(SHATTERPOINT) CAUTION

The van rattled down an old industrial road, its frame shuddering over every pothole, and its muffler coughing and sputtering every few minutes. But it kept going, and that was all that mattered. 

Anakin kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other hovering near a scavenged pistol—a standard sidearm with no attachments or modifications—lying on the passenger seat. He had never relied on blasters as a primary weapon, not when he could trust the Force and a lightsaber. But this world demanded compromise, and he’d already made a few.

Two duffel bags packed full of the stolen cash sat in the back, alongside enough scrap tech, components, and power cells to get flagged by the PRT the moment anyone got wind of them. It wasn’t the type of haul he could log around, but a temporary one at best. The kind that brought attention

The Merchants would be talking already. Assuming Skidmark hadn’t killed Squealer for failing, she had likely told him everything. And if she was indeed dead, it would only strengthen the rumors. His name would spread. His face, too, if anyone had captured even a blurry of it.

He wasn’t afraid. Fear was a luxury he’d long since abandoned. But caution? Caution was something he had earned the hard way and very necessary.

He couldn’t return to his apartment. The place barely qualified as shelter: just a windowless second-floor walk-up with thin walls, where the lock on the back stairwell had been broken since the day he moved in. The Merchants wouldn’t even need to break in; they could just walk up the stairs with a crowbar and take what they wanted. And if the gang didn’t do it, some desperate junkie who’d heard about the loot would.

It wasn’t a matter of if he’d be robbed. It was when.

Between the Merchants’ desire for revenge and the desperate, drug-hungry underclass that hovered around them like flies, it was only a matter of time before someone came looking for what he had. And he wasn’t interested in giving them the opportunity.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to stay grounded.

What he needed was a secure location off the radar, and far enough removed from cape patrols that no one would stumble on it by chance. Somewhere he could hide a weapons cache, keep his tools safe, and begin constructing what he needed. A potential base.

The Docks came to mind first. The place was full of gutted warehouses, abandoned offices, and broken-down apartments for even the most destitute to find shelter. But it belonged to the ABB. Lung’s people ran patrols there, and other capes who called the Docks home were notoriously territorial. Moving there would be asking for trouble.

The Trainyard, though. That was different.

It sat on the far side of the Docks, opposite the Boardwalk, and had long since fallen into disrepair. Rows of rusted boxcars, old freight cars, forgotten cargo containers, and concrete platforms made it a natural maze. The ABB still patrolled there occasionally, yes, but mostly to guard illicit shipments or to clear out squatters stupid enough to linger. It was dangerous, but not impossible. If he operated carefully, kept to the shadows, and didn’t draw attention until he wanted to, he might be able to carve something out there.

The van lurched as Anakin turned off the main road, the tires crunching over gravel and warped steel as he approached the yard. Early morning mist clung to the ground, blurring the edges of towering freight cranes and half-collapsed loading bays. And looming on either side of the overgrown path, most of them covered in graffiti or leaning precariously on broken axles, were husks of boxcars.

He parked behind a rusted wall of cargo containers and killed the engine. For a moment, silence settled around him, broken only by the distant sounds of the city. Then, he opened the door, and took a long look at his surroundings, before hitting the gravel with barely a sound.

But he didn’t choose a hiding place immediately. He spent nearly twenty minutes checking the perimeter, eyes scanning for signs of recent activity. There were old cigarette butts, broken bottles, and a faded spray tag on the side of a container, but nothing fresh. No footprints. No used needles. No burned-out trash piles.

Promising.

Eventually, he found what he needed: a half-buried boxcar wedged halfway behind a collapsed concrete loading dock. The door was rusted nearly shut, but with a crowbar and some leverage, he forced it open. And fortunately, the interior was dry, steel-walled, and deep enough to hide his things.

Good enough.

Clearing the path as best as he could, he backed the van in slowly, double-checking his lines of sight, and began to unload. Cash went first. Then the tools. Then the weapons. He organized what he could and laid the more complicated tech out on a tarp near the far wall. One crate he dedicated to stripped-down electronics—batteries, wiring, salvaged processors, and circuit boards—he could use to construct something basic yet undoubtedly useful.

A droid, perhaps. Something small, mobile, with an alert system and defensive capabilities. He wasn’t a Tinker, not by this world’s definition, but he understood machines better than most. Not to say that he would build a functional podracer, at least not until he had the necessary parts, but he could certainly piece together a mechanical watchdog with what he had on hand.

As the sun began to rise, casting a pale light through the mist, Anakin sat at the edge of the boxcar. His pistol rested across his lap, and his eyes stayed on the horizon.

Then, he looked down at his hands—streaked with oil, dirt, and dried blood—then to the equipment and tools he had gathered, and finally to the faint outline of the city that waited beyond the yard.

He did not smile.

He stood.

And then he got to work.