(SHATTERPOINT) FIGHTING A PARAHUMAN

Fighting a parahuman—especially one as powerful and well-trained as Battery—should have been impossible for any ordinary human, even for someone like Anakin Skywalker.

But that was in a straight fight, and this wasn’t that.

He’d accounted for this possibility the moment she’d started cracking, the moment her facade of calm had slipped, and her voice started trembling. He hadn’t known for certain that she’d attack, but he had hoped she would, because he needed her to.

Cauldron was secretive, yes, but power structures, no matter how clandestine, always had ways of monitoring their assets. If Battery was one of theirs, as her behavior had now all but confirmed, then someone, somewhere was watching. Maybe not constantly, maybe not during every rescue or routine patrol, but this? A public confrontation, in front of another Protectorate hero, against a civilian who had just accused her of treachery? They’d notice. They’d have to.

It was a risk, and a monumental one at that. If they were anything like the organizations he’d dealt with before, he knew exactly what people with power did when someone threatened to expose their secrets. They could easily decide to end him before he became more of a problem. 

But what was the alternative? To do nothing? To wait and hope someone else uncovered the truth?

No. That wasn’t who he was.

So yes, it was reckless. But Anakin had long ago made peace with the fact that his path was never going to be safe.

Still, all of that depended on one thing, winning, and that was easier said than done.

From the moment he’d leaned back against the wall, he’d been preparing himself for this outcome. His stance wasn’t casual; his weight had been centered, his right foot braced to push off. He hadn’t brought a weapon—a mistake he would not repeat—but in truth, that absence would ultimately serve a purpose.

After all, there was a difference between a man with a gun beating a parahuman and a man with nothing but his hands doing the same. The first could be dismissed as luck or circumstance. The second? That would make people pay attention.

So when the lines on Battery’s costume began to glow, Anakin was already moving.

He shoved off the wall, twisting to the side just as her fist blurred through the space where he’d been standing. The rush of displaced air grazed his shoulder, followed by a sound akin to that of a cannon blast. Plaster and concrete shattered, the wall caving inward under the sheer force of her punch, leaving a crater big enough to swallow her entire arm.

It was a mildly sobering realization, seeing just how powerful Battery was up close. Which was why Anakin was glad that she was angry.

Anger made people predictable. It stripped them down to instinct, to simple patterns of reaction and aggression. He’d seen it countless times, in those driven to fury after watching their loved ones die, in those clawing for validation, in those seeking to make sense of the world after a paradigm shift, and most especially, in himself. Rage narrowed your vision of the world until all that remained was the object of destruction.

Battery was no different. Her movements, for all her speed, were obvious. She had lunged at him, telegraphing her strike with the same single-mindedness that probably made her such a reliable hero in calmer moments. She was fast—almost too fast for him to follow—but she wasn’t thinking anymore.

That was the difference between them.

His anger was a tool, honed over years of battle, one he could grip and release at will. Hers was raw and unfocused, the kind that burned everything it touched. And sooner or later, it would burn her too. 

So Anakin didn’t need to overpower her; he just needed to let her make enough mistakes that he could capitalize on. Let her forget that Miss Militia was still in the hallway, though obviously shocked by the situation. Let her forget that every second spent attacking him only deepened the hole she was digging for herself.

Anakin allowed the momentum of his push to carry him into a roll. When he came up again, he rushed back in. Battery’d need a second, maybe two, to pull her arm free. It wasn't much, and even that was mere conjecture; her self-preservation instincts were stifled by her anger, so though she might not be immune to danger, she might not really care about hurting herself in her aim to hurt him. But it was enough for someone who lived on split-second decisions. So he swept her legs out from under her, using the momentum of her own forward drive against her. She hit the ground hard, but before he could follow through with another strike, she had freed her hand.

That was his mistake. His second, if he was being honest. The first had been still underestimating her abilities, despite acknowledging her as powerful. And the second was assuming that just because he’d handled the Merchants single-handedly, he could do the same to every other parahuman.

Because Battery wasn’t just fast. Her reflexes were enhanced too.

Her fist lashed out in a blur, faster than anything he’d seen since his days in his universe. It was only pure instinct that allowed Anakin to raise his hand in time and block the attack, for all the good it did.  

The impact was catastrophic. 

Pain erupted through his arm as bone gave way audibly under the force of her blow, blood spattering the ground.

For a moment, everything froze. Even Battery. Her face twisted, not with anger but horror. She hadn’t meant to do that, and she hadn’t expected to. Whatever fury had driven her seconds ago faltered under the sudden, brutal reminder that she was fighting a civilian.

Anakin didn’t give her the time to recover.

Pain was an old companion, one that had taught him discipline far better than any Jedi master ever had. It demanded focus, it punished mistakes, and right now, it was all that kept him moving. So he seized it, drew it in like a breath, and turned it into motion.

Before Battery could reorient herself, he was already closing the distance. His body moved the way it always did when he fell back into the blended fighting style he used as Darth Vader. Every step carried the weight of years spent fighting in armor, and even stripped of the Force and his lightsaber, the essence of his style remained: domination through precision and overwhelming offense.

He didn’t have a weapon, so he became one.

Pivoting sharply on one foot, he twisted his hips and drove his leg upward in an arc. The motion was explosive, every muscle working in unison to deliver maximum power.

The kick landed true, catching her cleanly across the side of the neck. Her costume wasn’t built for impact resistance, only mobility, and the result was immediate. The impact reverberated through his bones, followed by the sharp exhale of air from her lungs as her head snapped sideways. The glowing lines of her costume abruptly faded, and she crumpled, her body going limp before she even hit the ground.

Anakin remained still for a second longer, leg poised in the aftermath of the strike, breathing hard through clenched teeth and his broken arm throbbing in protest. He lowered his foot slowly, eyes fixed on the fallen hero.

Extreme? Perhaps. But she had shattered his arm. And he had never been one for restraint in this sort of situation.

The sound of boots scraping against concrete drew his attention. Miss Militia stood close enough to him, eyes wide as the green-and-black blur of energy solidified into a gun in her hands. But she was too late to interfere.

Anakin turned his head slightly toward her, his voice calm despite the blood still dripping from his hand.

“She isn't as hurt as you fear,” he said. Then, after a pause, his gaze fixed on her, unblinking. “But understand this, I am not always this forgiving.”

It carried the certainty of both a promise and a threat, a quiet reminder that unlike Battery, Miss Militia was only human, and—should she try him—he knew exactly how fragile that made her.