Required]. Outcome: Objective achieved. Local incident (civilian casualty) attributed to unrelated dispute. Investigation sealed per Council directive.

Anakin's vision blurred. The date. Day 286. The same day his mother died. Tatooine. Mos Espa. Two Jedi, killed in a structural collapse. His hands shook, the datapad nearly slipping from his grip.

"I don't understand," he whispered, though he did. He understood perfectly.

Palpatine's voice was soft, almost regretful. "The Jedi were there, Anakin. On the same day, in the same place your mother died. And two of them didn't survive. The official story blames a man named Clovis, but the timing, the location—it's too coincidental. The Council sealed the investigation. They never told you."

Anakin stared at the screen, the words blurring into a haze. Objective achieved. What objective? Him. They'd come for him, and his mother had died, and two Jedi had died, and they'd lied. They'd lied for seven years, feeding him a story about revenge and bad luck while they buried the truth under classified seals.

"Why?" His voice cracked. "Why would they—"

"Because the truth would've complicated your training," Palpatine said, his tone gentle but laced with something sharper. "You were powerful even then, Anakin. Dangerous, in their eyes. If you'd known the Jedi were involved in your mother's death, would you have trusted them? Stayed with them? They needed you compliant, so they crafted a narrative you could accept. Clovis, a villain from your mother's past, a convenient scapegoat."

Anakin's chest tightened, rage and grief warring beneath his ribs. "And Qui-Gon? Did he know?"

Palpatine hesitated, the pause deliberate. "I can't say for certain. But Qui-Gon left the Order shortly after these events. Perhaps he disagreed with how they handled the situation. Perhaps he couldn't stomach the lie. If anyone knows the full truth, it would be him."

Anakin set the datapad down, his hands still shaking. The pieces clicked together—Qui-Gon's departure, the Council's hatred of him, Obi-Wan's evasions, the locked archives. It was all connected, a web of lies spun to keep him ignorant and obedient.

"He's with the Mandalorians now," Anakin said, more to himself than Palpatine. "Out there, somewhere. And the Jedi are going to send someone to stop him. Maybe kill him."

"Likely," Palpatine agreed. "The Council doesn't forgive challenges to its authority. If you want answers, Anakin, you'll need to find Qui-Gon before they do. But leaving the Temple..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It's dangerous. The Jedi would see it as betrayal. And I can't protect you from their wrath, no matter how much I might wish to."

Anakin looked up, meeting Palpatine's eyes. "How would I even find him? The Outer Rim's enormous, and the Jedi will be watching for anyone trying to leave."

Palpatine leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "There are... networks. Sympathizers, people who've grown disillusioned with the Republic and the Jedi's role in it. Coruscant's lower levels host all manner of individuals—smugglers, defectors, those who move in shadows. I've heard whispers of a group that helps people disappear when they need to. People seeking alternative paths." He paused, his gaze steady. "I can't give you names or locations, Anakin. My position doesn't allow for such overt involvement. But if you were to ask the right questions in the right places, you might find your way."

It wasn't much, but it was more than the Jedi had ever offered. Anakin nodded slowly, the decision crystallizing in his chest. "Thank you, Chancellor."

"Don't thank me yet," Palpatine said, standing. "This path you're considering—it's fraught with danger. The Jedi will hunt you if they discover your intentions. And even if you find Qui-Gon, the truth he offers may not be the comfort you seek. Are you prepared for that?"

Anakin stood as well, his jaw set. "I need to know. Whatever it costs."

Palpatine studied him for a long moment, then nodded, something like approval in his eyes. "Then may the Force be with you, young Skywalker. You'll need it."

Anakin returned to the Temple as the sun dipped low, Coruscant's lights beginning to flicker to life across the endless cityscape. His mind churned with Palpatine's words, the casualty report burned into his memory. Two Jedi, same day, same place. Objective achieved. His mother's death, twisted into a lie. And Qui-Gon, the only one who might tell him the truth, was about to be hunted.

