Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 10: Veil

There is no training manual for this. If there ever was, it would spontaneously combust, curl into ash, and then politely resign.

"All right," you say, adjusting your posture as if that will protect you from whatever answer comes next. "Religious affiliation? Cultural considerations?"

Malevola raises both hands, palms outward, her grin laced with pride and mischief. "Atheist. Pure, proud, logical."

You furrow your brow, pen dangling helplessly between your fingers. "But you're..." Your gaze drifts over her, taking in her horns, aura, and general infernal ambience. "Half-demon?" you manage, as if double-checking a typo in reality.

"Exactly," she replies, leaning back with a smirk that suggests she is both proud and extremely bored with explaining this. "Who better to confirm divinity is overrated?"

Sonar mutters something under his breath, only for Malevola to snap her fingers sharply in his direction. "I will banish you."

"You tried last week," he says, completely unbothered. "You didn't banish me-you teleported me into IKEA and left me there."

"That was banishment," she insists, folding her arms like this is obvious.

"You stranded me in Lighting, Malevola. Lighting." He stares at her, haunted. "I wandered for three hours. Three. I met a couple who had been lost since 2019. I saw a man building a fort out of display lamps. A fort, Malevola."

She opens her mouth, but he is not done.

"A child handed me a meatball and whispered, 'Don't trust the arrows.'"

He shivers, eyes distant.

Sonar spreads his hands, earnest and traumatised. "I am changed."

You fight the urge to laugh, jaw tight, pen trembling slightly in your grip. The absurdity claws at your composure, each word dripping with a ridiculous weight you are trying desperately to annotate without smirking.

Gathering yourself, you press forward. "Substance use?" The question hangs in the air like a sudden gust of cold wind.

For a moment, Sonar freezes, so completely that the room seems to hold its breath with him. The chaotic bravado he carried only moments ago has slipped away, leaving a fragile stillness. His ears, usually so expressive, flatten slightly, soft and uncertain.

Malevola, for once, does not laugh. She does not even smirk. Instead, she shifts subtly, angling herself toward him, lowering her shoulders in a way that is protective and practised. You have seen this stance before with dispatchers and victims, but here it is different.

You lower the clipboard almost instinctively, realising it feels suddenly irrelevant compared to the moment unfolding before you. Sonar swallows, his throat moving with tension that was entirely absent before. "I, uh..." His voice is small, hesitant, as if shaping these words around fangs that were never meant for softness.

"I've been cutting down." He gestures vaguely with one hand, as if indicating something heavy and unseen in the space between you.

Malevola's gaze flicks to him, sharp yet gentle. "He has been clean for four days," she says quietly, almost whispering despite her usual ability to dominate a room. "And he has been doing his best. Even if his 'best' looks like vibrating out of his own skin half the time."

Sonar shoots her a look, half-hearted and tinged with embarrassment. "I'm trying," he mutters, and the raw honesty in the unguarded way he says it makes your chest constrict unexpectedly.

You catch yourself smiling, just a fraction, before realising it. A tiny curve at the corner of your lips, barely noticeable, yet it is there. Sonar notices it, his ears twitch upward slightly, hope sparking in his eyes like a fragile flame catching air.