(SHATTERPOINT) PROSPECTING

Skidmark knew, without a doubt, that the universe hated him.

Not in the cosmic, grand, ‘you were born under a cursed star’ kind of way. Or in that fate or karma or any of that religious bullshit. No, it was personal. The universe had it out for him. It fed him scraps of luck just often enough to keep him desperate, tossed him scraps of power just strong enough to make him reckless—to keep him stupid—and then kicked him in the dick every time he got his hopes up that he could be more.

Still. He was alive. He was still the top dog in the Merchants. And in this flaming garbage heap of a city, that counted for something.

He lounged in his throne: an office chair duct-taped to the roof of a stripped-out minivan, parked dead center in the graffiti-splattered husk of what used to be a grocery store warehouse. The fluorescent lights above bzzt repeatedly like they were on life support, giving the whole place a twitchy, twitchy vibe. Just how he liked it.

The bass of a dubstep remix rattled from busted speakers zip-tied to metal shelving. Static flickered from a half-broken CRT TV mounted to a shopping cart, looping a two-decade-old commercial about cough syrup.

He was just getting into the zone when someone knocked over a stack of milk crates near the entrance.

“Boss,” one of his boys grunted. Thin, twitchy, perpetually confused, like a rat that had developed a drug habit and paranoia in equal doses.

Skidmark blinked, then wiped his face free of drool with the back of his sleeve. “This better be good, Stubs. I was vibing.”

Stubs adjusted his hoodie. Gray, threadbare, and stained with what might’ve once been chili. “Got word from one of the Chop Shop boys. That woman, Dorothy, that runs the repair place near the docks? She’s got a new wrench monkey. Big guy. Real weird. Military type, maybe. Keeps to himself, but works miracles with scrap.”

“Oh?” he said, sitting up a little straighter, interest piqued. “Tell me more, my charming little info goblin.”

“Not much else. Name’s fake—'Skywalker' or some dork crap. No records. Doesn’t talk much. But get this: guy rebuilt a Civic transmission in an hour and had time left to weld the frame back together like it came outta factory. The guy’s not just good, he’s really good.”

A smile cracked across Skidmark’s face.

See, this was what the others didn’t get. Lung and his fire-breathing dick-measuring tantrums, Kaiser and his white supremacy bullshit—always going for power plays, territory, politics. Boring.

Skidmark thrived on chaos. On opportunity. And if some war-hardened mystery grease monkey had dropped into his city with no past and god-hands for machines?

That was a golden opportunity with oil-stained edges.

He stood up on the roof of the van like it was a stage, arms spread wide like a DJ at a rave. “Gentlemen, and Stubs! The gods of fortune, in their infinite mercy, have gifted us with an artifact of unknown origin and considerable skill!”

Stubs squinted. “That’s not what—”

“Shut up.” Skidmark waved a hand. “Listen. We got a guy, right? No ties to any gang. And if he’s as good as they say? We bag him, boom! We start winning. Him and Squeals working together and we’ve got more clean-running trucks, better guns, maybe even bullshit armor like Arms-bastard. Doesn’t matter if he’s not a cape, he’s useful. And in this city, useful is as good as any power.”

Stubs scratched his neck. “So… what, we jump him and toss him in a van?”

“Noooope.” Skidmark shook his head quickly, pacing now. Voice rising, jittery, like he was winding himself up on his own genius. “Bad move. He’s quiet and disciplined. That’s ex-soldier shit. You try to snatch a guy like that, you get a broken jaw and a concussion first before he starts asking questions. Nah. We be smart.”

“Smart?” Stubs echoed, as if tasting the word for the first time.

Skidmark ignored him.

“We send someone subtle in,” he continued. “Someone who doesn’t look like us.”

He turned, eyes darting across the warehouse until they landed on Chisel, one of the few Merchants who didn't look or smell like a dumpster fire. She had clean hands, a beautiful face, a brain not yet fried by drugs, and an old sundress that was still in relatively good condition. To Skidmark, she might as well have been a model.

“You. Chisel. You’re up.”

She looked up from where she was picking at a scab on her arm. “What?”

“Go to the shop. Say your ride’s busted. Ask for Skywalker.”

“What if he doesn’t take the bait?”

Skidmark grinned wide, eyes bright with that twitchy, manic glow. “Then we get louder. If this guy’s as good as I think, we can buy him, scare him, or steal him. One way or another…”

He looked out the warehouse door, where the distant skyline of Brockton Bay shone like a dying bulb.

“…I’m getting my hands on that gold.”