Another day in the SDN office.
Another night, actually.
The SDN building is nearly silent, the kind of silence that settles only after everyone else has escaped the fluorescent hell. It is 8 p.m., the sky outside darkening into a bluish smear against the windows. Most of the dispatchers and heroes have already clocked out or are out responding to disasters scheduled by someone else.
You are hunched at your desk with the glow of a tablet in your face as you rotate between three tasks: arranging hero–dispatcher pairings, reviewing evaluation sheets for the Phoenix Program, and double-checking criminal profiles for the Z-Team.
You sigh heavily and scroll through the hero roster. That part's easy. Powers, personalities, logistics, it is basically cosmic group-project matchmaking.
"Picking coworkers like it's some kind of supernatural dating app," you mutter to no one in particular.
The villains, though?
That's the headache.
The Phoenix Program signup list sits before you, comprising criminals who voluntarily seek a chance at redemption, learning to work under supervision. The Z-Team candidates.
Whoever named them that probably thought it sounded cool.
"Z-Team," you scoff. "What does the Z even stand for? Zero luck? Zombie tendencies? Z for 'Zamn, we're screwed'?"
Technically, Blonde Blazer should be handling this, but she prefers making you do it.
"Because you're good at it," she once said.
At first, you thought she simply didn't trust you. Or she thought it was safer this way. Or maybe she just hates paperwork. Or maybe she-
God, stop overthinking. She obviously isn't like that.
She is a hero, after all, one of the top dogs.
She's probably out there saving a city block right now, while the least you can do to help is do this.
You let out a long, loud groan and kick your legs up onto the desk, headphones on, your personal ones, the ones that play music so loud it drowns out the rest of the world.
You skim the villains signed up for the Phoenix Program: aliases, reports, psychiatric evaluations that use words like comorbidity and remorse as if ink can cure anything. Some names give you bad feelings; instincts sharpened over years of watching "super-powered" people cause chaos. The Z-Team roster must be balanced in terms of skill sets, triggers, and grudges. The wrong pairing and you don't just lose a case; you lose a person.
Arsonist. Another. Kidnapper. Another.
Mass murderer.
Mass murderer with cold-blooded execution and zero remorse in the intake interview.
You shut that folder and stare at the ceiling for five minutes.
And then your mind drifts.
To him. The stranger you met last night. Intense.
There was something intense about him, not in the loud, dramatic way most people confuse with danger, but in the quiet kind that sneaks up on you. The way his eyes lingered, sharp but tired. The way he spoke, steady but edged with a history he wasn't telling.
He looked like someone who had been fighting long before he ever threw an actual punch.
Someone who carried old bruises beneath his ribs, and somehow still found the strength to toss out dry humour like it never cost him anything.
YOU ARE READING
Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)
Romance"Dude, I think I miss working as the Dispatcher..." It wasn't supposed to be like this. One minute, I was behind a desk, pushing papers. Next, I was thrown into chaos. I used to only read about it in incident reports. Somewhere along the way, I stop...
