"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...
"Only when situations escalate beyond the usual will your actions be logged officially," she explains, her tone measured. "Most of the time, though, you'll operate off the grid, a free agent, unpredictable and untethered."
You snort, bitter and dry, the edge of scepticism sharpening your words. You know the truth: "off the grid" and "untethered" are illusions if you are still under SDN. "It honestly sounds like you're making me do the dirty work here, Mandy."
Her body stiffens ever so slightly at the use of her real name. You can see the flicker of discomfort, and it only sharpens the tension coiling in your chest.
"I've told you," you continue, tone clipped, steel under the words, "I don't want to be a hero. Or climb ranks."
"I know," she says, nodding, the weight of her belief in you almost tangible. "So, I negotiated. On paper, officially, you remain a dispatcher. However, your hero work will be stored in a separate file. Yours to control. You choose what goes in it. How it is documented. What it becomes."
She slides the application across the desk toward you. Your fingers hover above it, trembling faintly, as if the paper itself is on fire.
"And you'll have more access to our internal resources," she continues, eyes meeting yours with quiet insistence. "Advanced communications networks, surveillance feeds, tactical gear, secure transport... You'll have access to intelligence no one else sees. We can provide backup whenever needed, untraceable support, and encrypted channels to operate without interference. Training... specialised combat, covert operations, crisis negotiation. You'll have more autonomy than anyone else on the field. Freedom to act when it matters. And more protection, both physical and digital."
Your chest tightens. The words press against your ribs like a vice. Every perk she lists... every measure of control, every shadow of power, every hidden channel... is exactly what you have always wanted as a lone operator, as someone who works from the dark.
But it is all on paper now, offered by someone who does not know the half of what you do in the nights you are unseen.
Your fingers hover over the paper, caught between wanting it and recoiling from the responsibility. You have spent years moving through life carefully, scraping by, shielding yourself from accountability, from connection, from being seen... and now this offer comes gilded, tempting, almost seductive, and unbearably dangerous.
You exhale slowly, running a hand through your hair, the conflict churning in your stomach like stormwater in a drain. Take it, and doors you have never dared open would swing wide, but the cost?
Every step into heroism risks exposing the parts of you the world should not see, tethering you to rules, people, and expectations you have always evaded.
You grit your teeth, jaw tight, heart hammering in that familiar rhythm of unease.
"I know it's a lot," she says gently, almost pleading, her voice cutting through the haze in the room.
You nod, but the words barely register. Your chest feels tight, storm clouds roiling behind your ribs as the allure of tools and access clashes violently with the weight of what it would mean to accept.
The documents lie on the desk, silent and mocking.
Your hands hover over the folder, hesitant, as if touching it might force the decision before you are ready. You have always moved cautiously, carved a life where every choice, every step, every breath was yours alone.
Control has been your armour. Survival, your law.
And now, the very thing you have avoided your entire life is pressed into your hands.
Tension knots itself in your chest, each breath a reminder of the weight pressing down. Something long dormant flickers awake behind your eyes, a sharp, restless focus, cold and precise, scanning every angle, every outcome, measuring danger against opportunity. The allure is undeniable, but so is the risk, and your mind dances along the edge of both, craving and recoiling at the same time.
Are you ready to step fully into this?
Blonde Blazer rises, her gaze lingering with a careful blend of hope, expectation, and trust you do not deserve.
"I'll leave you to think," she says. "Take all the time you need, really, a few days. Don't rush this."
She pauses.
"I really hope you consider it," she says softly. "You are one of the best people for this role. And I think... you're capable of more than you believe you are."
Her words hang in the air as the door clicks shut behind her, leaving you alone. Silence presses in, thick and heavy, suffocating almost. The weight of the choice feels physical, a presence that settles on your shoulders and chest.
The words echo in your head, not cruel, not unkind, but impossibly heavy. They carry the expectation to be something you have spent your life running from, something you have despised, and yet, paradoxically, they carry the hope and belief of someone who sees potential in you, someone convinced you could be more than you believe.
You drag a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, and stare at the stack of documents as if they might swallow you whole.
Carefully, almost reluctantly, you flip open the narrowed list for the Phoenix Program; twelve names.
"Twelve is better than a hundred," you mutter, but the comfort is thin.
Then you read the notes.
"Assassin? Great... A Harvard graduate? Why are they in a villain program? Wait-Prism? The pop star Prism? Oh shit... I listen to their music."
You drag your hand down your face, heart tightening. You trust Blonde Blazer, her judgment, her vision, but every profile, every name, every past action weighs heavier than the last.
Twelve strangers, each with dangerous histories. Twelve lives you would have to judge, to assess, to influence. Twelve chances to make a mistake.
And above all, a decision hanging over you like a knife, sharp and unrelenting, ready to cut through the life you have carefully built.
You close the file slowly, exhale through your nose, and lean back in your chair. The room is quiet, but your thoughts roar, and you know, you need time.
Days.
You need space to measure the cost, to confront the lure, to understand if you can survive what it will mean to take this on.
You really need to think about what you're about to get yourself into.
Author's Message:
Howdy, Skiddy here. The discord has voted for Waterboy to appear in the chapter again today! SO waterboy lovers say thank you to them! Anyway, as usual, if you'd like to join the Discord, click here: https://discord.gg/qK9ZMaAWZk
Today's fan art is done by me! Or, well, it is the interpretation of what I think my OC character Evan would look like, but of course, everyone can have their own idea of what he exactly looks like:
Oops! Bu görüntü içerik kurallarımıza uymuyor. Yayımlamaya devam etmek için görüntüyü kaldırmayı ya da başka bir görüntü yüklemeyi deneyin.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. See you in the next one. Your pal, Skiddy
