(SHATTERPOINT) A SERIES OF MISTAKES

Anakin knew he shouldn’t judge someone based on appearances. He’d learned that lesson a hundred times over, having met Jedi Masters who started off from humble beginnings, smugglers who turned out to be heroes, and senators who hid secret plots behind polite smiles. The galaxy was full of masks and facades.

But even so…

It was a hard pill to swallow that his only credible lead on Cauldron was a child. And he wasn't just any odd child. No, he was a pimply-faced, greasy-haired, and chubby teenager who looked like he’d lost a fight with both puberty and a washing machine. 

The boy had walked into Fugly Bob’s like he owned the place, plopped himself down at the booth across from Anakin with the graceless confidence of someone who had never once considered being unwelcome, and introduced himself with an outstretched hand and a grin so wide it bordered on manic.

“Greg Veder,” he’d declared, like he was announcing himself at the Senate. Then, as if delivering the true reveal, he’d added: “But you probably know me as XxVoid_CowboyxX.”

Anakin had stared at the hand, then at the boy, then at the hand again. He didn’t take it.

Now, halfway through a greasy plate of fries and something that had the audacity to call itself a burger, Anakin was already regretting the choices that had led him here.

Greg hadn’t stopped talking since their orders came.

“…so yeah, that’s basically how Cauldron runs everything. The PRT? A puppet show. The Protectorate? Mere pawns on the chessboard. Alexandria? Totally a clone, or a robot, or both. And obviously all the Mayors and even the president are compromised too. You can always tell who’s in on it because they drink tap water. That's a classic fluoridation strategy right there. Mind control, dude.”

Anakin took a very slow, very intentional sip of his soda. The straw squeaked, and he struggled to keep the frown off his face. He shouldn’t have come. He knew this was a mistake the moment the kid opened his mouth.

“…and if you follow the money, it’s all there,” Greg continued, gesturing wildly with a fry that sprayed salt and ketchup across the table. “Cauldron’s gotta have, like, a trillion dollars stashed somewhere. Which obviously means they’re behind Lung. You know, Brockton Bay local dragon? Totally a test run for a kaiju. Which also means…” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Godzilla is real. They’re just waiting to drop him in the middle of New York.”

Anakin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was his lead. His only lead.

He should have expected disappointment. The galaxy had taught him many things: never trust politicians, always expect betrayal, and never, under any circumstances, let Obi-Wan cook. But this? This was an insult added to injury. Because, somehow, Greg didn’t sound like someone spinning a joke. He believed every word he said.

His voice carried the unshakable conviction of a prophet and the accuracy of a scatterblaster. 

“You do realise,” Anakin said finally, voice dry as Tatooine sand, “that everything you’ve told me is—” He paused, searching for the right word, then finally settled on the only word that fit. “…nonsense?”

Greg blinked at him. “Nonsense? Dude, no. This is facts, capital F. I’ve been documenting Cauldron activity since, like, two years ago. I’ve got files, charts, red-string diagrams, and connections no one else is willing to admit. The whole fucking deal. Everyone laughs at me, but one day they won’t. One day, I’ll be the guy who blows the lid wide open.”

“You’ll be the guy who gets himself killed,” Anakin retorted flatly.

If Greg heard, he didn’t care enough to reply. He shoved another fry into his mouth and kept on talking, scattering crumbs across the table.

For a moment, Anakin considered standing up and leaving. Every second wasted here was another second Cauldron remained hidden. He had better things to do than listen to a child‘s probably drug-induced ramblings.

But something held him in place. Something that wasn't quite hope, at least not exactly, but more of… instinct. Maybe a remnant of the ability of foresight. 

Because even beneath all the words and the open-mouthed chewing, Anakin could feel it: a spark. A genuine thread of truth buried under garbage. The kid didn’t really know anything, but maybe, just maybe, he’d stumbled close to something real without realising it.

And that made Greg Veder dangerous. Maybe not to Cauldron, but definitely to himself.

Anakin sighed, leaned back in the booth, and stared at the boy who had become his ‘credible’ lead.

Force help him, he’d made a mistake.

But he wasn’t leaving yet.