Night Battle

Her father taught her to fight, not wanting to, not seeing an alternative. Fighting was his life- for her, he wanted better. Better she be a doctor, a scholar- but that wasn't their world anymore.
She learned well. “Deadeye,”, the guards said, only half joking.
He didn't teach her control, how to put away the fear and rage of the fight and shoot true. Her hands trembled, and she missed as often as she hit.
Still they came, screaming, insane.
Out of the darkness, a huge shape, armoured, face hidden by a welder’s mask.
A meat hook for a hand.