The N-1 starfighter burst through the upper atmosphere like a bolt of light, Naboo's blue horizon falling away behind it. In the cockpit, Anakin kept his hands steady, eyes forward as the stars began to emerge, cold and distant above the last of the clouds.
His breath was calm. His thoughts sharper than they'd ever been.
The ship responded like it had been waiting for him. Every movement, every flick of the control yoke, translated seamlessly into smooth motion. It had been some time since he'd last piloted, but even so, flying felt as natural as breathing.
Blaster fire raced across the void.
The space above Naboo was chaos. Vulture droids darted and spiraled between the shadowed hulks of Trade Federation cruisers, Naboo starfighters blinking in and out of view as they fought and fell against overwhelming odds.
Bravo Squadron was faltering.
Behind him, R2-D2 gave a low, questioning warble and a twitch of his dome.
Anakin gave a dry chuckle. "No, I haven't flown in space before."
R2 froze for a beat, then jittered in place with a loud, almost panicked bleeping fit.
"Relax," Anakin replied, still half-smiling. "I've got it."
The Trade Federation blockade now stretched across space like a metal net, battle cruisers positioned in calculated rows, defensive turrets rotating, and endless Vulture droids deploying in tight formations.
The space above Naboo was lit with death.
Droid starfighters spun and swarmed in disciplined formations, weaving between bursts of green and red laser fire. The reflective shields of the Trade Federation control ship pulsed with energy.
"This is Bravo Five, I'm hit! Controls are sluggish, I can't—!"
A flash, then static.
"Bravo Two, pull up! You've got two on your tail!"
"I see them…no, wait—!"
A pair of Vulture droids cut across the line and shredded the trailing fighter in a precise X-pattern of cannon fire. The Naboo ship exploded in a blossom of flame.
Anakin Skywalker didn't flinch.
From his cockpit, trailing the edge of the battle, he watched it unfold. The Naboo fighters flew well, clean and brave, but they weren't ready for this. Not against a control ship pouring out Vulture droids by the hundred, not when the shields of their target shrugged off every torpedo they fired.
This wasn't a battle, it was a slaughter.
He leveled the starfighter's nose, shifting his grip. The controls were larger and tooled for adult hands, but his fingers still danced over them with instinctive precision. It's been a while since he last flew in a real dogfight, but it didn't matter. The moment he sat in the cockpit, something reawakened. Flying wasn't a skill for him, it was a sense. A language his body still remembered.
Behind him, R2-D2 gave a startled burst of beeps, swiveling in his socket with a stuttering chirp.
Anakin didn't take his eyes off the readouts. "No, I'm not turning around."
R2 beeped louder, more insistent.
Anakin's hands didn't leave the controls. "It's not that complicated, it's just like podracing. Easier, actually."
A sudden electronic squeal from R2 had Anakin's lips curl into a small grin.
"Yeah, I have crashed more times than I finished. Thanks for the reminder."
R2 spun his dome in a frustrated circle and chirped something sharp.
"No, I'm not letting the autopilot handle it," Anakin said, voice quiet but firm.
R2 whirred loudly, tilting in his socket. A long, concerned warble followed.
"Autopilot is for people who don't know what they're doing."
"Using it will get us both killed."
The astromech let out a frustrated digital growl and buzzed twice in disapproval.
Anakin chuckled low in his throat but said no more. His expression sharpened. He tilted the ship's wings and surged forward, diving into the chaos.
The Vulture droids didn't see him at first. They were focused on the scattered remnants of Bravo Squadron. But as his yellow N-1 starfighter lanced through the edges of their formation, smooth, fast, and perfectly timed, they began to turn.
But it was too late.
He tore through the first wing like lightning. Three quick bursts of cannon fire, a snap-roll through a pair of plasma bolts, and two Vultures spiraled apart, their engines gutted. The third tried to bank left, he fired, and it exploded.
From the Bravo Squadron channel, static crackled, then a panicked voice broke through.
"Who the…did anyone catch that?!"
"New contact just entered the field…wait, is that one of ours?"
"I thought all birds were accounted for…who's flying yellow?"
Anakin didn't respond.
He flew.
Another wave of droids peeled away to engage him. He looped beneath them, cutting throttle, then reversed into a tight climb. His N-1 slipped between them like it was liquid, and his cannons flared again, four more enemies gone in less than three seconds.
