CORUSCANT: A DARK tumble of city rises in the viewport of Anakin’s ship, with climbing, neon-embedded spires. A riot of form && ego twisting deep into the uninhabitable core of the ecumenopolis. He turns to look at the prisoner with a hard frown && burning, plunging eyes. Like he might strip her clean of the lies && flesh, && find the raw, bruised core he knows he can use to make her talk.
Anakin has always had a talent for interrogation— he always gets them to talk, even if his preferred methods tend to sit a bit unsteadily with the Council. As far as he’s concerned, the only thing that matters is that he’s effective.
He turns back to the viewport, his grip tightening on the yoke. ❝ We’re almost there. ❞










