"Don't worry, sir. Help is on the way. Please remain calm, stay hidden," you instruct, your voice steady despite the chaos blaring through your headset. The man breathes out a shaky thank-you. You mute the call.
A long, exhausted sigh forces itself out of you as you drag both hands down your face, palms scraping from brow to jaw as if you could wipe the stress clean, trying to shake off the burn behind your eyes.
Your headset is a storm of chaos, with thunderous crashes of collapsing stone, the metallic shriek of street signs bending in half, and panicked voices overlapping as heroes desperately try to take control of the situation. And threaded through it like a nightmare soundtrack is the warped, roaring voice of the villain, each bellow rattling the microphone.
According to witnesses, the bastard had appeared out of thin air, one moment the street was normal, the next he was tearing into it like some rabid monster unleashed.
Metal buckles under his fists. Concrete bursts like sand. Heroes shout, curse, and scramble for position as you listen helplessly from your console, the destruction echoing through your headset with bone-deep clarity.
At least they got there in time.
Thank God for that.
You should've been home hours ago.
But no, fate, the universe, and SDN's chronically cursed scheduling system apparently decided to form a three-way to fuck you in the ass. A city-level threat rolled in right as your shift ended, and before you could even grab your bag, overtime swallowed you whole like a black hole with benefits.
Fortunately, the overtime pay is decent.
Because absolutely everything else about tonight is pure garbage fire.
You have done this hundreds of times. Dispatching. Coordinating. Moving heroes across a map like pieces on a living chessboard. And you are good at it, unnervingly good. Good enough that people talk. Good enough that analysts double-check your work, not because they expect errors, but because your accuracy freaks them out. Good enough that Blonde Blazer keeps trying to push you into a higher position, one that mirrors hers.
It is also why Blonde Blazer keeps pushing you toward a position that mirrors hers.
"You have the instincts," she tells you. "The precision. You make calls that most people can't."
You suspect the real reason is far less poetic; she wants someone competent enough to help shoulder the avalanche of responsibility she deals with daily.
But either way, your skill has become a problem because the higher you rise, the harder it is to stay invisible. And invisibility is the one thing you cannot afford to lose. Not with your secrets. Not with your plans. Not with the truth you are digging toward.
Normalcy keeps you alive.
While the thunder of collapsing concrete rumbles through your headset, each impact sharp enough to rattle your teeth, you scroll through housing listings on your phone with your free hand. The glow of the screen feels obscene against the chaos in your ears.
Gentrified apartments. Overpriced studios. Old houses that look like they creak at night. Anything. Anything to get you out of your current place.
After the breakdown the previous night, you had started seriously considering moving, unable to shake the tightness in your chest. The nightmare. The memory of them.
And all the unanswered questions.
No matter how many years pass, the image still lodges behind your ribs like shrapnel.
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...
