Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 6: Collateral

On the screen, he smiles, a softness in his face.

"That is my job," he says simply, and there is a warmth to it that makes your shoulders loosen slightly.

Honestly, the way he beams after praise makes him seem like a golden retriever puppy, huge, imposing, but incapable of hiding joy.

A shout cuts through the comms, familiar and steady. "[Y/N]! Sorry, I smashed my earpiece when I fell! But I'm okay!"

Brickhouse's voice.

You exhale, a long, shuddering breath, and the tight knot of fear that had been lodged in your chest begins to unravel. Relief courses through you, sharp and grounding. For the first time in minutes, maybe hours, you feel the tiniest sense of calm amidst the chaos, a reminder that even in the middle of destruction, they survive.

Your hands finally fall from your face, and you allow yourself a brief, shaky smile.

You let your shoulders drop, exhaustion dragging at your spine. "That's great. Good work, team. I'm heading over to assess damage-"

"Aww, c'mon! That can wait, [Y/N]!" Brickhouse hollers through the comms, already sounding like she is ready to party. The other heroes erupt in loud, rowdy cheers, boisterous, careless, echoing through your earpiece.

"We should celebrate!" he adds, laughing.

The irritation starts as a small, sharp spark low beneath your skin, then begins spreading like a slow burn. They cheer again, louder this time, chanting like hyperactive children demanding dessert instead of professionals who just toppled half a city block, saving people.

Your eye gives an involuntary twitch.

Of course.

Typical.

So painfully, stupidly, aggravatingly typical.

"Sorry, guys," you reply in a sing-song voice so sweet it could rot teeth, "but you know HQ gets furious if assessments aren't done."

HQ is not furious.

You are furious.

Because apparently, you are the only one who remembers that the aftermath matters, the injuries, the damage, the trauma that lingers long after the smoke clears. You are the only one who thinks about the elderly woman who might have lost her home, the store owner whose livelihood may be buried under rubble, the children who will develop nightmares from what they watched today.

"Aww, too bad! We'll drink in honour of our reliable dispatcher. We never need to question if we're good enough for the job!" someone laughs, the whole group howling along.

The comms clicks off, their laughter fading.

You groan, gathering yourself just long enough to breathe.

On screen, you see Phenomaman continuing to work with quiet, steadfast dedication. He lifts debris gently as though each stone contains a sleeping bird. He shields shivering civilians with blankets he scavenges from emergency responders. He guides injured families with a soft voice and careful hands, treating every human like a fragile treasure.

Despite not being his home planet, he shows more compassion and far more competence than every other hero on your roster combined.

A tired, involuntary laugh slips out of you.

"Pardon me, [Y/N]," Phenomaman calls, his voice warm but gentle, "but you need to be here. If you wish, I can fly you over faster?"

"Oh-yeah, that'd help a lot. Thanks."