[AMY IN DISPATCH (2025)] CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Morning came gray. A harsh gray, nothing like the soft, diffused light of a peaceful overcast sky, the kind that promised rain and encouraged staying in bed with a book.

No. This was a flat, oppressive gray, like old concrete, leaching the warmth from the world before the day had even begun.

Victoria Dallon woke the way she had been waking for the past several days: slowly, unwillingly, like surfacing from something thick and heavy that clung to her even as her eyes opened. Each breath felt borrowed, and each blink was a negotiation.

For a long moment, she didn't move.

The ceiling above her was the same as always. Same crack running diagonally across the corner, a hairline fracture she'd stared at a hundred times during sleepless nights. Same dull light spilling in through the blinds, casting parallel shadows across the walls. Same whirr from the building ventilation, somewhere deep in its walls.

Everything was the same.

That was the problem.

Tomorrow.

The word sat in her chest like something sharp, though far from the clean certainty of a knife. Instead, this was worse, like a shard of glass lodged in her chest. She couldn’t pull it out or ignore it, only feel it grind against her ribs with every heartbeat.

Tomorrow was the funeral.

Amy‘s funeral.

Victoria exhaled slowly, which did nothing to loosen the tension in her shoulders, and pushed herself upright. Her body felt heavier than it should have, like gravity had quietly increased overnight just to make things harder. The blankets pooled around her waist, and for a moment she just sat there, staring at her own hands resting in her lap.

They didn't look like the hands of someone who could fly through the air and punch through concrete. 

She shook her head. 

No excuses.

The phrase had become a mantra over the past few days. A lifeline, even. If she kept moving, kept doing the next thing, the rest of her might follow.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The floor was cold against her bare feet, but she welcomed the shock of it and the small bite of discomfort. It reminded her that she was still here, still capable of feeling something other than the dull, pervasive ache that had taken up residence behind her sternum.

The bathroom light was too bright.

It always was. Harsh fluorescent bulbs that flashed for exactly three seconds before coming to life, illuminating every flaw, every shadow, and every tired line she wished she could hide.

She squinted at her reflection as she brushed her teeth, foam bitter on her tongue, the mint doing nothing to wake her up. Her eyes tracked over a face she barely recognized anymore. It was the same shape and the same features, but different now. Thinner, maybe, or just… emptier.

There were bags under her eyes, and it wasn't just from a lack of sleep. It had settled into the hollows of her face and refused to leave. It lived in the way her cheekbones seemed sharper now, the way her jaw stayed clenched even when she tried to relax it.

Victoria spat, rinsed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she set her jaw.

“…Pull it together,” she muttered.

The girl in the mirror didn't look convinced.

She dressed mechanically, putting on a shirt, jeans, and a jacket. She didn't look at what she was putting on, didn't consider colors or fit or whether anything matched. She just pulled, buttoned, and zipped.

Normal.

Like if she kept moving, kept doing the next thing, she wouldn't have to think about it.

About her.

About tomorrow.

Her sneakers squeaked against the floor as she walked to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob, took a breath that felt too shallow, and stepped out into the hallway.

And stopped.

Amy's door was closed.

Of course it was.

It had been closed for… she didn't know how long. Days? Weeks? Time had blurred, days slipping together until only a few moments stood out to her. 

Her throat tightened.

For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the door. At the cheap wood grain she'd passed a thousand times without thinking. At the little scratch near the handle from the time Amy had fumbled her keys. At the strip of light bleeding through the crack at the bottom, even though no one had been inside to turn the lamp off.

She always left the lamp on.

Victoria's feet lifted off the ground.

She didn't even notice at first, and didn't register the familiar weightlessness that came over her. Then, she drifted forward a few inches, pulled by something she couldn't name, like the door had its own gravity now.

Her hand hovered near the surface, but she didn't touch it. Couldn't. If she touched it, it became real. If she opened it, she'd have to see the empty bed, the messy desk, and the clothes thrown over the chair. She'd have to smell the trace of whatever perfume or lotion or presence still lingered in the air. She'd have to face the fact that Amy wasn't coming back to mess it up again.

So she didn't touch it.

But the memories came anyway.

Amy, sitting cross-legged on her bed, textbooks scattered everywhere, muttering to herself while she studied. Her brow furrowed in concentration, a pencil tucked behind her ear, another one in her hand tapping a song against her knee.

Amy, glancing up with that wide, eager smile when Victoria walked in. Like Victoria's presence was a gift. 

