A week had passed since Michael completed Jabba's mission.
Time on Tatooine felt strange. Days blurred together under the constant heat, the twin suns rising and setting without mercy. Yet for Michael, the days had been busy. Very busy.
The city treated him differently from the ordinary civilian.
It was subtle at first. Conversations stopped when he passed. Eyes lingering longer than before. People moving aside without being asked. Word travelled fast in Mos Espa, especially when Jabba the Hutt took an interest in someone.
Michael remained in his alien form the entire time.
That alone made him impossible to ignore.
XLR8 drew attention wherever he went. Children pointed. Traders stared. Officials and police watched him carefully but did not interfere. Around Jabba's palace, servants and hired muscle treated him with something close to respect. Some with fear. Others with curiosity.
No one challenged him; they all parted or quietly watched as he walked by.
Michael spent most of the week learning the city. He ran its streets until they became familiar. He mapped shortcuts, blind spots, and patrol routes without meaning to. Speed made exploration easy. He could cross districts in moments, slow down to listen, then vanish again.
During that time, he found a ship.
It was not new. It was not impressive. But it worked.
A small transport sat in a repair bay near the star port, its hull scarred but intact. The owner had been eager to sell, especially once Michael showed interest. Credits from Jabba helped, but the deal had been quick even without them.
The ship would take time to prepare. Repairs. Clearance. A few modifications Michael requested without explaining why.
Until then, he waited.
What unsettled him most was not the city, or Jabba's attention, but his own body.
The transformation did not end after forty-eight hours, as the system had said it would.
Michael had expected the change to fade, the alien form to release him back into his human body. Instead, the hours passed. Then days.
A total of 168 hours had passed, and only then did it end.
There had been no warning. One moment, he was standing near the edge of the city, feeling the usual hum of energy beneath his skin. The next, it drained away.
His legs shortened. His balance shifted. His hands returned.
He collapsed to his knees in the sand, breathing hard, human once more.
That night, he rented a room in a cheap hotel near the star port. It was quiet enough. Close enough to his ship. The bed was uncomfortable, but it was a place to think.
Now, another morning had come.
Michael stepped out onto the street, the heat already pressing down on him. Walking felt slow. Heavy. He missed the speed without wanting to admit it.
The star port lay ahead.
As he walked, he noticed the looks people gave him had changed again. Less fear now. More indifference. Without the alien form, he was just another man in the crowd.
That bothered him more than it should have. Did he crave the attention or the mild respect? Michael couldn't tell.
A sudden shout broke his thoughts.
Michael turned just in time to see a woman stumble near the edge of the street. She fell hard, one hand clutching her stomach.
She was heavily pregnant.
Without thinking, Michael ran to her side.
"Are you alright?" he asked, kneeling beside her.
She looked up, startled, then relieved.
"I am fine," she said softly. "Just clumsy."
Michael helped her sit up carefully.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Shmi," she replied. "Shmi Skywalker."
The name hit him like a blow.
Michael froze.
Skywalker.
Before he could respond, a harsh voice cut through the air.
"What are you doing?"
A small figure floated toward them, wings buzzing angrily. A Toydarian, eyes narrowed, face twisted in irritation.
"Get your hands off her," the creature snapped. "That is Watto's property."
Michael slowly stood.
The Toydarian hovered closer, wings buzzing loudly as his shadow passed over both Michael and the woman on the ground.
"Did you not hear me?" the creature snapped. "That slave belongs to Watto."
Michael's jaw tightened.
He looked down at Shmi. She had lowered her eyes, hands resting protectively over her stomach. There was no fear in her posture, only a tired acceptance that unsettled him far more than shouting would have.
"I fell," she said quietly. "He only helped me up."
Watto waved a hand dismissively.
"Does not matter," he said. "You humans always cause trouble."
Michael straightened fully now, standing between them without realising he had done so. He kept his voice level.
"She's pregnant," he said. "You could at least show some decency."
Watto laughed, a harsh buzzing sound.
"Decency does not buy food," he replied. "Now move aside."
People had started to gather. Not many, but enough to notice. No one stepped in. No one ever did.
Michael felt something twist in his chest.
He had known slavery existed in this galaxy. He had read about it. Watched it in films. But standing in front of it felt different. Real. Close.
He stepped aside slowly, giving Shmi space to stand. She pushed herself up with effort, wincing slightly but remaining upright.
"I am grateful," she said softly to Michael. "Truly."
Watto grabbed her arm roughly.
"Come," he said. "We are wasting time."
Michael's hand clenched.
He stopped himself.
Not here. Not now.
Speed or no speed, violence would draw attention. The wrong kind of attention. Jabba's enforcers should already be looking at this incident.
Shmi was pulled away, her steps careful and measured. As she passed Michael, she met his eyes briefly. There was gratitude there. And something else.
Hope, maybe.
The crowd dispersed quickly once Watto left. Life in Mos Espa continued as it always did.
Michael stood there longer than he meant to.
Skywalker.
The name echoed in his mind.
He resumed walking toward the star port, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He tried to recall timelines. Ages. Events. His memory told him enough to understand the weight of who he had just met.
Shmi Skywalker was not just anyone. She was the second, if not the most important, person in this era.
The star port came into view, ships resting in rows, mechanics shouting orders as engines were tested. Michael moved through the noise, feeling disconnected from it all.
His ship sat where he had left it, partially dismantled, panels removed as workers moved around it. He stopped at the edge of the bay and watched.
A week ago, he had been running through the desert as something not human. Now he stood here, painfully ordinary, with knowledge that could change everything.
He returned to the hotel later that day, his steps slow. The room felt smaller now. The walls pressed in slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed.
He replayed the moment over and over. Shmi's fall. Watto's voice. The casual cruelty.
He knew what came next in her life. He knew who her son would become.
And he knew what that meant for the galaxy.
Michael leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
"I did not come here to play god," he muttered.
But the galaxy did not care what he had planned.
Outside, the suns dipped lower, casting long shadows across Mos Espa. Somewhere in the city, Shmi Skywalker returned to her work.
And somewhere inside Michael, a sense that he was standing at the edge of something vast.
The night drowned as Michael turned in his room, thinking over the casualness of Watto and the difference between the movie him and the physical one.
On his nightstand stood a Holo-pad, lightly lit up as it began to buzz. Stirred awake, Michael checked it to see a message from Fortuna.
"Lord Jabba requests your presence tomorrow morning."
Michael looked at the holo-pad before thinking, he could show up at Jabba's palace in his human form. No, it would be too dangerous, and the cooldown on XLR8 is still in effect, so he couldn't actively change back.
Michael thought about it for the remainder of the night as the two suns of Tatooine began to rise.