(SHATTERPOINT) NO MERCY

Anakin sat in the passenger seat, unmoving, eyes fixed on the darkened road ahead. The city blurred past in streaks of sickly yellow from flickering streetlights, casting long, shifting shadows across his face, and the vehicle’s frame beneath him rattled with every pothole and uneven patch of asphalt. 

The woman—Squealer, as she’d offered in a thin, shaking voice minutes earlier—gripped the wheel like a lifeline, her knuckles white against the oil-streaked leather. One side of her face had already begun to swell where he’d slammed her into the hood, a dark bruise blooming just beneath her temple. Her lip was split. She didn’t touch either injury.

They’d been driving in silence for several long blocks when she finally found the courage—or, more likely, desperation—to speak.

“You gonna kill me after?”

The question hung there, her voice a silent, hoarse plea, like a part of her already knew the answer but couldn’t bear to sit in silence a second longer. Like she just wanted it out there, to kill any hope she had. 

It was arguably tragic, but Anakin didn’t look at her.

“Yes.”

She let out a soft strangled laugh, half laugh, half something closer to a whimper. “Didn’t even think about it.”

“You were involved.”

“I didn’t attack you.”

He turned his head then, slowly. His eyes were cold, his decision final. “You brought the people who did, and you tried to flee when they fell. I don't reward cowardice.” 

Her breath caught. She looked back to the road, lips pressed into a line, and every muscle in her jaw clenched. The flicker of resistance she might’ve had earlier was gone, replaced by something more resigned.

“No mercy, huh?”

“I didn’t earn it,” he said, and for a moment, he nearly drowned in the memories his admission brought up. But he forced them down, burying them like so many other sins. “Neither did you.”

She didn’t respond, maybe couldn’t. Either way, the rest of the ride was finished in silence, tense with the promise of what awaited her at the end of the road.

. . . . .  

The Merchant compound looked deceptively ordinary with white metal siding and broad industrial doors, the kind of place you’d expect to see forklifts and delivery trucks parked in, not addicts and murderers. But that illusion didn’t last long. Up close, the flaws showed: busted windows patched with cardboard, graffiti layered thick enough to form its own paint job, and several sized dents in the doors that hadn’t seen maintenance in years.

Squealer rolled the vehicle to a stop out front. Anakin was already out before the engine quieted, circling around to the driver’s side. He yanked the door open.

“Out.”

She hesitated—long enough to consider running, maybe—but one glance at his face made her rethink it. She slid out slowly, eyes downcast.

Without another word, Anakin turned and walked toward the warehouse, loose gravel crunching underfoot. He hadn’t bothered to clean himself up; his coat hung heavy on his shoulders, torn slightly and stained with dust and blood. Intimidation was a game he’d long since mastered. 

The warehouse doors screeched open, and a man swaggered out like he was arriving onstage.

Skidmark. 

Anakin didn’t need to be told; it was obvious. The man reeked of manic overconfidence, though with an undercurrent of barely-restrained violence Anakin had come to recognize in capes. He was wearing a ripped leather jacket over a stained, white tank top, a mask covering the top half of his face, and his grin was a nightmare of tooth decay and infection. Whatever power he had, it didn’t include hygiene.

“Skywalker, right?” Skidmark called, arms wide in greeting like he was welcoming an old friend. “Damn, wasn’t expecting company this soon. You’re early, or—” His eyes landed on Squealer trailing behind Anakin, and his grin dimmed, though only slightly. “Wait. Where the hell are Mush and Trainwreck?”

Anakin didn’t answer. His gaze swept the area: no snipers on the roof, no motion behind the windows beyond silhouettes watching from cover. Above them, a small security camera hung limp on a broken swivel, aimed nowhere. Sloppy security, but that was typical. 

“Yo,” Skidmark called again, looking past them to scan the empty lot. “Squeals? Where are the others?”

She didn't meet his eyes. “Dead.”

That gave him pause. Skidmark turned back to Anakin, blinking. “Wait—what?”

“You sent them,” Anakin said flatly. “They attacked me, and they failed.”

A long silence. Then Skidmark barked a short, incredulous laugh, high and stuttering, like it was ripped from his throat by nerves. “Hold up—Mush and Trainwreck? You took out both of them? Solo?” He sounded almost impressed. “Shit. Alright. That’s… kinda badass.”

Anakin stepped forward. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

Skidmark raised both hands, still grinning, but the mask was slipping now. His eyes darted from Squealer to Anakin and back again. “Okay, okay. Let’s slow it down. Rough first impression, but maybe things got a little out of hand, yeah? Mush and Trainwreck, they get overzealous so this was probably a misunderstanding. It happens, right?”

Anakin didn’t speak.

“I mean, it’s not like I told them to kill you, just… feel you out. Maybe rattle the cage a little, see what comes out. You know, standard stuff.”

“I’m not interested in your excuses,” Anakin said, walking towards the cape. 

Skidmark’s smile twitched again. “So what now? You here to talk? ‘Cause we can do that. I can be reasonable.”

Anakin said nothing. He just kept walking.

Skidmark’s mouth worked, half-formed words dying in his throat. He stepped back once, then caught himself with a frown.

“This is insane. You think you can just waltz up into my place and—”

Anakin kept coming.

Skidmark's voice finally cracked. “Do you even have powers?”

“I don't need them.”

Another step, and that did it.

“Alright!” Skidmark finally snapped, stumbling back toward the warehouse door. His voice rose, shrill and panicked, to the warehouse behind him. “Get out here, you cockfuckers! We’ve got a goddamn problem on our hands!”