"Right," you mutter, rubbing the bridge of your nose, trying to massage the tension out of your temples. "You're going to need to... go get that. As in soon. As in immediately. Preferably today. Preferably now. Possibly yesterday."
Sonar bristles, chest puffing like an angry pigeon. "Don't treat me like some rabid creature," he huffs, smoothing down his pants with exaggerated dignity. "I am a refined, respectable individual."
"You bit a mailbox last month," Malevola points out, her voice calm but cutting, stating a truth no argument can overturn.
"It provoked me!" he snaps, defensive.
"It was a mailbox," she replies, perfectly calm, as though this is not the tenth time they have had this exact conversation.
You keep your face perfectly neutral. Not a twitch, not a blink. With the steady, businesslike detachment of a doctor filling out a chart, you write in bold, blocky letters:
RABIES: URGENT.
You underline it three times, each stroke crisp, controlled, and entirely devoid of emotion.
"So... interpersonal dynamics... anything unusual?" Hoping for any semblance of normalcy.
Malevola claps her hands together, loud enough to make you jump. "For starters, Sonar has... unique tastes."
Sonar perks up immediately, ears twitching with pride, gleaming with satisfaction. "I do have refined culinary preferences," he declares, chin lifted, a faint flare of his nostrils adding importance to his proclamation.
"Refined?" you echo slowly, pen hovering above the paper, uncertain if your definition aligns with whatever standards govern his world.
"Yes," Sonar continues, adopting a tone that would fit a university lecture."Insects, rodents, and small mammals, particularly rats. Exceptional flavour profiles. Complex textures. Diverse seasonal applications."
You nod slowly. Because honestly? Compared to everything so far, this barely registers as a red flag.
"Occasionally," Sonar goes on, shrugging with the breezy confidence of someone describing their favourite brand of granola, "mostly ethically sourced... when 'ethical' means 'I wanted a quick snack'."
Malevola lets out a despairing bark of laughter. "I told him at least learn to season them at least. But nooo, he insists they're 'flavorful naturally'."
"I appreciate natural flavours. It is a philosophy. An embrace of primal authenticity." Sonar huffs, clearly regarding his own statement as a philosophical manifesto, a declaration of refined taste that transcends ordinary human sensibilities.
You have met philosophers. None of them ate vermin like finger food.
"You swallowed a living rat two days ago," Malevola fires back, every syllable sharp enough to sting.
"It was clean," Sonar insists, showing fangs as though that somehow reinforces his argument instead of demolishing it.
"It crawled out of the trash, Sonar," she deadpans, hands thrown up in a gesture that screams
I'm this close to filing a complaint with someone, anyone.
He scoffs, offended. "It had character. And in my defence," he adds primly, "it was the clean part of the trash."
Your face remains an immaculate mask of clinical detachment while your pen performs violent gymnastics across the page. 'Find him a supplier for feeder rats?' you scribble, your handwriting deteriorating into frantic hieroglyphs.
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...
Chapter 10: Veil
Start from the beginning
