(SHATTERPOINT) THE BAIT

Chisel wasn’t the brightest, and even she’d admit that, though probably with a shrug and a half-laugh and a beer in hand. 

She wasn’t a smarty-pant like Stubs or charismatic like Skidmark, but she could follow instructions, swing a bat, and hold her own in a conversation better than most of the drugged-out zombies the boss kept around. That made her useful, and in the Merchants, being useful was the only thing that kept you above the bottom of the barrel.

So when Skidmark gave her the job—scope out the new mechanic, see if the guy was as good as the rumors said—she said yes without thinking too hard about it. Just smile, bat your lashes, and play the dumb girl card. Let him underestimate you. It usually worked.

She’d even dragged out her old rust-bucket Honda from behind the warehouse. The thing barely ran, which was perfect. She limped it halfway across town, only stalling twice, before pulling into the cracked lot of Dorothy’s Auto.

It was early afternoon, sky gray and bloated, like it always seemed to be these days. Her gum snapped noisily as she tugged down her hoodie and hopped out, surveying the place.

The lot outside the shop was cracked and gravel-strewn, the kind of place that smelled like oil, metal, and maybe faintly of salt air from the bay. Not bad, really. Cleaner than she expected. And organized too. 

She spotted him before she reached the entrance.

Skywalker.

Even without the heads-up from Stubs, she would’ve picked him out. He wasn’t just big, he had presence. Broad-shouldered. Rolled-up sleeves. Muscled, oil-streaked forearms crisscrossed with old burns and scars flexed as he worked under the hood of a battered truck with the kind of skill you didn’t fake. He didn’t move like any grease monkey. Even while performing manual labor, he moved like a soldier. Like a man who’d broken things far more complicated than engines for the majority of his life.

Chisel whistled low under her breath. Damn. She didn’t get chills often. But watching him now, she believed the hype. She could see why Skidmark wanted him.

She leaned against the hood of her car and called out, “Hey! You Skywalker?”

He didn’t look up right away, just kept adjusting something under the hood. A few seconds passed before he finally turned his head, expression flat.

“Yes.”

No warmth or curiosity in his tone, just a certain calmness, like a man who didn’t get surprised easily. She suddenly had the weirdest feeling that he was sizing her up, not the other way around.

“I got a car that needs fixing. Dorothy said to ask for you.”

She hadn’t actually spoken to Dorothy, but that didn’t matter. Half the places in the Bay ran on half-truths and lies, and those who knew better knew not to inquire about other’s words.

He approached with quiet confidence, wiping his hands on a rag. She saw the way his eyes flicked over the Honda, not her, not her face, or her body—none of the places most guys looked. Just the car. Assessing.

“What’s the issue?” he asked.

She popped the hood. “Won’t stay running. Might be the starter. Or the battery. Or both. Dunno. Thought I’d bring it to the guy who’s supposedly a wiz with machines.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw something shift. Suspicion? Caution?

She rolled her eyes beneath her bangs. Either way, it seemed the info on him being an ex-soldier was right. Paranoid much?

“I’ll take a look.”

He bent over the engine, and she watched as his focus snapped into place—the rest of the world seemingly dropping away—hands already working. She leaned closer, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“So... Skywalker. That your real name?”

“It’s the name I gave.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“It wasn’t really a question.”

She snorted, amused. He didn’t even take his attention away from the engine, not even for a second.

Stone-cold.

Skidmark had said to get a feel for him. Figure out if he was desperate. If he could be turned. Right now, she wasn’t getting much.

“You always this chatty?”

“Only when it’s necessary.”

“Cool, cool. Guess that makes you the broody type.”

He didn’t reply.

The silence stretched, broken only by the clang of tools against metal. It should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t. It felt... tense. Like standing next to a live wire.

She tried a different angle.

“Look, I’m not gonna dance around it. People talk. Word is you’ve got skills. Skills that are worth something, and in this city, people pay for talent.”

His hands stilled for a fraction of a second, then resumed.

She leaned against the fender, letting her voice drop a little. “You ever think about side work? Better money. Less... legit oversight.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Didn’t say what it was yet.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She clicked her tongue, annoyed now. “Come on. You’re not dumb. You know how things work here. People like you don’t stay neutral forever. Sooner or later, someone comes knocking. Maybe they ask nice. Maybe they don’t.”

He finally looked up, and something in his eyes made her take a half-step back. Not exactly fear, just... instinct.

“You want my advice?” he said quietly.

She blinked. “Uh. Sure?”

“Don’t come back.”

It wasn’t a threat. That’s what made it worse. It was a warning. Like he’d already seen this play out and written her off, but should she continue, it would be to her own detriment.

For a second, Chisel wasn’t sure what to say, caught off-guard. Then she huffed and tossed her hair, trying to play it cool.

“Suit yourself,” she said coolly. “Could’ve made some serious bank.”

When he was done, she slid him the payment before getting behind the wheel and turning the key. The engine coughed, sputtered, then smoothed into a steady idle.

Fixed. Just like that.

She peeled out of the lot, tires crunching gravel.

. . . . .

Back at the warehouse, Skidmark was pacing up and down the interior, chewing on his fingernails as she walked in.

“Well?” he demanded, spinning to face her. “What’s the verdict? We got ourselves a new toy?”

Chisel tossed her keys on a cracked table and grabbed a beer. “Guy’s stone. Hardly talked. And when it did, it was to the point. Shut me down cold.”

Skidmark’s manic grin didn’t fade. It widened with each word he spoke.

“Cool. Guess we do it the loud way.”