He slipped through the Temple's corridors, avoiding the main halls where Masters and Padawans gathered for evening meal. His quarters were mercifully empty—his roommate, the Nautolan, was at a late training session. Anakin sat on his bunk, staring at the wall, the weight of what he had to do pressing down like a physical force.

He had to leave. Not eventually, not when he'd gathered more evidence. Now. Before the Council's strike team deployed. Before Obi-Wan or some other Jedi dragged Qui-Gon back in chains—or worse. The window was closing, and if he hesitated, he'd lose his chance forever.

But leaving meant more than sneaking out of the Temple. It meant abandoning the only home he'd known since Tatooine, the only structure that had given his chaotic power some semblance of control. It meant becoming a fugitive, hunted by the very people who'd raised him. And it meant confronting a truth that might shatter what little remained of his childhood.

Anakin closed his eyes, reaching for the Force, trying to find clarity. But instead of stillness, he found a vision—sharp, immediate, overwhelming.

The hovel. Darkness. Three figures in robes, lightsabers ignited—two green, one blue. His mother, backed against the wall, her voice rising: "You can't take him! He's just a child!" One of the figures stepped forward, face still obscured, voice cold: "He's too dangerous to leave untrained. The Force is too strong in him. Come willingly, and this doesn't have to end badly." His mother's refusal, fierce and final. The flash of a blade—not striking her, but close, a threat. Anakin, small and terrified, bursting from his hiding place, screaming. The explosion of power, raw and uncontrolled, ripping through the walls, the ceiling buckling, beams crashing down. Two of the figures crushed beneath the debris. The third—closest, the blue blade—pulling back just in time, staggering, then turning to where Anakin lay sobbing in the dust. A hand reaching down. A voice, familiar and now undeniable: "It's all right. You're safe now."

Anakin jolted awake—or had he even slept?—his breath ragged, sweat soaking his tunic. The voice. He knew that voice. It had been there in the hovel, calm and steady, even as his mother's body lay still beneath the rubble. The same voice that lectured him daily, that told him to let go, to control himself, to trust the Jedi way.

Obi-Wan.

The realization hit like a physical blow. Obi-Wan had been there. Had been one of the three. Had survived because Anakin's power—his own terrified, grief-stricken outburst—had killed the other two but spared him. And then Obi-Wan had taken him, lied to him, raised him, all while carrying the secret of what had truly happened that night.

Anakin's hands clenched into fists, the rage white-hot and consuming. Every lesson, every cold correction, every time Obi-Wan had shut down his questions—it was all built on a foundation of lies and blood. His mother's blood. The Jedi's blood. And Obi-Wan had looked him in the eye, day after day, year after year, and said nothing.

He couldn't stay here. Not another night. Not another hour.

Anakin stood, moving on autopilot, grabbing a small pack and stuffing it with essentials—a change of clothes, a few credits he'd saved, a small toolkit. His lightsaber, clipped to his belt, felt heavier than usual, a symbol of everything the Jedi had given him and everything they'd taken away.

He paused at the door, glancing back at the sparse room. Seven years of his life, compressed into these four walls. But it had never been home. Home had been a hovel on Tatooine, with a mother who'd loved him fiercely and a kind stranger who'd taught him to quiet his mind. Home had been a lie, too, but at least it had been real.

Anakin opened the door and stepped into the corridor. Somewhere in the lower levels of Coruscant, there were people who could help him disappear. And somewhere beyond the Core Worlds, Qui-Gon Jinn was waiting—whether he knew it or not—with answers Anakin would drag out of him, no matter the cost.

The Jedi had stolen his mother. They'd stolen his past. But they wouldn't steal his future.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

As Anakin slipped through the Temple's shadowed halls, heading for the service exits that few Padawans knew existed, he didn't see the figure watching from a balcony above. Obi-Wan Kenobi stood in the darkness, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He'd felt the disturbance in the Force, the roil of Anakin's emotions—rage, grief, determination. And he'd known, with a sinking certainty, that the boy was about to make a choice that would change everything.

He should stop him. Report to the Council. Prevent whatever disaster Anakin was racing toward.

