(SHATTERPOINT) ACCELERATING CHANGES

Anakin had expected whispers eventually.

Cities like this one had a way of passing stories faster than bullets. Still, he hadn’t expected them to reach here so quickly.

The bell above the shop door rang as he stepped inside the auto shop just after sunrise. The sound felt oddly loud in the stale, grease-heavy air, and the fluorescent lights shone overhead, casting uneven shadows across rows of half-gutted vehicles. The usual scent of burnt rubber, motor oil, and soldered wires greeted him.

So did the silence.

It wasn’t true silence, not really. An air compressor chugged rhythmically in the back. A socket wrench clattered to the ground. But it was quieter than it should have been. All the usual banter was gone, and even the radio wasn’t on. The space was filled with whispers when he moved past, and clamped jaws when he turned back.

They all watched him though. Not directly, no one was that bold. These were streetwise people, hardened by poverty and cautious living. They knew better than to stare too long at someone dangerous when they walked through the room. One of the newer kids—Ryan, he thought—stiffened when Anakin passed behind him near the tool racks. Another mumbled a greeting, eyes downcast and voice tight with forced casualness.

Even Dorothy, who usually kept the shop running with her presence, was nowhere in sight at first. 

Anakin neither slowed nor spoke as he walked to his corner of the shop floor, pulled off his coat, and slipped on his PPE with practiced ease.

He told himself this was fine. Expected, even. He hadn’t hidden what he’d done, threatened silence, or demanded loyalty. He had been more interested in the stash in the warehouse. 

But it still spread too fast.

Someone had seen something. Or maybe the surviving Merchants had started talking already. They weren't exactly known for their restraint.

And still... he came back.

It would’ve looked suspicious if he didn’t. If he’d disappeared the night after something violent had torn a chunk out of the local underworld, the wrong kind of attention would follow. 

So he showed up, same as always.

He dropped to a crouch beside an old Ford’s open hood, pulling out a cracked serpentine belt. The engine was a mess, but that was fine. He welcomed the distraction. 

Then, footsteps approached.

Dorothy.

She hovered at the edge of his peripheral vision, arms crossed, and a rag draped over one shoulder. Her expression was too neutral to be anything but a facade.

He spoke before she could. 

“I’m not here to make trouble.”

“Didn’t say you were,” she replied.

“But you think I am.”

She didn’t bother denying it. Instead, she let out a sigh—that wasn't quite filled with disappointment, but close—and said, “I’ve had four of my crew call in sick since yesterday. One of them’s been with me five years. Never missed a shift before.”

Anakin nodded, still not looking at her. “They’re afraid.”

“Should they be?”

“No.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “Are you afraid?”

He turned his head and met her eyes. “No.”

Something in his voice made her take half a step back, though not in fear as expected. But in understanding. As if she’d finally recognized something she hadn’t before. As if she finally realized the implications of the simple truth spoken from the mouth of a man who didn’t know how to fear anymore, regardless of what he faced. 

After all, his two biggest weaknesses, Luke and Leia, were worlds away. Safe now that Palpatine was gone.

She looked away first. 

“Whatever happened between you and the Merchants… I don’t want it spilling into my shop.”

“It won’t.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

He didn’t argue. There was no point because she wasn’t wrong.

Dorothy lingered for another second, then turned and walked back toward her office, boots leaving dull prints on the oil-slick floor.

He wiped the grease from his palms, and slid under the hood. He did his best to ignore the way Dorothy kept glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. The way her eyes always snapped away too quickly. 

He didn't blame her.

She’d taken in a stranger with no past, no ID, and a name that sounded more like a joke to everyone else than anything real. And now that stranger had blood on his hands again, and it was affecting her livelihood.

She had every reason to be afraid of him, of the attention he’d draw, and of the consequences he’d bring down on her head.

He sighed and worked like the machine was the only thing that mattered, and maybe it was. The world faded into grease and torque and careful calibration, hands moving on muscle memory.

But beneath it all, his mind whirred.

Too many eyes were on him now. Too many moving pieces. He needed to accelerate his plans. The boxcar in the Trainyard was secure for now, but now he needed surveillance, deterrents, and contingencies for when capes came knocking. 

And weapons. Always weapons.

The hood slammed shut with a heavy clang. He stripped off his gloves, tucked them into his back pocket, and walked toward the back shelves for a soldering torch.

It was clear now. There wouldn’t be a next shift.

Today would be his last day here.