"Who is that?" someone breathed over comms. "That wasn't Ric, was it?"
"Negative. Ric's out of commission. That wasn't anyone we know. That... that was something else."
Anakin cut a tight curve around the outer flank of the control ship, tracing the arc of its energy shield with his sensors. He already knew where the weak points would be, he could feel them. The rhythm of the pulse, the brief shimmer where the modulating frequency thinned.
Just like before.
R2 gave a curious whistle, tentative this time. Less panicked.
"I told you," Anakin lightly smirked. "I've got this."
His voice was calm, detached, and focused. Not cold, but distant. Like someone remembering a song they hadn't sung in years, only to find they still knew every note.
Even the ship, awkward and oversized as it was for his small frame, bent to his will. The seat was too wide, the throttle too far from where his arm naturally rested, but none of that mattered. He adapted, adjusted.
The controls felt like extensions of his body.
He was no longer a child pretending to play war.
He was a veteran returned to the battlefield in a child's skin.
"Bravo Squadron," came a weary voice over comms from Captain Dallin.
"If you're hearing this, fall back to the outer arc. We've lost too many—shield isn't breaking. We'll regroup and—wait."
"That fighter— Yellow.
"Are you on this channel?"
Anakin hesitated. Then clicked his comm open.
"Copy."
A pause.
"Pilot, identify yourself. Where the hell did you come from?"
He almost responded with his name. But his eyes drifted toward the shield again, to the weak pulse about to cycle in.
He ignored the question and stated. "The shield's not solid. It pulses. It drops every eight-point-six seconds."
"Eight-point-what?"
I'm going in."
"What?! That's suicide—wait. Why do you sound so young?"
"Kid, what did you say your call sign was?!"
Anakin killed the channel.
R2 bleeped frantically.
"I know," he said simply. "Time it."
He nosed the starfighter toward the shield again, engines primed, breath steady.
Eight-point-six seconds.
In, through, strike.
He didn't flinch.
The plains of Naboo burned with silence now.
Where once drums of war had thundered and beasts had roared in defiance, now only the sound of droid footfalls echoed across the charred earth. The Gungan Grand Army was bold, proud, and unshaken at dawn.
Now broken.
Their shield generators lay in twisted heaps, smoke curling from their shattered cores. Fambaas lay slain beside their handlers, massive frames scorched and still. The once-glowing protective dome that had encased the army was gone, pierced by relentless volleys of Trade Federation fire.
Bodies covered the field, hundreds of Gungans, their brilliant armor dulled by blood and ash, lay scattered among the skeletal remains of battle droids. The cost had been heavy, and yet the enemy did not bleed.
General Jar Jar Binks stumbled across the smoking dirt, tripping over the remains of a fallen droid. His armor was scorched and dented, a piece of his chest plate hanging loosely from a strap. His ears drooped low as he scanned the battlefield with wide, panicked eyes.
"Retreat! Retreat!" he shouted hoarsely, voice cracking as another sonic boom erupted in the distance. "Ev'rybody back! Dis ain't workin'!"
No one answered. Most who could run were already gone. Others lay wounded, clutching limbs or moaning quietly beneath the din. A few brave Gungans still stood with boomas in hand, hurling them futilely against the endless wave of metal.
A massive explosion erupted near the central command post, sending dust and smoke into the air. Jar Jar dropped flat as metal shrapnel whizzed past him, narrowly missing his head.
Boss Nass stood behind the last line of defense, such as it was now, a contingent of less than a hundred Gungan warriors clustered behind a half-destroyed crest. His broad shoulders were slumped. Mud streaked his once-pristine robes. A soldier next to him was clutching a burned-out electro-pole with no power left in it.
Nass turned to his generals, voice low, guttural.
"Wesa finished."
The words struck like thunder.
A hush fell over the warriors.
Jar Jar pushed his way through the smoke, limping and panting, and stumbled beside his leader.
"Boss Nass, we can't…we can't hold dem off no more. Dey keep comin', and dey ain't stoppin'."
"They're machines," Nass muttered. "No tired. No fear."
The sky was black with Trade Federation ships overhead. Gunships hovered in low orbit, firing down with impunity. Columns of battle droids marched forward with eerie precision, surrounding the remnants of the Gungan forces in a tightening circle.