But Obi-Wan didn't move. Because deep down, beneath the guilt and the lies and the years of pretending, he knew Anakin deserved the truth. And if Obi-Wan couldn't give it to him, then perhaps Qui-Gon—his old master, the man who'd taught him that the Force was more than duty—could.

Or perhaps they'd all pay the price for the choices made seven years ago on a dusty, forgotten world.

Obi-Wan watched until Anakin disappeared into the stairwell, then turned away, his face drawn and weary.

"May the Force forgive us," he murmured to the empty air. "Because I don't think he ever will."

Chapter Text

The HoloNet bulletin scrolled across every screen in the Temple's common areas, impossible to ignore. Anakin stood in the doorway of the refectory, his breakfast tray forgotten in his hands as he watched the report unfold.

"—tensions escalate as former Queen Padmé Amidala of Naboo reaffirms her alliance with exiled Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn and Mandalorian forces. Republic intelligence confirms movement of armed ships toward Naboo space, raising concerns of imminent military action. Chancellor Palpatine has called an emergency Senate session to address what he terms 'a direct challenge to Republic sovereignty and stability.' The Jedi Council has declined to comment, but sources suggest a formal response is being prepared—"

The hologram shifted to footage of Mandalorian warships, their angular hulls bristling with weapons, flanked by smaller craft bearing no Republic markings. The image was grainy, taken from a distance, but the message was clear: this wasn't a political protest. This was preparation for war.

Around Anakin, other Padawans murmured anxiously. A Twi'lek girl near the front whispered to her companion, "They're really going to fight the Republic? That's treason."

"It's suicide," another replied. "The Jedi will crush them."

Anakin set his tray down on a nearby table, his appetite gone. Forty-eight hours. Maybe less. The Council wouldn't wait for Padmé to make the first move. They'd strike preemptively, decisively, the way they always did when their authority was challenged. And Qui-Gon—kind, patient Qui-Gon, who'd sat with his mother and taught him to breathe—would be their target.

He slipped out of the refectory before anyone could speak to him, his mind racing. The strike force would deploy soon. Days, not weeks. And if Qui-Gon was captured or killed before Anakin could reach him, the truth about his mother would die with him.

The training hall was nearly empty at midday, most Padawans in classes or meditation. Anakin found a corner and ignited his training saber, running through Form III sequences with mechanical precision. Parry, deflect, counter. His body moved on instinct, but his mind was elsewhere, calculating logistics.

Credits. He'd saved a small amount from odd jobs around the Temple—minor repairs, helping with droid maintenance. Not much, but enough for transport if he was careful. Food. He could pack rations from the refectory without drawing attention; Padawans often took snacks for long study sessions. Clothing. He'd need something that didn't scream "Jedi"—maybe he could steal from the Temple laundry, grab civilian robes meant for undercover missions.

The lightsaber hummed in his hand, the blue blade a constant in the chaos of his thoughts. Could he take it? It marked him as a Jedi, but it was also a weapon, a tool. Leaving it felt like surrendering a piece of himself. But keeping it risked exposure.

"Your form is sloppy."

Anakin spun, extinguishing the blade. Obi-Wan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He looked older than usual, lines etched deeper around his eyes, his posture stiff with tension.

"Sorry, Master," Anakin said, clipping the saber to his belt. "I was distracted."

"Clearly." Obi-Wan stepped into the hall, his gaze sweeping over Anakin with the kind of scrutiny that made lying impossible. "The Naboo situation has everyone on edge. But that's no excuse for carelessness. If your mind isn't on your training, you'll get yourself killed."

"Yes, Master." Anakin kept his voice neutral, but his pulse quickened. Did Obi-Wan suspect? Had he noticed Anakin's questions, his distraction, the way he'd been avoiding direct contact?

Obi-Wan studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "The Council has called a briefing this afternoon. I'll be gone for a few days—maybe longer. Master Windu will oversee your training in my absence."

Anakin's stomach dropped. "Gone? Where?"

"That's not your concern," Obi-Wan said, his tone clipped. But then his expression softened, just slightly. "It's a Council matter. Sensitive. I can't discuss the details."

Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan was being sent after Qui-Gon. Anakin's fists clenched at his sides, the realization like ice water in his veins. His master—the man who'd raised him, who'd been there the night his mother died—was being ordered to hunt down the one person who might tell Anakin the truth.

"Is it dangerous?" Anakin asked, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Obi-Wan's jaw tightened. "All missions carry risk. But I'll be fine. The Council trusts me to handle this correctly." His voice was steady, but something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or guilt. "You just focus on your studies. And Anakin?" He paused. "Stay out of trouble. I'll be watching the reports."

He turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the empty hall. Anakin stood frozen, staring at the space where his master had been. Obi-Wan didn't want this mission. That much was obvious. But he'd follow orders anyway, because that's what Jedi did. They followed orders, even when those orders sent them after their own.

And if Obi-Wan succeeded, Qui-Gon would be captured. Or worse.

Anakin had two days. Maybe less.

That night, the vision came harder than ever before.

Anakin had fallen asleep in his quarters, exhausted from a day spent planning and second-guessing. But sleep brought no rest. The Force dragged him under, into a memory that wasn't his but felt like drowning.

The hovel. Darkness pressing in from all sides, thick as smoke. Three figures in robes, their faces still hidden in shadow, but their movements sharp, deliberate. Lightsabers ignited—two green, one blue—casting eerie light across the cracked walls.

His mother, backed against the wall, her hands raised defensively. Her voice, sharp with fear and defiance: "You can't take him! He's just a child! He hasn't done anything wrong!"

One of the green-bladed figures stepped forward. The voice was calm, measured, but cold. "He's too powerful to remain untrained, ma'am. The Force is too strong in him. If we leave him here, he'll become a threat—to himself, to others, to the galaxy. Come willingly, and no one has to get hurt."

"No." Shmi's voice broke, but she didn't back down. "You don't understand. He's good. He's kind. He's not a weapon—"

"That's not your decision to make." The blue-bladed figure moved closer, the saber raised—not to strike, but as a warning, a threat. The light glinted off something metallic in his free hand. A device. The voice was familiar, painfully familiar. "We're taking him. Tonight. Step aside."

Shmi didn't step aside. She lunged, not at the Jedi but toward the back room where Anakin was hidden. "Ani, run! RUN—"

The green blade flashed. Not a killing blow, but close—too close. Shmi stumbled, her shoulder grazed, blood dark against her tunic. She screamed, and the sound tore through Anakin like a blade.

He burst from his hiding place, five years old and terrified, the Force exploding outward in a wave of raw, uncontrolled power. The walls buckled. The ceiling groaned. Beams snapped like kindling, crashing down in a rain of debris. Two of the figures were caught beneath the collapse—screams cut short, bodies crushed. The third staggered back, barely avoiding the worst of it, the blue saber extinguishing as he fell.

Dust filled the air, choking, blinding. Anakin crawled through the rubble, his hands small and bloody, searching. "Mom? Mom!"

He found her beneath a fallen beam, her eyes open but unseeing, blood pooling beneath her head. He shook her, sobbing, but she didn't move. Didn't breathe.

The third Jedi pulled himself upright, coughing, his face still obscured by shadow and dust. But his voice—his voice was clear, steady despite the chaos. "It's all right, Anakin. You're safe now. I've got you."

A hand reached down, pulling Anakin up. The boy didn't resist, too shocked, too broken. The Jedi draped a cloak over his shoulders and carried him out into the night, away from the wreckage, away from his mother's body.

And as they walked, the Jedi murmured, almost to himself: "We'll say it was Clovis. No one will question it. The boy will be safe. The mission is complete."

Anakin woke with a gasp, his sheets soaked with sweat, his heart hammering against his ribs. The vision clung to him like a second skin, every detail seared into his memory. The green blades. The blue blade. The voice—calm, steady, familiar.

Obi-Wan's voice.

He sat up, pressing his palms against his eyes, trying to breathe. It wasn't just the Jedi. It was Obi-Wan. His master had been there. Had threatened his mother. Had watched her die—maybe even caused it. And then he'd taken Anakin, lied to him, raised him, all while carrying the secret of what had really happened that night.

