(SHATTERPOINT) TO PUNCH, OR NOT TO PUNCH, THAT IS THE QUESTION

The opportunity for a one-on-one came far sooner than Ethan had expected, and that alone was enough to put him on edge.

One moment he had been stewing in his own frustration, pacing his apartment and replaying the same useless arguments in his head, and the next he was being escorted through the familiar but suddenly oppressive corridors of the PRT toward the secured medical wing, with Armsmaster walking a step ahead of him. 

The irony of it was not lost on him. He had wanted to confront Anakin Skywalker on his own terms, with time to prepare and some measure of control over the situation, and instead he was being ushered far away from where Battery was likely being questioned, suspended, or worse.

Armsmaster had been very clear before authorizing the visit.

He was not here as Ethan. He was here as Assault.

That distinction mattered, apparently, enough that Armsmaster had paused outside the door and fixed him with a look that made it abundantly clear this was not a casual reminder. Assault was a Protectorate hero, a professional, and a supposedly responsible adult who could be trusted to follow protocol and not make an already volatile situation worse. Ethan, on the other hand, was a husband on the verge of losing everything that mattered to him, and therefore one bad impulse away from doing something catastrophically stupid.

Assault could be trusted. Ethan could not.

So he nodded, acknowledged the rules, and swallowed his objections, even though every instinct he had was screaming at him to ignore them. He forced himself to breathe, to straighten his posture, and to step inside as the person he was expected to be rather than the man he actually felt like.

Anakin Skywalker was seated on the hospital bed, legs crossed, hands resting loosely on his knees, and his back held straight in a way that looked more practiced than natural. There was no visible tension in him, or even guarded alertness. Instead, he seemed settled, as though he had sunk into the space around him rather than simply occupying it. 

It was immediately apparent that Skywalker was not aware of anyone else in the room, and if not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, Ethan might have wondered if the man was even breathing at all.

For a fleeting second, Ethan’s first thought was that the man looked peaceful.

Then the rest of his brain caught up, and all he could see was the face of the person who had kicked over his entire life.

God, it was a very punchable face.

No. Bad thoughts. Very bad thoughts.

He inhaled slowly through his nose and reminded himself, once again, that he was Assault. He was smart, witty, annoyingly good with kids, and widely regarded as someone who did not solve problems with just brute force, no matter how tempting that latter option felt at the moment. He was known for defusing tense situations with humor, charm, and cleverness, not for losing his temper and throwing punches at civilians, trained or otherwise. Punching Skywalker would not help Battery, and it would not convince Piggot of anything except that her worst assumptions were justified.

Even if it would feel really satisfying.

With visible effort, he tore his gaze away and turned to the other person in the room. Triumph stood near the door, helmet tucked under one arm, body stiff in the way of someone who knew they were out of their depth but was determined not to show it. He was younger than Ethan by a fair margin, earnest and capable, and absolutely not someone Ethan wanted dragged into his personal mess.

Despite Armsmaster’s authorization, Ethan was not allowed to be alone with Skywalker, not when the man had already proven himself capable of putting down a Protectorate hero without powers. Triumph was there as backup, as a witness, and, if necessary, as the loudest voice in the room.

Ethan stepped closer and inclined his head, keeping his voice low, though there was honestly no need.

“Any idea why he’s like that?”

Officially, this was a wellness check. Unofficially, it was because Anakin Skywalker was locked in a meditative trance, or whatever the hell this was supposed to be.

No one had been able to get a response out of him for over an hour. Voices, movement, and even attempts to provoke a reaction had all failed. And despite Ethan’s repeated and entirely reasonable suggestion that someone try punching him, no one had taken him up on it.

A tragedy, really.

Still, it was unsettling in a way Ethan had trouble putting into words. Capes slipped into fugue states from time to time, but this felt different, alarming and somehow more intentional, as if Skywalker had stepped out of the world itself rather than simply shut everything away.

Triumph glanced at Skywalker, then back at Ethan, his brows drawing together slightly. “No,” he admitted after a moment. “But something about it feels… weird. And random.”

“Tell me about it,” Ethan muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair..

That was the extent of their conversation. There was nothing else he could say that would not cross some lines or raise questions Triumph had no business being burdened with. He could not bring up Battery, not here and not with someone who would only feel awkward and conflicted by it. That conversation was not meant for an audience, and certainly not for one who would feel obligated to report every word.

And he could not confront Skywalker while the man was still off in la la land, unresponsive and unreachable.

Which meant Ethan could not accomplish what he had come here to do. And no, for once, that was not about punching him. Instead, he was left alone with his thoughts, which was rapidly becoming a problem.

The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hiss of the ventilation overhead and the distant sounds of the building going about its business. After a while, Ethan moved to the wall and leaned back against it, tilting his head until it rested against the cool surface as he stared up at the ceiling. His frustration had nowhere left to go, and the anger drained out of him, leaving something heavier behind.

Worry.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the noise of everything fade into the background.

Wherever Battery was right now, whatever she was doing, he hoped she was okay.