(SHATTERPOINT) LUCKY OR NOT

Miss Militia—or Hannah, since she was in civilian wear now, her dark hair tied back with a cheap scrunchie—kept her shoulders loose and posture relaxed, the way she had practiced for years. Nothing about her screamed cape, not the clothes she wore, not the way she sat in the booth, and not even the way her gaze occasionally swept the room. To anyone else in Fugly Bob’s, she was just another woman fueling up with a combo meal before a long day ahead.

And God, did she enjoy it.

Most of her colleagues at the PRT would be scandalised if they knew this was her ‘safe spot.’ Armsmaster would lecture her about cholesterol and combat readiness, Dauntless would probably smile politely and change the subject, Assault, predictably, would make some off-colour joke about her ‘cheating’ on him with the restaurant. Even Battery, who was less judgmental than most, would likely give her a baffled look. To them, Fugly Bob’s was grease masquerading as food, fuel at best and borderline poison at worst.

But they didn’t understand. None of them could, at least not in the way she did.

She had grown up halfway around the world, in a small village where ordinary fast food had been an occasional fantasy whispered about by children and soldiers alike. The smell of fries in the air, the oversized soda cups, and the tacky decorations were things she had once thought existed only in movies. To sit here now, in the cheap American chain, wasn’t just a form of comfort. It was a reminder of the life she had chosen, the culture she had fully embraced.

Fugly Bob’s was messy, cheap, and unapologetically American to its bones. And Hannah loved it for that.

Which was why, for once, she had wanted to forget her assignment. Just for one meal, she had hoped to let her guard down and relax. Since she started, her quarry had been elusive, almost maddeningly so. There had been no sightings and no solid leads, only vague rumours and speculations on the street. Anakin Skywalker, if that was even his real name, had turned into a ghost after his violent clash with the Merchants.

At least, until now. 

Her straw was pressed to her lips when her body stilled because, in the same place, and at the same time as her, sat her target in a booth.

Her first impression was how unmistakable he was. The reports hadn’t lied: tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair. Even while dressed in faded civilian clothes that should have let him blend in with crowds, and wearing cosmetics, he carried a presence that pulled eyes toward him. The kind of man you noticed whether you wanted to or not.

And he wasn’t alone.

The boy across from him was the exact opposite, awkward, pimply, with his blonde hair in a messy bowl cut, his gestures too big and his grin too wide. He radiated energy in a way that was almost exhausting to watch, expression swinging between overeager and smug as he talked nonstop, while Skywalker sat with the heavy, half-distracted air of a man regretting every choice that had led him here.

Director Piggot’s orders had been clear. Assess first. Do not provoke unless there is no other option. If she determined Anakin could be reasoned with, if he wasn’t just another unpredictable, dangerous unknown, Hannah was authorized to make contact. She was to, if things went well, open dialogue, keep the exchange civil, and, if possible, extend the invitation for an unofficial meeting.

On paper, it was a sound plan. Brockton Bay couldn’t afford another wild card running unchecked, and diplomacy had its merits. But sitting here, watching Skywalker frown thinly at whatever the boy had said, Hannah felt her pulse quicken. 

This was not the clean scenario Piggot had imagined, the kind she could ease into with a polite smile and easy questions. It was potentially messy, and full of variables Piggot hadn’t accounted for: a high-profile, unknown target sitting in the middle of a crowded restaurant; a teenager—victim or accomplice, she couldn’t yet tell—sharing his table; and scattered between them were civilians, families and loners alike, people who had no idea how close they were to danger. 

There were too many ways one wrong move could lead to this situation escalating faster than she could handle.

The reasonable part of her—the hero who had learned to abide by the rules—reminded her of Piggot’s orders. She wasn’t here to escalate unless escalation was unavoidable. But her instincts, honed from years as a human minesweeper, screamed louder. Everything about this felt wrong and too convenient, as though Skywalker had chosen this place knowing eyes would be on him.

As such, her muscles tensed in preparation before she could stop herself. Because her power was technically always active, she was already armed. A knife, conjured prior to her entry into the restaurant, rested snug against her thigh in the holster strapped beneath her jeans. The weight was a familiar, comforting reassurance that she could act the instant she had to. But just because she could, didn't mean she would, so the blade stayed hidden, its presence her secret alone, while her hand slipped into her jacket pocket, where something far more useful waited.

She hadn’t expected to use it so soon, but necessity left little room for hesitation. She slipped out the burner phone, thumb hovering over Battery’s name.

The heroine wasn’t just reliable, but her speed put her response time second only to Velocity, and she was already stationed close to this area. If things went south, Hannah could at least hold the line until backup arrived.

She tapped the contact and sent a brief, coded message. 

Target sighted at Fugly Bob’s. Civilian presence heavy. Immediate support required.

Her thumb hovered over ‘send’ for only a second before she pressed down.

Now all she could do was wait.

She set her soda carefully on the table, leaned back into the hard plastic booth, and forced her expression into something neutral, just another tired woman finishing her meal. But her eyes never left the pair across the room for long, even as they flicked to the exit for signs of Battery’s arrival, and every nerve in her body was taut.

Why was he with the boy? Recruiting? Grooming? Using him as a hostage? A cover?

Her grip tightened around the soda cup until it creaked.

Whatever his reasons, she couldn’t let this turn violent, not with so many innocents in the crossfire. She would remain vigilant until Battery arrived, and in the meantime, pray—for herself, for the boy, and for everyone else in the restaurant—that nothing went wrong.