(SHATTERPOINT) ON CAULDRON’S TRAIL

Anakin had learned to read people long before he ever laid hands on a lightsaber. Life in the Outer Rim demanded it. Out there, survival hinged on details so small they could slip past the careless or less observant: a jaw clenched too tight—or whatever passed for a jaw among the countless species that drifted through the poorer territories—the twitch of an appendage creeping toward a blaster, or the fleeting glimmer in someone’s eyes that betrayed fear, resolve, or sheer desperation. Miss one of those signs, and you might not live long enough to regret it.

The Jedi had shaped those instincts into discipline, or tried to at least, and the Force had refined them even further, granting him awareness that stretched past the physical. 

Now, stripped of that bond, he was left with habits and training alone. But even so, he saw it.

Battery’s reaction.

It was small, almost laughably so. A hitch in her breath, a stiffness that didn't befit the moment, and a glance that darted away too quickly to be casual. To anyone else, it might have passed for nothing more than professional vigilance, or even a meaningless and coincidental twitch out of habit. But to Anakin, it was as clear as a shout across the room.

She knew the name.

She had heard of Cauldron.

The boy had said it without a shred of caution, oblivious to the connotations the word carried, and she had reacted. That was confirmation enough.

Anakin leaned back in his seat, trying and failing to mask the hint of satisfaction behind a neutral expression. Perhaps he wasn’t as cut off from the Force as he thought. He could no longer feel its invisible flow, no longer sense either its warmth or chill wrapping around him, but maybe it was still there, behind the scenes, nudging the board and arranging the pieces in his favor. 

However, coincidence, luck, or the Force itself, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was closer now than he had been minutes earlier.

Battery, still trying to maintain her composure, repeated her instruction for him to come with her. Greg was left behind, frowning in confusion—caught somewhere between pride at being included and the sudden fear of being left out—but Anakin pushed himself up smoothly, offering no resistance. Not yet, at least.

He followed her through the restaurant, weaving past families gnawing at fries and couples sharing cheap shakes. Conversation paused as they passed, and heads turned, curiosity piquing in their wake. A few phones even angled up as though the owners were just checking messages, but the faint glint of camera lenses betrayed them. Eyes tracked them all the way to the back, where Battery pushed open the narrow hallway leading toward the bathrooms.

The noise of the restaurant was deaden here, replaced by the sour tang of disinfectant that barely covered the staler odors beneath: grease that clung to the walls, urine that lingered no matter how much bleach was dumped, and something unidentifiable that made the area feel like it hadn’t been truly clean in years.

Battery turned to face him, chin lifted, but her arms hung just a little awkwardly at her sides, fingers twitching near the circuit-like lines etched into her costume. White and dark grey caught the harsh light, the design blending horribly into one dark smudge, but her posture left no question. She was ready to fight.

Anakin let the silence stretch, even as he openly studied her every move. People filled silence with their own truths if you gave them enough time, oftentimes revealing their innermost thoughts. And to her credit, she held out longer than most, her erratic twitches—no more reserved to just her fingers—betraying nerves she couldn’t hide. But eventually, she broke.

“Anakin Skywalker,” she said. “You are a person of interest to the Protectorate. You will come with me for questioning.”

Her tone was intentionally clipped, meant to sound official, and she stood with her shoulders squared, trying to project authority. But Anakin had been around politicians too long not to notice what was missing. While it might be due to the situation causing her to forget, there was no crime named, no visible warrant, and no justification beyond her implicit authority as a hero.

Which meant Greg had been right about at least one more thing. The Protectorate weren’t the players. They were just pieces.

Anakin’s lips curved into a small smile, more predatory than amused. “Interesting,” he said softly, the word rolling off his tongue easily.

But Battery was wound so tight that her reaction surprised even herself. Instead of stiffening as expected, she instinctively shifted back a step, hands half-raised before she caught the slip and forced them down again, fingers resting against her waist as if to ground herself.

“That’s not an answer,” she managed, the words pushed out too fast.

“No,” Anakin replied, and now, he was amused. “It’s not.”

He made no move to attack or even intimidate yet, but every fiber of his body remained taut, prepared for that definitive crack in her facade that would tell him everything he needed to know. He’d fight if he had to, tear through the walls of this dingy restaurant if it brought him closer to the truth.

But maybe he wouldn’t need to.

Because Battery had reacted to that name, she knew something, and that meant this wasn’t just another dead end.

This was the beginning of the trail.

“Why were you at Fugly Bob’s?” she asked, and the sudden question told him to expect more in that vein, stacked one after the other, almost procedurally.

“Eating.” 

Her visor hid her eyes, but Anakin didn’t need them to read her expression. The disbelief punctuating her voice was plain enough.

“With a child?” she pressed.

“I approached him online.” His face didn’t so much as twitch, his voice flat in that dismissive way that carried more weight than defensiveness ever could. “He seemed eager to talk.”

“What business did you have with him?”

“He claimed to know something I was curious about.”

Every answer he gave was honest, stripped of any embellishment or effort to convince, and still, she didn’t believe him. Anakin could see it in the small betrayals of her body language, especially now that her composure was fraying: the slight adjustment of her stance, weight shifting as though she were bracing for something unsaid; the taut line of her mouth that turned each question into an accusation before it even left her; and the skepticism written into the set of her shoulders, and the very way she held herself.

He was giving her the truth, and she still searched for lies.

Whatever connection she had to Cauldron had hollowed out her trust until suspicion was second nature. And though her paranoia was interesting on some level, what mattered most was its direction. It was pointed, oddly enough, and that told Anakin more than any of her movements ever could.

“Do you know the repercussions for your actions against the Merchants?” she asked next, and though her voice still aimed for professional detachment, the cracks were there now, too obvious to ignore.

That was when Anakin decided he’d had enough of this farce.

He stepped forward, just slightly, but in the narrow hallway the movement was enough to make the space feel smaller, as if the walls themselves were closing in. She tried to respond in kind, the circuit-lines on her costume glowing electric blue-white as a silent warning. But for all her effort, her height worked against her, the display coming off more forced and childish than imposing

Anakin’s gaze bore down on her, and though his breathing was no longer the rhythmic, mechanical rasp it once had been, in that moment the sound carried the same unmistakable weight. A reminder that whatever happened next, regardless of her powers, she would escape only if he allowed it. And he made certain she understood that.

“How do you know Cauldron?”

Battery froze immediately—the smallest pause, no longer than a single beat—then her lips parted, closed again, and her throat worked as though even trying to shape the word was forbidden.

He had played along, answering her meaningless questions. Now it was her turn, and he would press until whatever was left of her facade shattered completely, until the truth she guarded spilled out whether she meant it to or not.