"Vicky! Vicky! Guess what I came up with? It's gonna blow your socks off! …Not literally like last time, BUT—"

Victoria's hand clenched into a fist at her side, her nails biting into her palm.

“…Stop,” she whispered.

Because the next memories weren't those. They were false and wrong.

She squeezed her eyes shut, like that could force them back. Like she could choose which version of Amy to remember. Like she hadn't tried that already, every night, every morning, and every moment when her guard slipped and the floodgates opened.

But the bad ones always came anyway. They had Amy's face but not her voice, Amy's hands but not her touch, and they lived in the part of Victoria's brain she couldn't lock away no matter how hard she tried.

Her feet touched the ground again without her noticing, and the hallway pressed in around her, almost judging in its intensity. 

Amy's door stayed closed. It would stay closed. And tomorrow, they'd bury what was left.

Victoria let out a shaky breath.

“…You idiot,” she said under her breath.

She didn't know if she meant Amy or herself. Maybe both.

She turned away, and forced herself down the stairs. The wood creaked under her weight, the sounds old and familiar, like the soundtrack of a house that had once been full of laughter and arguments and the chaos of two girls growing up too fast.

Now it was just… quiet. No movement. No voices. No—

No Amy.

Victoria reached the bottom step and stopped again, her hand resting on the railing. The wood was smooth under her palm, worn down by years of use, and by countless mornings just like this one. 

For a moment, she just stood there, listening to the other sounds in the house. Then, she straightened and wiped at the errant tears on her face. 

One step at a time.

That was all she could do. One step, then the next, and eventually—

Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not.

. . . . .

Breakfast was quieter than it should have been. Yes, there were sounds: the hiss of bacon in the pan, fat popping and spitting; the soft scrape of a spatula against cast iron; the clink of plates shifting against the table as someone set them down; and the drip of the coffee maker in its final cycle.

But all of it felt… muted. Like the house itself was holding its breath. Like even the walls knew something was wrong and had decided to stay very, very still.

Victoria hovered in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary before stepping in.

Her mother stood at the stove, back straight as always, quick movements born from experience. Bacon, eggs, and pancakes… too much food for three people, but that wasn't unusual. Carol liked "real" breakfasts on weekends. It was a routine, something that could be controlled when everything else spiraled.

Her father was already at the table, coffee in hand, watching the steam curl upward. His posture was relaxed, but not the easy relaxation of someone at peace. He was exhausted, yet when he saw her, he gave her a small smile.

“Morning,” he said.

Victoria nodded. “Morning,” she echoed, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. 

She sat.

A plate appeared in front of her a moment later, filled with eggs, bacon, and a pancake folded neatly in half. They were golden-brown, steaming, and perfect. 

“Breakfast is served,” Carol announced, already turning back to the stove to wipe down a surface that was already clean.

Victoria picked up her fork and took a bite.

It might as well have been cardboard to her taste buds.

For a while, the sounds of eating filled the air: the clink of forks against plates, the soft sound of chewing, and the occasional scrape of a chair as someone shifted their weight.

No one spoke.

The Dallon family had always been better at silence than conversation, especially now. Easier to sit in the quiet than risk whatever might come out if someone opened their mouth.

But then, Mark cleared his throat softly. “Did you sleep at all?”

Victoria shrugged. “A bit.”

Lie.

She hadn't really slept. Rather, she had closed her eyes around two AM and opened them again at four-thirty, her heart racing for no reason, and her sheets twisted around her legs like she'd been fighting something in her dreams. After that, she'd just… lain there, counting the minutes until the gray light started to seep through the blinds.

Mark didn't call her on it. He just nodded, another growing worry to add to the collection.

Carol turned off the stove and brought the last plate over, setting it down with a quiet clink before taking her seat. She didn't start eating immediately.

Instead, she folded her hands in front of her.

That was new.

Victoria felt something in her chest tighten.

“We should go over tomorrow,” Carol said.

There it was.

Victoria’s grip on her fork tightened until her knuckles went white.

“Mom—”

“It won't take long,” Carol continued, her tone almost gentle, but the gentleness was a veneer, a thin layer over steel. “We just need to make sure we're on the same page. The service is at ten. There will be—”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

The words came out sharper than she intended, severing whatever fragile peace had been holding the room together. And silence dropped over the table like a physical weight.

Mark shifted slightly in his seat. “Vicky—”

“I said I don't want to talk about it.”

Her voice cracked this time, splintering on the last word, and she hated that. Hated that it sounded weak. Hated that she couldn't keep it together for five minutes at the breakfast table. Hated that her eyes were already burning and her throat was closing up and her mother was looking at her with that expression, the one that said pull yourself together, Victoria, this is unbecoming.

