Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 1: Sober Days

The scar remains. Quiet. Almost pretty. A liar.

"Not today," you whisper, and it's more plea than promise.

And the memory sinks slowly, like a weight sliding to the bottom of a dark lake, leaving only the echo of your own heartbeat in its wake. You stand there for a moment, shoulders tight, chest heavy, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind you that you're still here: still alive.

Then, almost automatically, you peel off your sleep shirt, letting it fall somewhere vaguely laundry-adjacent, and step into the shower.

The water is cold.

Not refreshing, not shocking in a fun way, just cold, unforgiving. You are too tired to wait for it to warm. It hits your skin like a thousand tiny needles, biting, snapping you back to reality from the storm still churning behind your eyes.

You tilt your head back, letting the water trail down your spine in steady, quiet lines, but it does not drown the memory entirely. The scar on your cheek itches, not physically, but mentally. That flash of heat, smoke, screams, sirens, the weight of helplessness and guilt, all press against your chest, and your lungs tighten around them.

The world outside the shower ceases to exist.

No alarm, no phone buzzing, no harsh fluorescent lights, just the relentless tick of your own pulse, the sting of the cold water, and the echo of the past clawing at your consciousness. You close your eyes, bite back a shudder, and try to focus on the rhythm of the water, letting it trick you into thinking for a moment that nothing else matters.

God, you could stay here forever. Just you, the water, and the faint hiss of steam curling through the tile.

Some days, it feels less like a joke and more like a temptation.

But not today.

You have somewhere to be. Whether you want to or not.

You finally turn the water off, shivering as the cold air hits your bare skin. Wrapping the towel tightly around yourself, you force your hair into submission with a quick blow-dry, your hands trembling slightly, not from cold, but from adrenaline fading too slowly.

The routine begins. Clean undergarments. Dark, neatly pressed pants, the only clothing in your life that seems to respect the rules. Tucked-in undershirt. And then... the SDN shirt.

The symbol of your suffering. Bright logo over your left chest. Corporate-approved. Perfectly designed to remind you of your own insignificance while everyone else flies around, risking life and limb.

You stare at yourself in the mirror. Straight collar. Hair is still damp at the ends. Slight bags under your eyes. Exhaustion carved into your features like a permanent tattoo. And yet, alive. Still alive.

You grab your bag, your ID, and your boots. Pause in the doorway.

Day thirty-one.

Thirty-one days of staying clean.

Thirty-one days of white knuckling it.

Thirty-one days of doing the thing your brain insists is pointless.

"Hurray," you mutter under your breath. Flat, dry, humourless. The saddest little celebration in the history of mankind.

But it counts. It still counts.

Locking the door behind you, you step into the morning. The air is colder than it has any right to be, and it mocks you for having just left the warmth of the shower. You tug your SDN shirt tighter, brace yourself against the gusts whipping through the streets, and start walking.

Just another morning for you.

The air is colder than it has any right to be, which is especially insulting, considering you have just come out of a cold shower. You tug your SDN shirt tighter and start down the street.

The city is already awake.
People are rushing to work.
Heroes flying overhead like it is completely normal to break the sound barrier at 8 a.m.

A glowing-blue zips past you with a gust of wind that nearly knocks you on your ass.

You glare at the sky.
"No blinkers, huh?"

A few people chuckle as they pass. Good. Let them laugh. You're too tired to care.

You cross the street, dodge a delivery drone that seems personally offended by your existence, and make your way toward the SDN building.

You take a breath, push the door open, and step inside.

Let the bullshit begin.