The room spun. Anakin stumbled to the refresher, splashing cold water on his face, but it didn't help. The vision replayed in his mind, over and over. His mother's scream. The walls collapsing. Obi-Wan's voice: We'll say it was Clovis.

A lie. All of it, a lie.

Anakin gripped the edge of the sink, staring at his reflection. He looked older than twelve, his eyes hard, his jaw set. The boy who'd believed the Jedi's stories was gone, burned away by the truth.

He had to leave. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. Before Obi-Wan left for his mission. Before the strike force deployed. Before Qui-Gon was silenced forever.

The next morning, Anakin moved through the Temple like a ghost. He attended his classes, nodded at the right moments, sparred in training without drawing attention. But inside, he was calculating, planning, preparing.

He stole a set of civilian robes from the laundry—simple, nondescript, the kind maintenance workers wore. He packed a small bag with rations, a water flask, a basic med-kit. He transferred his saved credits to a data chip, easier to carry and harder to trace. And he studied the Temple's layout, memorizing the service corridors, the supply routes, the exits that weren't monitored as closely.

By evening, the news had shifted. The HoloNet reported that the Jedi Council had authorized a "peacekeeping mission" to address the Naboo crisis. No specifics were given, but the subtext was clear: the strike force was deploying. Forty-eight hours, maybe less, before Jedi ships arrived in Mandalorian space.

Anakin sat in his quarters, staring at the wall, the weight of his decision pressing down like a physical force. Leaving meant abandoning everything—his training, his master, the only home he'd known since Tatooine. But staying meant living a lie, serving the people who'd killed his mother and covered it up.

There was no choice. Not really.

He stood, slinging the bag over his shoulder, and took one last look around the room. Sparse, functional, impersonal. It had never really been his. None of this had.

The lightsaber on his belt felt heavier than usual. He unclipped it, holding it in his palm. A Jedi's weapon. A symbol of everything they'd made him into. But also a tool, a piece of who he was now, whether he liked it or not.

He clipped it back on. He'd need it.

The Temple's lower levels were quieter at night, the service corridors lit only by dim emergency lights. Anakin moved carefully, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the main routes. He'd timed his departure for the shift change, when security was thinnest, when the guards were distracted by handoffs and reports.

He reached the freight exit—an access point used for supply deliveries, less monitored than the main gates. The door was locked, but Anakin had watched the maintenance droids use it enough times to know the override code. He punched it in, holding his breath.

The door hissed open.

Cold night air rushed in, carrying the scent of the city—exhaust, ozone, the faint tang of street food from the levels below. Anakin stepped through, his heart pounding, and the door sealed behind him with a soft click.

He was outside. Free.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the endless sprawl of Coruscant's lights. Somewhere out there, in the lower levels, were people who could help him disappear. Smugglers, fixers, the kind of people who didn't ask questions if you had credits. And beyond that, far beyond the Core Worlds, was Qui-Gon Jinn.

Anakin pulled his hood up, adjusting the civilian robes, and started walking. The Temple loomed behind him, a monument of stone and lies. He didn't look back.

Behind him, in the Council chambers, Obi-Wan Kenobi stood before Masters Yoda and Windu, receiving his final briefing for the Qui-Gon mission. He felt the disturbance in the Force—a ripple, faint but distinct, like a string snapping. Something had shifted. Something was wrong.

But he pushed the feeling aside, focusing on the mission. The Council was counting on him. The Republic was counting on him. Whatever doubts he carried, whatever guilt gnawed at him, he'd bury them under duty.

Anakin was safe in the Temple. Obi-Wan had checked on him earlier, seen him meditating in his quarters. The boy was fine. He'd be fine.

Obi-Wan told himself this as he accepted the mission orders, as he prepared to leave the next morning. He told himself this even as the Force whispered that he was wrong, that something had changed, that the boy he'd raised was already gone.

Far below, in the tangled mess of Coruscant's undercity, Anakin Skywalker walked into the shadows, a fugitive in search of a truth that would shatter everything he'd ever known.