Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 8: Crossroads

Galen.

He must have helped you finish it.

"You didn't just help that man last night," she says, her voice lowering, threading into something gentler. "You saved his life."

The words land heavily. Too heavy. They settle somewhere deep, somewhere you never touch because it is full of old guilt and the version of yourself you are still afraid you are. You swallow hard, gaze dropping to your hands.

Your instinctive reaction kicks in: deflection, humility, that old knot of disbelief. You shake your head lightly.

"I... just did what anyone should've done," you murmur. It is the truth as you understand it, the only way you know how to frame things, so they do not feel undeserved.

She lets out a soft exhale; the kind people make when they understand more than they say. When they are trying to reach you without pushing too hard.

"So," she says, folding her hands, "in consideration of your past and your skills, we have a proposal."

You force yourself to sit straighter, muscles tightening instinctively, even as the air around you grows thick, dense enough that every inhale feels like dragging breath through water.

"We want you to be a hero."

Your breath snags. Not a gasp, nothing so dramatic, but a sharp, involuntary hitch that slices through your chest.

Her words do not just settle; they sink, heavy and intrusive, like a hand pressing against your sternum.

A hero.

Your heartbeat stutters, then thuds hard, the way it does right before a fall. Shock hits first, bright and cold. It flashes across your face before you can school it away, an instinctive widening of your eyes, a fractional parting of your lips.

And then the darkness coils beneath it.

Not fear. Not anger.

Something older. Heavier. A memory dragging itself up from deep inside, thick and suffocating, curling around your chest like smoke, like barbed wire tightening with every inhale. The word hero hangs there, sharp, mocking. You can almost hear it, a bitter laugh clawing its way up from your own mind.

"Yes," she says, leaning forward, her voice careful but firm. "But your role would be slightly different."

Of course it would. Of course, nothing in your life is ever simple.

Your jaw tightens. A shadow passes over your face, brief, unrelenting. A flicker of darkness settles behind your eyes, quiet, unreadable, the armour you have spent years perfecting against the world... and yourself.

Call it a hero. Call it what you will. But your story has never fit neatly into any word anyone else chooses.

"First," she continues, her voice steady but softer now, "you'd be helping with the Phoenix Program. I've already narrowed down the list of candidates, but we need someone to evaluate them in person. Home visits, assessments, in-field checks. We only want people who genuinely want to change."

Her eyes soften, and something in her gaze almost pins itself to you, an expectation tempered by belief.

"I believe they deserve a chance. And I believe you're someone who can tell who's trying, and who's pretending."

Your stomach twists. The weight of her confidence in you coils around your spine, pressing down, heavy, unfamiliar. You want to shrink. You want to push it away. But it will not let you.

"Second," she continues, "you'll remain a dispatcher. But now, we'll have the ability to deploy you into the field as your hero identity, if needed."

"You'd be... a ghost in the field," she adds, voice low, almost reverent.