[AMY IN DISPATCH (2025)] CHAPTER SEVEN

Three days later, Chase was sitting in a chair that cost more than his first car, staring at a seal on the wall that meant this room existed entirely because someone, somewhere, was afraid of what happened when superheroes sued the government.

The seal was tasteful. Gold, embossed, and undoubtedly, official.

Chase fucking hated it.

The office was pristine in the way only a government-approved, superhero-certified medical facility could be, with white walls, sound-dampening that swallowed every sound, and lighting carefully calibrated to be “non-threatening.” Framed credentials lined one wall, each more impressive than the last.

Blonde Blazer stood beside him, arms crossed, posture rigid. She hadn’t sat down. She hadn’t even pretended to relax.

Across from them were three people: a superhero physiology specialist, a neurologist specializing in temporal and perception-based abilities, and a government analyst whose entire job appeared to be turning powers into liability statements.

Chase bounced his knee, jaw tight.

“Mr. Chase,” the physician began, calm and professional, “thank you for your patience.”

“Just say it,” he replied flatly.

She nodded. “Miss Dallon’s initial assessment was… unconventional, but informative. After seventy-two hours of independent testing and observation, we can confirm her conclusion.”

Blonde Blazer’s shoulders tensed.

“Your powers were misidentified,” the neurologist said.

There it was.

Chase didn’t react. He had already crossed that emotional threshold days ago. This was just the paperwork catching up.

“You are not a traditional speed-based hero,” the doctor continued. “Your ability creates a localized temporal acceleration effect centered on your own body. Or simply put, you experience time at an increased rate relative to the world around you.”

Blonde Blazer glanced at him. He didn’t look back.

“And crucially,” the neurologist added, “your body ages in accordance with your experienced time, not external time.”

Chase let out a short, humorless laugh. “So I wasn’t burning out.”

“No,” the doctor said gently. “You were aging.”

Silence pressed in.

The analyst tapped her tablet. “However, there is an important correction to Miss Dallon’s original deduction.”

Chase finally looked up. “Correction?”

“Yes,” she said. “Now that your ability is properly understood, it appears your condition is not irreversible.”

Blonde Blazer turned sharply. “Explain.”

The neurologist leaned forward. “Your power doesn’t merely accelerate time. It allows you limited control over how your biological clock progresses. Until now, it has been locked into a constant forward burn.”

Chase frowned. “You’re saying—”

“If properly trained,” the physician said, “you can slow, stabilize, accelerate, or even reverse localized temporal effects on your own body to a certain degree.”

The words took a second to land.

“…Reverse,” Chase repeated.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Your current biological age can be corrected. Not without limits, of course, but the accumulated damage and accelerated aging you’ve suffered can be mitigated to a certain point. Atleast, from what we have gathered thus far, you won’t be as advanced in age as you currently are”

Blonde Blazer exhaled, a sharp, shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Chase sat very still.

“So,” he said slowly, “I’m not dying.”

“No,” the doctor replied. “Not from overuse of your powers.”

That should have been comforting.

It wasn’t.

Chase leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better, how?”

“It should,” the neurologist said carefully. “This means you were never on an unavoidable path to early death.”

Chase laughed again, but this time it was hollow. “Right. I was just mismanaged from the very beginning of my career."

Blonde Blazer stepped closer. “Chase—”

“No,” he said, sharper now. “No, I get it. I get to live. Great. Fantastic.” He dropped his gaze back to the doctors. “But do you have any idea what that cost?”

None of them answered.

“I could’ve been trained properly,” he continued. “I could’ve been used differently. Even now, I could be doing real hero work. I could’ve been out there pulling people out of wrecks instead of sitting behind a desk for the past decade and a half because dumbasses with overpriced diplomas thought my body just ‘couldn’t keep up.’”

His hands clenched into fists.

“I trusted you,” he spat out. “All of you. I trusted the tests, the classifications, the experts.”

The analyst shifted uncomfortably.

“And because of that,” Chase went on, voice tight, “I built my entire life around a fucking lie. A safer one, but still a fucking lie.”

Blonde Blazer rested a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shake it off.

“You kept people alive when they otherwise would have been certainly dead,” she said softly. “You mattered when it truly counted, even now.”

“I know,” Chase replied. “That’s the goddamn problem.”

He stood slowly, the motion controlled, but the tension in him was unmistakable.

“I’m glad I’m not done as a superhero as we all thought I was,” he said. “I really am.” Then he looked back at the seal on the wall, at the symbol of authority and certainty. “But knowing I could’ve done more? That I lost years to caution that was never necessary?”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s going to take a while to stop feeling like a punch to the gut.”

No one argued with him.

And as they moved on to discussing treatment plans and restrictions, Chase realized something uncomfortable, something that made his chest ache in a way no diagnosis ever had.

He wasn’t crashing out because he’d almost lost his life.

He was crashing out because he’d almost lived the wrong one.