[AMY IN DISPATCH (2025)] CHAPTER TWELVE

Amy went out with Prism only after making a solemn, hand-over-heart promise to Mandy that she would avoid shenanigans.

This promise was given sincerely, with eye contact and everything, and Amy fully intended to keep it. It was simply unfortunate that neither she nor Mandy had ever bothered to define what, exactly, constituted shenanigans, and that omission would soon prove to be a critical oversight.

The bar Prism brought her to was tucked away beneath a refurbished transit overpass and, to Amy’s mild surprise, was actually kind of cute. This world, apparently, had developed enough social maturity to support separate establishments for heroes and villains, with the understanding that sometimes people needed neutral ground to unwind without judgment, surveillance, or arrest warrants hovering just a little too close. The place leaned comfortably into its clientele, with warm wood accents, low amber lighting, and a hand-painted sign out front that read Sardine in scratchy, uneven lettering.

Amy found herself relaxing almost immediately.

The music was low yet thumping, the seating comfortable, and the atmosphere far more welcoming than she had expected from somewhere technically categorized as a villain bar. Prism moved through the space like she belonged there, exchanging nods and casual greetings with staff and patrons alike, her confidence effortless and a little enviable. Amy followed along beside her, taking everything in with wide-eyed curiosity and doing her best not to look like someone experiencing nightlife for the first time.

They had barely settled at the bar when Prism lifted a hand and waved someone over.

“That’s him,” she said, amusement playing on her lips. “Flambae.”

Amy turned.

Flambae’s costume left very little to the imagination. He wore a black, skin-tight suit with an aggressively deep V cut that exposed most of his chest and the upper definition of his abs, as though modesty had briefly been considered during the design process and then immediately rejected. Flame motifs traced the edges of the fabric, licking up along the V, wrapping around his hands, and flaring down his legs in stylized patterns.

He was, unfortunately, extremely confident about all of it.

“Well,” he drawled as he approached, his eyes flicking over Amy with theatrical interest, “if it isn’t Prism, dragging another unsuspecting soul into my personal hellscape. Who’s the baby hero?”

Amy opened her mouth to respond, but Prism cut in smoothly.

“Be nice,” Prism said sweetly. “She can take your spine apart and put it back together with not-so-nice upgrades.”

Flambae laughed, clearly unconcerned. “That so?” His gaze sharpened as he leaned an elbow against the bar. “I like her already.”

Amy blinked, then smiled politely. “Hi. I’m Amy. Panacea, if I’m in costume.”

He looked her over again, slower this time, before smirking. “Cute and polite. You sure you belong here?”

Prism snorted into her drink.

It did not take long for Amy to notice his right hand. The ring and pinky fingers were missing, the skin sealed over and hardened in a way that suggested heat rather than trauma had done the damage. She hesitated only a moment before instinct won out.

“May I?” she asked gently, gesturing to his hand.

Flambae raised a brow. “Buy me dinner first.”

Prism kicked his shin without looking.

“Alright, alright,” he laughed, extending his hand. “Go on, miracle worker.”

Amy took it carefully.

His biology opened up to her senses, and the absence was immediately apparent. The injury had been cauterized cleanly, leaving partial bone remnants where the fingers should have been. She focused, guiding growth with practiced ease, rebuilding structure and function, and within moments, bone knit into place, tendons formed, nerves appeared, and skin smoothed over seamlessly, as though the injury had never existed at all.

Flambae went very still.

He flexed his fingers once.

Then again.

He stared at his hand, then at Amy, and then let out a bark of laughter so loud it turned heads across the bar.

“Oh, that is just unfair,” he said, grinning widely. “You cannot do something like that and expect me to stay mean.”

Prism’s smile turned positively wicked.

“What happened to your fingers?” Amy asked, curiosity finally getting the better of her.

Flambae opened his mouth, then paused, glancing at Prism.

Prism lifted her glass and smiled in a way that strongly suggested the story was both humiliating and deeply entertaining.

“We’ll tell you later,” Flambae decided. “After a few drinks.”

From that point on, he became exactly what Prism had promised.

He was loud in the best way, dramatic without being cruel, and committed to ensuring Amy experienced a proper celebration. Mocktails appeared in front of her with alarming frequency, each more elaborate than the last, and she swore she was only a little tipsy. Barely enough to notice that everything felt warmer, funnier, and significantly more interesting than it had an hour ago.

Somewhere between laughing too hard at a joke she could no longer fully remember and enthusiastically explaining biochemistry to a fascinated stranger at the bar, Amy made a decision.

It felt like a good one at the time.

Guided by inspiration and alcohol-adjacent confidence, she focused her power and created something new. This was not a slime, but a living, self-stabilizing compound designed to interact with ethanol at a molecular level, enhancing flavor, warmth, and mood while carefully avoiding toxicity and addiction.

The result was, by all accounts, the mother of all alcohol.

It glowed faintly in the glass.

Prism stared at it. Flambae stared at it harder.

“You cannot tell Blonde Blazer about this,” Prism said slowly.

Amy giggled.

The rest of the night blurred together into laughter, music, and the rare comfort of being surrounded by people who did not expect anything from her beyond existing and enjoying herself. For the first time in longer than she cared to think about, Amy felt light, unburdened, and genuinely happy.

Shenanigans happened.

They were good shenanigans.

And Amy enjoyed every single second of them.