(SHATTERPOINT) AT A CROSSROADS

Anakin Skywalker took another slow bite of his burger, chewing without tasting. His head remained bowed, just enough to stay out of direct line-of-sight of the other patrons. Fugly Bob’s wasn’t his first choice for quiet contemplation: it was loud, bright, messy, and filled with the kind of chaotic energy that came with sugar-hyped children and parents running mainly on caffeine and stress.

But anonymity came first.

He looked the part of a drifter. His coat was nondescript and too big at the shoulders, worn at the seams to look cheaper than it was. A basic makeup kit had softened the angles of his jaw, and colored contacts gave his eyes a dull brown hue. It wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny, especially not from the kind of surveillance Brockton Bay’s capes likely had access to, but it would have to do for now.

Because he was running out of time.

It had taken much less time than he’d expected for his name to start spreading. At first, he thought he’d gotten lucky. After all, most people thought the Merchants would implode on their own, rather than through the actions of anybody else. But now, every time he walked the streets, he saw the signs: looser patrols from rival gangs, cautious probing into former Merchant territory, and an uptick in PRT activity near Dockside.

People were putting the pieces together, and worse, he had nothing to follow up with. 

The Force was still gone. 

Whether it had been torn from him by the strange physics of this world or simply rendered dormant by its alien rules, it didn’t matter. It had abandoned him. He had meditated for hours, until blood filled his mouth from clenching his jaw too hard, and his head pounded. But to no avail. Even weapons that technically didn't need the force to be created, or wielded, ended in failed attempts, draining his supply of power cells and nearly costing him a finger.

He was a normal man now. A skilled one, yes—trained beyond most of this world’s comprehension—but still just a normal man in this world. 

And this world had monsters. 

Walking disasters with too much power and too little sense. And while many of them fought with nothing more than fists and armor, others could melt buildings, summon lightning, or move faster than the eye could track. His skills could only take him so far.

For a moment, Anakin stared at the tray in front of him, at the half-finished fries and a soda he hadn’t touched. Then, he exhaled through his nose and wiped his fingers on a napkin, his mind drifting back to a conversation he had with a random woman in the autoshop. He wasn't sure what her angle was, only that she knew how things worked here.

“Come on, you’re not dumb. You know how things work here.” She had clicked her tongue, annoyed now. “People like you don’t stay neutral forever. Sooner or later, someone comes knocking. Maybe they ask nice. Maybe they don’t.”

At the time, Anakin had dismissed her words. 

Now, he wasn't so sure. 

He had money, plenty of it in various currencies too, and he also had tech components. What he didn’t have was the manpower, or time, to repurpose it. He couldn’t clone, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t brute-force a solution. Even building a basic shielded hideout would require weeks, if not months, and he didn’t have that kind of luxury, or the resources for that.

He needed a safe base of operations, eyes and ears on the streets, and maybe a way to study this world’s strange rules of power. Because if he couldn’t get the Force back… he needed something to close that gap, even if it came with compromises.

The thought made his lip curl.

But was it really more compromising than fighting for the Empire? Than kneeling before Sidious?

At least here, he had a choice.

And then came the other thought, darker and increasingly persistent ever since the ambush. 

Could I become a parahuman?

He didn’t understand all the science, or if there even was science behind it. All he’d gathered so far was that these powers were triggered by a psychological breaking point, moments where the mind fractured just enough for something else to slip in. That was the price they had to pay for power.

But he’d already broken before, more than once. Would that disqualify him? Or was it simply impossible due to him not being a denizen of this world?

He rubbed at his temple, suddenly aware of the familiar dull ache behind his eyes. It was better not to dwell on the abstract; better, instead, to focus on the tangible like machines and tools.

Despite his promise on the rooftop, about how he could be a guardian of peace without the force, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending that this was temporary. That the Force would just come back one day like it had never left, and that he would rebuild a semblance of his old life and everything would return to normal.

It wouldn’t, and he had to accept his new reality, even if that was easier said than done. 

The Force might never return. But if this world had its own power sources, if it had weapons that could hold their own against monsters, then maybe he could build something out of its bones or co-opt it for himself.

He stood with his tray in hand, and made his way toward the trash, keeping his posture slightly hunched, and his stride relaxed and inconspicuous. To the other patrons, he was just another face in the crowd. No one that was worth remembering.

But that wouldn’t last forever. Someone would eventually find him, and when they did, he needed to be ready.

Whether that meant building an army, finding a patron, or becoming something this world feared even more than parahumans… he didn’t know yet.

But he would find a way.

He always had.