One by one, the warriors lowered their weapons.
Even the bravest among them could see the truth.
A final squad of droids approached with heavy chains in hand. The Gungans, wounded and bloodied, didn't fight back. There was nowhere left to run. A few dropped to their knees, hands raised in surrender. Others simply stared as the droids methodically began cuffing the survivors.
Jar Jar froze, watching as one of his soldiers, a young one, barely older than a child, was struck across the back of the head with a rifle butt for not kneeling quickly enough.
He screamed and stepped forward. "No! Stop, stop hurtin' dem! Wesa givin' up!"
A blaster rifle swung toward him, and for a moment, he thought it would end there.
But Boss Nass stepped forward.
"Wesa surrender," he said, loud and slow, voice carrying across the ruined field.
He lifted his hands in the universal sign of peace, mud and ash trailing from his fingers.
"Dey brave. Dey fought good. But dey can't win dis."
The nearest droids chirped mechanically and transmitted data upward. Seconds later, a hovering MTT trundled forward and projected a hologram of a Neimoidian commander, cold-eyed, impassive.
"Prisoners," the Neimoidian said. "You will be detained. Cooperate and you will not be terminated."
The image vanished.
Chains clanked as they were fastened. Wrist binds, neck collars. Gungan warriors, great beasts of courage and honor, now stood in lines, disarmed and shackled, heads bowed.
Jar Jar clenched his fists but didn't resist.
He looked back across the battlefield, at the mountains of smoking scrap and Gungan dead.
They had fought for their world. For peace.
And now they had lost.
But somewhere beyond the clouds, he knew, the battle was not yet over.
Not all hope was lost.
The throne room door was under the pressure of the siege outside.
Inside, Queen Amidala stood tall with blaster in hand, her robes singed and dusted with soot. At her side, Shmi Skywalker watched with quiet focus, a small blaster rifle held with surprising steadiness. Captain Panaka and the remaining palace guards lined the heavy metallic doors with whatever defense they had left.
The Viceroy, Nute Gunray, slumped in a corner under guard, his ornate robes stained with sweat and fear, his lip twitching with every distant explosion.
"They won't stop until we're dead," Panaka muttered, checking his power cell. "Or worse…taken alive."
Padmé didn't flinch. "Then we don't give them either."
Outside the throne room, the corridor rang with the clatter of mechanical feet. The distorted voices of B1 battle droids filtered through the thick metal of the main entry.
"Set charges. Target the base of the door. Level-three explosive pattern authorized."
"Roger roger."
Padmé exchanged a glance with Shmi. The older woman's expression was unreadable, but her eyes flicked down to her own carved japor snippet, still held tightly in her grip. She was afraid, but not for herself.
Panaka took a breath. "When they breach, we fall back behind the central columns. Fire from cover. Prioritize Droidekas if you can."
Padmé's knuckles tightened around her blaster.
Another voice rang out, metallic, emotionless.
"Charges set. Detonating in five. Four…"
Shmi closed her eyes. Her lips moved faintly, not in prayer, but in memory.
"Three…"
Panaka barked to the guards, "Take cover!"
"Two…"
The Viceroy whimpered audibly.
"One."
The explosion ripped through the chamber like a thunderclap. Smoke, fire, and dust cascaded inward in a wave of debris. The throne room shook, and the lights flickered. The heavy door crumpled inward, part of it blasted clear off its hinges.
Guards coughed, covering their eyes from the haze. Padmé raised her blaster, peeked from cover, and froze.
No droids entered.
No echo of synchronized metal feet.
Only blaster fire.
Dozens of shots, all rapid, intense, focused.
But none aimed at them.
From the swirling gray smoke beyond the threshold, red flashes of return fire lit the darkness. The sounds of B1s being cut down, of metal bodies clattering to the floor, filled the hallway just outside.
Then… a hum.
A familiar one.
Soft at first, then rising.
Padmé narrowed her eyes through the smoke.
And saw it.
Blue.
And green.
Two lights, pulsing like fireflies, cutting wide, arcing paths through the thick mist.
One moved with a fluid, steady rhythm, precise and unshakable. The other danced like a storm unbound, fast, aggressive, and perfectly timed, each swing devastating.
"Is that…" Panaka whispered.
Shmi stepped forward, blinking into the smoke.
"They came," Padmé said quietly.