Dispatch - The Game

The idea of being a vigilante was ridiculous on paper. Everyone knew that. Capes were for cartoons, justice for courts, and the space in between was illegal. Still, they had learned early that legality and survival rarely shared the same address. They moved along the edge of the city, boots whispering against frost-slick concrete, the skyline broken into sharp black teeth against a snow-heavy sky. Rooftops were safer than streets. Rooftops meant distance. Distance meant control. And control was the only thing they had left.

People liked stories. They liked neat labels. Hero. Villain. Good blood. Bad blood. They never liked the truth, which was messier and quieter and usually involved a locked apartment door with no heat and a set of stolen keys that still fit after two years. They had been six when everything collapsed—old enough to remember faces, young enough that those faces had turned into weapons at school later on. A villain mother. A hero father. Married, somehow. A joke everyone else seemed in on. Then funerals, prisons, foster houses that taught pain better than rules, and finally the run. The city didn’t notice one more missing name added to a database. It rarely did.

Up above, a camera rotated. They froze, counted the seconds, then slipped past its blind spot. No powers. No glowing eyes. Just timing, code, and an understanding that systems were built by people—and people always made mistakes.

The team noticed them because they made it impossible not to.

Some nights, Prism’s voice crackled through encrypted channels, sharp and precise, light bending around her like a rumor. Other nights it was Invisigal, half-heard and never quite seen, sound folding in on itself when she spoke. Golem’s gravel-deep complaints followed soon after, frustrated by reports that led nowhere.

Sonar tried to triangulate footsteps that were already gone. Punch Up cursed loudly, accusing rooftops of conspiring against him. Flamebae laughed it off, firelight flaring in irritation more than heat. Malevola said less than the rest, but when she did, the channel went quiet. And Robert—the youngest dispatcher they had, voice cracking with irritation and curiosity—kept sending them out to scenes already resolved.

It had become a problem.

Calls came in. The team rolled out. By the time boots hit pavement, the alley was empty, the threat neutralized, and the only proof left behind was a blinking cursor in their comms and a brief, infuriating interruption.

“Too slow,” a filtered voice had said once, amused and breathless. “Maybe next time.” They didn’t know how it was done. They only knew it kept happening. They also knew the voice was young, even if no one wanted to say that out loud.

Tonight was different.

Snow fell harder, thick enough to blur streetlights into halos. Earlier, there had been an attack near an alleyway—a real one. Sloppy. Violent. The kind that left blood in the snow and witnesses shaking. Robert had sent a unit, and for once, the situation hadn’t been handled before arrival. That alone had put everyone on edge.

Then the dot appeared. A familiar signal pulsed onto their map—an exact location, broadcast deliberately. It hovered near the same alley, unmoving. One minute passed. Then two.

“Probably messing with us,” Punch Up muttered. “Or forgot to turn it off,” Flamebae added, though his voice lacked conviction. Malevola didn’t comment. She was watching the timer.

Four minutes. Protocol said to wait. The unspoken rule said not to. The dot stayed on.

Five minutes. “That’s it,” Robert said, fingers flying over controls. “Sending someone."

"One person. Female. You know the condition.” There was a pause. Then Prism exhaled. “I’ll go.” Invisigal volunteered for backup anyway. Golem and Sonar followed at a distance, grumbling but alert. Punch Up complained the entire time. They found them slumped against a brick wall where the alley narrowed, half-buried in drifting snow. No mask. Dark fabric torn at the side, blood soaking through and freezing fast. A knife lay a few feet away, discarded. The air smelled like iron and cold.

They looked impossibly small curled there, knees drawn in, breath shallow. Not unconscious—just asleep, dragged under by pain and exhaustion. A faint tremor ran through them, teeth chattering despite clenched jaws.

Prism knelt first, hands steady, light refracting softly around her as she checked for responsiveness. “Hey,” she said quietly, voice stripped of command. “You with me?” No answer. Just breath.

**Malevola crouched nearby, eyes flicking over the wound with clinical speed. ** “Stabbed,” she said. “Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to hurt. They’ve been bleeding for a while.”

Snow dusted dark hair. A scar crossed one knuckle—old. The kind you got from learning things the hard way.

“They’re freezing,” Invisigal said, voice coming from nowhere and everywhere. “And alone.”

Prism glanced at the bare face, at the vulnerability they never showed. “You really did it all without powers,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Somewhere above them, sirens wailed, distant and late. The city kept moving. As they lifted them carefully, the dot on the map finally blinked out.