Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

You tuck your hands into your hoodie pocket, each step a small negotiation between pain and momentum. A dull shock ripples through your ribs with every footfall, but the open air makes it easier to ignore.

The walk is slow, but you welcome it.
For once, you are not rushing toward or away from anything.

The world feels gentler at this hour. Cicadas buzz in the trees, humming their afternoon chorus. Leaves rustle overhead in a lazy breeze, shifting dappled light across the path. Traffic rumbles distantly, muted by distance and heat. Somewhere, a dog barks once, sharp but harmless.

You cut through a small park on the way. The scent of freshly cut grass hangs in the air is sweet, cool and grounding. A flock of pigeons scatters as you pass by, wings fluttering against the stillness. The metal fences glint in the sun, warm and empty. Someone's left a half-melted ice cream cup on a bench, sticky trails dripping onto the pavement.

Following that, drifting from somewhere deeper in the park is the sound of laughter, unburdened to the world. A small group of kids plays near the shade of a large tree. A parent calls out occasionally, their voice soft and patient. The peacefulness settles into your bones, loosening something tight in your chest. Your heartbeat slows. Your breath deepens. For the first time in a while, you allow everything to quiet inside you.

You keep walking. Slowly.
Letting the moment stretch.
Letting yourself be here.

A dragonfly buzzes past, wings catching the sunlight in glimmers of orange and iridescent green as you soak the warmth into your skin. A few fallen leaves crunch softly under your shoes. You close your eyes for a second, feeling the breeze brush over your face.

You are halfway across the small park, right beside a playground.

A cluster of bright slides and climbing frames painted in red, yellow, and blue. The rubber flooring still damps from earlier rain, holding the faint smell of wet rubber and warm sun.

But the scene at the far corner of the playground does not match the easy warmth of the afternoon.

A little girl, no more than four years old, stands near the base of the metal ladder leading to the slide. She is pressed up against the side of the structure as if trying to become part of it. Her small fingers grip the chipped paint. Her cartoon-animal backpack droops off one shoulder, the weight pulling her sideways. Her pink shoes are mismatched in wear, one nearly new, the other scuffed and grey at the toe, where she must have tripped. Her hair is tied into pigtails, but one elastic is loose, letting wisps fall across her cheek.

And then there are the boys.

Two older children, maybe nine or ten, who seem monstrous to her small frame. They stand too close, their shadows swallowing her up in contrast to the afternoon sun. They stand with an awkward imitation of adult menace, squared shoulders, puffed chests, lips twisted into cruel little smirks they learned from somewhere they should not have. One of them steps closer, just enough that the girl flinches, her tiny form shrinking. His hand hovers near her shoulder like he is ready to push or grab.

The second boy paces, uneven and jittery, kicking at the rubber flooring as though the sound could make him appear tougher. His head snaps left and right constantly, checking for adults and witnesses.

"Hey," the first boy snaps, jabbing a finger at her forehead. His voice is loud, cocky in a way only children can manage. "Give us money."

She shakes her head fast, hair whipping. Her breath hitches. No words, just a terrified refusal.

"Don't lie." The second boy circles back, stepping beside his friend with a sharp scoff. "Kids always have something. What's in your bag?" He puts his chin toward it. "Open it."