Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

"I-I don't..." The girl finally squeaks out the smallest whisper. "I don't have..."

"You are a liar!" The first boy barks, jerking his hand toward her backpack as if to prove she is hiding something. His words are harsh and clumsy, marked by cruelty; he does not fully understand. "Just give it to me!"

The little girl stands completely still; her hands curled around her backpack straps like they are the only thing anchoring her to the world. Her eyes are wide and glassy, tears pooling at the corners. She bites her lip, trembling. Each shallow breath seems to take all her strength, her tiny body folding inward like a fragile paper doll.

One of the boys shoves her.

It is not a hard push, not by adult standards, but for her tiny frame, it sends her stumbling. She slams backwards into the metal slide with a hollow metallic thud. She winces at the impact, her shoulder hunching instinctively.

She does not run. She cannot. The slide boxes her in; the boys block her escape. She is cornered.

"Just give us something," the pacing boy says, impatience boiling into his voice. "A snack. A toy. Anything! You're being selfish!"

"Maybe she's hiding something," the first adds, eyes narrowing. "Fine. We'll just make you-"

He grabs her wrist.

The movement is quick, careless, too sudden for her to react. His dirty hand clamps around her tiny arm, engulfing it completely. Her knees buckle at once. A tiny, broken gasp bursts from her lips.

The boy yanks her upward, her feet leaving the ground. Her shoes scrape helplessly against the rubber flooring. Her small shoulder twists at an angle no child's ever should.

"Ow-! I-!" Her voice fractures, collapsing into panicked whimpers. Her free hand flails wildly, searching for balance, for rescue, for anything.

You freeze, heart hammering against your ribs. Every instinct tells you to act, to intervene, to make it stop immediately. But another voice in your head whispers, Control it.

They are just kids. Not monsters. Not hardened adults. Just children, making mistakes in the cruellest way they know. Do not do anything rash.

The world slows for a moment, like someone quietly turned the volume down on everything around you. Your heartbeat evens out, settling into a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The anger burns under your ribs, but you force yourself to breathe through it.

Not now. They are just kids

You repeat to yourself, swallowing the heat, fold it tight, turn it into something you can use. Focus. Steady hands. A clear head. You remind yourself that whatever happens next, you cannot walk in swinging emotions around like weapons.

Your muscles tighten, not for violence, but for purpose. Every nerve, every fibre of you channels into one truth: she is small, scared, and alone. And you are the only thing standing between her and harm.

You move.

Calm, measured, but the weight behind them is undeniable. Your presence darkens around you, pressing into the playground like a storm sliding across the sky. The hood shadows your eyes. Faded bruises along your cheekbone catch the afternoon sunlight, making you look tired, hardened, worn down, but impossibly sharp.

You do not shout. You do not stomp. You do not need to.

The boys notice you the moment your shadow stretches over them, swallowing the bright playground colours in muted grey.

The boy holding the girl turns his head. And freezes.

His grip falters, and the little girl slips from his hand. She hits the rubber ground with a soft, jarring thud, knees scraping against the damp surface. A sharp gasp tears from her tiny chest, and her hands immediately fly up to cradle her aching wrist. Her body trembles with the sudden shock and pain, each shallow breath coming in frantic, uneven hitches.