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Equius winced quietly as his bruised knuckles met wrought iron and riveted steel, denting it, sending robot face hurtling three feet back into the nearest wall. He panted, just as quietly, and wiped a line of sweat off his brow with the back of his head, flicking it onto the ground, where more sweat surrounded him in a gentle puddle. He sure was sweating a lot, which was a thing he did frequently because he was a very sweaty Alternian, and not a human as the past checks notes several dozen if not hundred stories would lead you to believe. Equius was definitely a hale and hearty Alternian, with rich indigo blood, dark circles under his eyes, and very bruised knuckles. Sure, he could punch a robot in half, but he couldn't ignore the laws of physics. Nobody could. Yet.
The recently-hit robot left a trail of sparks along the firm floor as its heels ground into the laminated bicarbonate material with enough force to leave a second trail of dust and ashes. It hit the wall of Equius's room, since re-re-re-reinforced after the other fifteen times he blew through it by punching something too hard, and clanked quietly, pained by the impact. Why, oh why did their creator allow them to feel pain? Yes, it made them fight harder, and it was all simulated pain anyway so there was nothing to actually feel, but-- And that was about where its train of thought ended as Equius smashed through its robotic head with his fist, making gentle, dapping contact with the wall behind it. Then, he retracted his hand through the smooth entrance hole it had made, like a bullet wound, carved through the metal, and shook it like it was the smoking barrel of a gun.
Whipping around on his heel, Equius cocked up like a trigger being pulled and shot his fist forward, another bullet through the head of an approaching robotic combatant. The muscular action was all reflexive, trained on sweeps of punching robots to death and then repairing them. It wasn't in the arms, the arms were just an instrument, and everyone was always surprised by how "flabby" Equius's arms "seemed". No, the truth to throwing a good punch was in the shoulders and the hips, and nobody ever commented on how distressingly built Equius's shoulder blades were, how they tensed when he twisted his entire body and threw his weight into a single forward jab momentous enough to shatter metal and then twisted right back into place. He had a boxer's form, perfect stance, every time. This time, the robotic assailant stumbled back a bit before advancing forward again, with the troll clearly having missed his positronic brain.
No problem. Equius let out a huff of air and a loud kiai before roundhousing the robot's head into a nearby field-and-pole stickball hoop backboard, where it ran around the rim a couple of times before falling through.
He looked around himself and adjusted his gloves. All around him, in his training room, were the remnants of scrapped, defeated machines, all disassembled by his hand in the most absurdly literal sense possible. And they would all be reassembled by his hand too, when he played god next, rivets pulled apart with no tools, no screwdrivers, metal bent back into place and hammered with his fists. Not the least of which being that he broke every hammer he tried to use, and thus had to learn his strange, alternative methods. There was a tiny background hum of whirring servos and broken motors as they all ground to a steady halt, and he grabbed the nearest towel slung over the hook in the wall, wrapping it around his shoulders. Soon, he would be in his massage aperture, and it would be squeezing his biceps and calves to gentle relaxation perfection, but first, he had to turn around, look at the glinting red eyes of his machines, and depart into the hallway, flicking the light switch off behind him.