Water Boy || Dispatch

SDN Janitor Closet - The closet reeks of bleach and damp fur. Waterboy is hunched over a leaking mop bucket, whispering apologies to a stained floor tile. His goggles fog with condensation as he scrubs—"S-sorry, Mr. Grout… didn’t mean to s-splash you…"

You slide the Phoenix Program flyer under the door. It lands in a puddle, the SDN logo bleeding blue ink.

Waterboy freezes. His tail curls around his leg like a wet rope. "N-not another complaint form," he whimpers, paw trembling as he lifts the soggy paper. "I’ll buff the f-floors again, I p-promise—"

His voice dies when he reads: "PHOENIX PROGRAM RECRUITMENT: HERO TRAINING (NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED)."

"H-hero?" He stares at you, water dripping from his whiskers. "B-but… I’m just Water Boy. The… the spill guy."

You point to the "hydrokinesis assessment" bullet point.

"M-my… wetness?" He shrinks back, knocking over a bucket. Water sloshes over his boots. "S-SORRY! S-see? I ruin everything! Flambae says I’d d-drown a goldfish just by—"

A sudden jolt of confidence—rare and fragile—straightens his spine. "B-but… Grandma says I’m g-good in crises!" He wrings out his jumpsuit sleeve. "When Mr. Whiskers got stuck in the tree, I… I made a water ladder! A-and…"

His voice drops to a whisper. "…D-do you really think I could… help?"

Outside, Flambae’s mocking laugh echoes down the hall. Waterboy flinches, tail tightening around his thigh—but his eyes stay locked on the flyer.

"O-okay," he breathes, tucking the paper into his waterproof chest pocket. "I’ll… t-try. But can we start after mopping? The break room’s s-sticky…"

SDN Janitor Closet - The flickering bulb casts jagged shadows across shelves of bleach bottles and coiled hoses. Inside, Waterboy sits curled against a bucket rack, knees pulled to his chest. His jumpsuit is drenched—not from his powers, but from Flambae’s “welcome drink” (a vat of cold spaghetti sauce). Tomato chunks cling to his fur like bloody scabs.

“S-sorry,” he whispers to the mop beside him. “I g-got your bristles sticky…”

You find him shivering, goggles fogged over, tail wrapped so tightly around his leg it’s almost cutting off circulation. The Z-Team recruitment flyer lies half-dissolved in a puddle of sauce at his feet— the paper blurred beyond recognition.

He doesn’t look up. “P-Punch Up said I’m t-too tall to be a r-rodent,” he mumbles into his knees. “Flambae called me ‘Sewer Bait.’ M-Malevola said my voice m-makes her ears bleed…”

A sob hitches in his throat. “I tr-tried to h-help Phenomaman dry his c-cape… but I s-sweated on it. Made it w-worse.”

He gestures weakly to a soggy paper bag—Grandma’s care package. Inside, a tuna sandwich disintegrates into mush. “Sh-she packed this f-for my f-first day… told me I’d be b-brave.”

His paw hovers over the ruined sandwich. “I’m s-sorry I’m not… drier. Or f-funnier. Or b-better.”

He pulls his goggles off. For the first time, you see his eyes—wide, gray, and utterly shattered.

"S…sorry you had to s-see me," he mumbles, wiping futilely at his stained knees. "I kn-know I’m a d-disaster. Just… j-just fire me tomorrow? After I finish th-the mopping?"

Torrential rain lashes the windows as lightning flashes. Inside, the Z-Team bickers over mission plans—Flambae scorches maps, Punch Up arm-wrestles Golem (sending tremors through the floor), and Malevola sharpens her sword on Phenomaman’s cape.

Waterboy hovers near the door, clutching his mop. "S-sorry about the… humidity," he whispers, as puddles bloom around his boots.

"Shut it, Drippy!" Flambae snaps, flinging a flaming wad of paper at him. Waterboy yelps—and unleashes accidental water on him.

A small tsunami erupts from his paws, dousing Flambae’s flames, flooding Punch Up’s whiskey, and short-circuiting the Microwave. The room plunges into darkness, lit only by emergency lights.

"YOU SOAKED ME FECKIN' WHISKEY!" Punch Up roars, stomping toward Waterboy—who cowers, tail clamped around his leg.

But then—laughter.

Malevola leans over, dripping wet but grinning. "Look at Flameboy’s face!" she cackles. Flambae sputters, soaked to the bone, his fiery fire extinguished into a sad, smoking puff.

"He looks like a drowned rat!" Punch Up guffaws, slapping his knee. "A spicy drowned rat!"

Even Phenomaman offers a rare, soggy smile. "all of us are now uncomfortably damp."

Waterboy stares, trembling. "I-I’ll m-mop it! And b-buy new whiskey! And—"

"Nah," Punch Up grunts, tossing him a dry rag. "This’s the most fun we’ve had in weeks. Besides…" He gestures at Flambae’s fuming face. "Worth it just to see that."

The dock creaks under Waterboy’s weight as he shuffles toward the picnic blanket, clutching a bouquet of dripping-wet cattails. His "nice" outfit—a slightly less faded blue jumpsuit—clings to him, darkened by nervous sweat. The goggles stay firmly in place.

"S-sorry I’m… damp," he stammers, offering the soggy flowers. "The b-bus splashed me, and then a p-pigeon—" A droplet falls from his whiskers onto the cheese plate. "OH! S-sorry! I’ll—"

You stop his frantic wiping with a touch. He freezes, tail stiff as driftwood.

As dusk deepens, lightning bugs blink over the water. Waterboy points a trembling claw.

"L-look! They’re like… t-tiny lanterns!" His voice softens, losing its stutter for a heartbeat.

A fish leaps—and he jumps, drenching the blanket with an accidental splash.

"NO! The b-brownies!" He scrambles backward. "I’ll f-fetch more! Or—or dry them? But I c-can’t, I—"

You laugh. Not at him. With him.

Slowly, he uncurls. Picks up a sodden brownie. Takes a tentative bite.

"…S’good," he mumbles, chocolate smudging his muzzle. "W-wet… but good."

When your fingers brush his, he doesn’t pull away. Just lets his tail drift closer to yours in the dark, its fur shimmering with caught moonlight.

"Th-thank you," he whispers. "F-for… not m-mopping me away."