(SHATTERPOINT) THE WRONG WORDS AT THE RIGHT TIME

Battery hadn’t expected much when the call came through.

Miss Militia’s coded message had been short and to the point: Target sighted at Fugly Bob’s. Civilian presence is heavy. Immediate support required.

That was all she needed. In her experience, situations like this rarely unfolded cleanly. Sometimes it meant a quick scuffle and an arrest, other times it turned into a chase across half the city, and on the rare good days it fizzled before it could ignite. 

But she was ready for any option. Her skintight white and dark grey costume with circuit-like lines was on full display, though they weren't alight at the moment, waiting for her to start charging her power.

Fugly Bob’s was just another greasy landmark in a city overflowing with them: garish neon signs, tacky decorations that hadn’t been fashionable in decades, linoleum flooring dulled by years of footsteps, and a stale scent of oil and sweat clinging to the air. To the civilians here it was comfort food. To Battery it was just another battlefield, one she walked through with the same careful focus she carried into every mission, with measured stride, eyes constantly scanning, and hands loose but ready.  

Families laughed over burgers and fries, students crowded around milkshakes, and couples spoke too closely across chipped tables. None of them paid her any attention, but she hardly cared as she picked out her target instantly, having been briefed on his appearance along with her colleagues. 

Anakin Skywalker. 

He sat in a corner booth, posture deceptively relaxed, yet every line of his frame radiated an oddly menacing presence behind it that set her teeth on edge. The reports hadn’t done him justice. He didn’t look like a former Merchant, or just another common thug playing at being more than he was. He didn’t even look like a soldier, though he carried himself with the kind of self-assurance only years of combat could carve into someone’s bones.

He looked like a man who knew exactly what he was, and didn’t care who else saw it.

And across from him—Battery blinked—was a boy. Scrawny, pale, and no older than fifteen, maybe. He talked too fast, and he gestured with his hands like he couldn’t contain himself. Strange company for a man like Skywalker.

Battery approached, aware of Miss Militia’s gaze tracking her from across the room. If this went wrong, Hannah would be ready to move, but it was on Battery to make the first move.

She stopped at the booth, her stance authoritative without being overtly hostile, and fixed her attention not on Skywalker—yet—but on the boy. Still, every part of her mind whispered caution: if Skywalker reacted poorly, she’d have maybe two heartbeats to act before he struck. 

“What are you doing here with him?” she asked, saying her words carefully. She couldn’t give too much away, couldn’t push too hard, but she couldn’t stonewall either. The boy could panic and bolt, or worse, and Skywalker seemed competent enough to use the situation to his advantage.

The kid froze, halfway through whatever ramble he’d been on. His eyes went wide, then narrowed, suspicion written all over his face. But beneath it, almost painfully obvious, was a different expression: excitement due to recognition. The kind she’d seen a hundred times in cape fans who suddenly found themselves face-to-face with their idols.

“Why?” he asked, voice cracking as it shot higher than he meant. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” Battery said, keeping her tone even, “Skywalker is a person of interest to the PRT. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

The boy shifted, practically squirming in his seat. He flicked a glance between her and Skywalker, who said nothing—only watching with a detached, though curious calm—then back to her. His mouth worked soundlessly as it opened, shut, and opened again, as though caught between fear, awe, curiosity, and the thrill of being caught up in the middle of something big.

Battery leaned in, dropping her voice to keep it between the three of them. “I’ll ask again. What are you doing here with him?”

Her question cracked something loose, and this time, the boy blurted his words out fast and clumsily, like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. “H-he wanted to know about Cauldron. That’s why we’re here. He asked me. I’m just telling him what I know.”

The name hit Battery like a blow to the chest, and her breath caught, her pulse spiking momentarily. However, she forced herself not to react further, not to look over her shoulder at Hannah, and not to betray the sudden crushing guilt and worry pressing against her chest.

But the damage was done. The boy sat up straighter, proud in the way only a teenager could be, and convinced he’d answered well, that he’d said something important, even if he didn’t exactly understand what he had done. And Skywalker? He just smiled, like he’d gotten exactly what he came for, his eyes flicking from the boy to her. He hadn’t missed her reaction. Of course he hadn’t.

In that moment, the lie she had lived for years—the carefully constructed mask she had worn for years—crack straight down the middle. But though her instincts begged her to escape the unbearable scrutiny, to shut this entire thing down before it became more of a mess, years of discipline kept her from doing more than that. She couldn’t afford even the shadow of confirmation, and any overt action would undoubtedly prove she knew more than she should.

“Anakin Skywalker,” she said, maintaining her fraying composure through sheer will. “You’re coming with me.”

It sounded official and firm, but inside, she was slowly unraveling. Because now she knew the truth: whether he’d planned this or not, Skywalker had just been handed a weapon sharper than any blade.

And judging by the look in his eyes, he already knew exactly where to cut.