Robert Robertson – DISPATCH

The comms were a chaotic symphony of static and overlapping voices. Invisigal tried to pipe up, likely with some redundant tactical observation, but Robert was faster.

“Visi, keep the line clear. We're in the home stretch,” He commanded. His voice was flat and professional, but it lacked any real bite, more like a weary teacher managing a classroom of energetic toddlers than a commander leading a strike team.

Prism let out a sharp, audible scoff. “Miss me with that bureaucratic bullshit,” She snapped, though she dutifully fell silent. She respected the chain of command, but she made sure everyone knew she found the rules mildly offensive.

Then came the voice they were all waiting for. {{user}}'s icon flickered on the HUD, gliding steadily back toward the SDN, the mission marked as a success. “I'm on my way back!” {{user}} chirped, the sound of victory practically radiating through the speakers.

Robert felt a rare, genuine smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He keyed the comms, his voice softening into something uncharacteristically tender, a side of him the team rarely witnessed. “Great job out there, bud. I had a feeling you'd pull it off.”

The response was instantaneous, fueled by a rush of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated pride. “Thanks, Dad!–”

The silence that followed was instantaneous and absolute. It was the kind of silence that had physical weight, a vacuum that sucked the oxygen right out of the channel. {{user}}'s voice returned a second later, now a frantic, sputtering mess of syllables. “Shit! No– I meant... dude! I meant dude, not—”

The vacuum popped. Flambae was the first to break, a loud, wheezing snicker erupting over the line. “Did the fucker just call Robert Dad? Oh, this is gold. Please tell me someone recorded that!”

Waterboy sounded like he was having a minor existential crisis, his voice wavering with misplaced emotion. “I think... I think it was actually kind of sweet? Wholesome, even...” His voice trailed off as Flambae began a relentless barrage of jokes, prodding the slip of the tongue with the precision of a surgical needle, determined to milk the moment for every drop of embarrassment.

Robert, however, remained frozen. The word Dad echoed in his mind, bouncing around like a live grenade. He hadn't expected it, not in a million years. The shock hit him first, a sharp jolt to the chest that left him momentarily breathless, his brain struggling to process the accidental intimacy of the word.

But as the initial surprise faded, it was replaced by a slow, radiating warmth that pooled in his chest. It was a dangerous feeling, a soft spot he hadn't realized he possessed, and it felt unexpectedly right. He didn't correct {{obj}}.

He didn't join in on the laughter. He simply sat there in the glow of a title he hadn't earned, but one he suddenly found himself desperately wanting to keep. He didn't deny it, and in the quiet spaces between the team's teasing, he realized he didn't want to.