(SHATTERPOINT) A BAD IDEA II

Greg Veder was beginning to suspect that his dreams were bullying him. There was really no other explanation.

At first, they had been subtle. A glimpse of the Docks here, a rusted hinge there. The sort of random nonsense dreams were supposed to be made of.

Greg had ignored them. Then the dreams had become more specific, showing pieces of the trainyard: a stretch of track, a broken fence, and a row of abandoned boxcars. He’d ignored those too. Then the dreams had become downright rude.

Every night, without fail, they dragged him back to the same place. The same trainyard, the same abandoned boxcar, and the same feeling that something was waiting for him there. 

After several days of this, the dreams seemed to lose whatever patience dreams normally possessed. The boxcar started appearing with more details, showing the rust and faded paint. Greg swore one dream had actually ended with the boxcar sitting in complete darkness while an overwhelming sense of disappointment radiated from somewhere at him, as though the dream was personally offended by his refusal to visit the trainyard.

Which was absolutely ridiculous. Dreams couldn’t be disappointed. That wasn't possible, and yet somehow Greg felt judged every morning when he woke up.

Eventually he cracked.

On a bright Saturday morning, Greg finally dragged himself out of bed and decided to go investigate the trainyard. And he could tell that his dreams, or the thing behind them, was happy with him because everything seemed to go his way. 

For one, his mother made chocolate-chip pancakes, with extra syrup and chocolate chips. The kind she hadn’t made in months because she’d decided Greg needed to lose weight.

Then his father handed him a hundred dollars. A hundred! 

Greg nearly dropped it.

His weekly allowance was nowhere near that amount, and he’d already received it earlier in the week. When Greg had cautiously asked why, his father had merely shrugged and said he’d been doing well lately.

Doing well? Greg had no idea what that meant. He’d spent most of the week browsing PHO and avoiding homework. Then, while leaving the house, he ran into Melissa. His incredibly attractive neighbour, former babysitter, and long-time crush. She had smiled at him, then told him his hair looked nice. Greg had spent the next thirty seconds trying to formulate a response and somehow ended up making a noise that sounded vaguely like a dying seal.

Melissa had laughed, and not in a mean way either, before continuing on her way down the street.

By the time Greg was halfway down the street, a horrifying possibility had begun to form. Maybe he should be concerned. A mysterious force had spent days forcing him toward a specific location through increasingly aggressive dreams, and now everyone around him was acting suspiciously nice the moment he finally agreed. That felt concerning. Potentially very concerning, or at least very eldritch-force-manipulating-the-people-around-him levels of concerning. Greg considered the possibility for almost an entire minute before looking at the hundred-dollar bill in his pocket.

A hundred dollars. Do you know how many games he could buy with that?

But still, the thought had managed to dampen his earlier enthusiasm, and he found himself slowing in his walk to the trainyard. 

What if this wasn’t a reward? What if this was the setup? After all, people always got rewards before terrible things happened to them in stories. A condemned prisoner got a last meal, heroes got everything they wanted before being brutally murdered by the villain, and characters started talking about their future plans right before getting shot. Greg knew how narratives worked. 

And if something was handing out pancakes, compliments, and free money…

Well, that seemed suspicious.

His pace slowed even further as the trainyard sat in the distance, closer now. Questions began piling up inside his head.

What exactly was waiting for him there? Was this how people disappeared? And more importantly, was this the day he died?

A sudden gust of wind slammed into his back hard.

“Ow!”

stumbled forward several steps before regaining his composure and staring behind himself. Nothing. The street remained completely empty, with only a few leaves rolling lazily across the pavement. Slowly, Greg narrowed his eyes. The timing felt suspicious. Almost as suspicious as everything else that had happened today.

The thought should have worried him. Instead, it was oddly reassuring. The universe, or whatever was apparently hijacking his dreams, seemed determined to get him moving. And honestly, if it wanted him dead, there were probably easier ways to accomplish that.

Feeling marginally better, Greg resumed walking, his thoughts drifting to Anakin Skywalker. The timing was simply too convenient. One day he was thinking about finding Anakin’s secret lair, and then boom, the dreams started. Then they escalated until they practically shoved him toward a specific location. The connection seemed obvious, at least to Greg, and he liked to think he was pretty good at spotting conspiracies. His excitement returned despite himself because if he was right, if this really was connected to Anakin, then he might be about to discover something incredible, important, or horrifying.

Maybe all three at once.

The trainyard loomed ahead. Rows of rusting tracks stretched into the distance, abandoned freight cars sat motionless beneath the morning sun, and somewhere among them waited a particular boxcar that had spent the last week invading his dreams.

Greg swallowed.

Part of him wanted to turn around. Another part wanted to sprint the rest of the way. But neither side won.

Instead, he continued forward at a nervous walk. And as he did so, one question refused to leave his mind.

What would he find there?