“Victoria,” Carol snapped. 

“No.” She shook her head, staring down at her plate. She had lost her appetite. “Not right now. Not—” she swallowed, hard, forcing down the lump in her throat “—not at breakfast.”

“It's tomorrow,” Carol said, quieter now but no less firm. “Avoiding it doesn't change that.”

Victoria let out a short, humorless laugh. The kind that hurt coming out. “Wow. Really? I hadn't noticed.”

“Victoria—”

“No, seriously,” she said, looking up now, something raw and dangerous slipping through the cracks in her facade. “I know it's tomorrow. I know there's a service. I know there's going to be speeches and—” her voice hitched “—and an empty casket.”

Somewhere outside, a bird called out once, then fell silent.

Victoria pushed her plate away slightly, the ceramic scraping against the table. “I get it. I really do. I just… don't want to sit here and plan it like it's—” she gestured vaguely, helplessly “—like it's a meeting.”

Carol's jaw tightened, a small betrayal of the control she was fighting to maintain.

“For God's sake, Victoria, this isn't optional.”

“I know!”

The force of it surprised even her.

Victoria’s chest heaved, and her hands were shaking. She could see them trembling against the table.

“I know it's not optional,” she said again, softer now, but no less intense. Her voice was hoarse, scraped clean of pretense. “I'll be there. I'll stand where I'm supposed to stand. I'll smile when people expect me to smile and I'll listen to them talk about how amazing she was and how brave and how—”

Her voice broke completely this time.

The sob came out of nowhere, or maybe it had been building for days, weeks, months, and this was just the moment the dam finally broke. She pressed her hand over her mouth, but it didn't help. The tears came anyway, hot and humiliating.

Mark reached out, resting a hand over hers. They were steady. 

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Victoria didn't look at him. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she'd fall apart completely, and there was already so little of her left to hold together.

“I just don't want to do it right now,” she finished, almost whispering. “Please.”

Another silence, longer this time.

Then Carol exhaled slowly through her nose. When she spoke again, her voice had lost some of its edge. It wasn't much—Carol Dallon didn't do much—but enough that Victoria noticed.

“…Fine,” she said.

Victoria blinked, looking up with wide eyes, mouth open…

And the sharp trill of a phone cut through the room.

Carol's head snapped toward the counter where her phone lay face-up, screen blazing.

It rang again and again, and it was obvious this wasn't a casual call or a friendly check-in or a wrong number. This was urgent, the kind of ringing that demanded an answer now, that made the air in the room change.

Carol was already on her feet by the third ring, crossing the kitchen in three quick strides and snatching the phone up.

“What is it?!” she barked.

A pause.

Victoria watched her mother's expression change, watched every line of her body go rigid in the space between one breath and the next. Carol's eyes widened, then narrowed, and her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

“…Where?” she demanded.

Another beat.

Another pause that stretched too long.

The hair on Victoria’s arms stood up. And her heart, which had been heavy and sluggish a moment ago, kicked into a faster rhythm.

Something was happening.

Carol's gaze went to the window, to the neighborhood beyond it, and Mark was already moving, already reaching for his keys without being told. His face had gone pale with confusion, but his eyes… his eyes were narrowed. 

Carol listened for one more second, then cut in sharply:

“We're on our way.”

She ended the call without another word, shoving the phone into her pocket.

“What's going on?” Mark asked, already halfway to the door.

“Emergency,” Carol said, grabbing her coat from the hook. “The PRT.” She paused, her hand on the doorframe. “We are needed.”

. . . . .

The Protectorate building in Brockton Bay was already awake by the time New Wave arrived, lights burning across every floor.

Victoria barely remembered the drive.

One moment she'd been in the kitchen, and the next she was airborne, wind tearing past her face as she followed her parents across the city. The cold bit at her cheeks and filled her ears with a roar that drowned out everything else.

She touched down in front of the car with more force than strictly necessary, hard enough to send a jolt up her legs, but she barely felt it. Adrenaline was already flooding her system, washing away the exhaustion, the grief, and the heaviness.

For now.

Waiting for them was a woman Victoria recognized immediately.

Emily Piggot was a large woman, with the kind of build that suggested she'd once been fit and had simply let herself go, but she radiated an authority that made even veteran capes straighten without thinking. Her jaw was set, her eyes were cold, and she did not waste time on pleasantries.

“You're here,” she said, already turning. “Good. Come with me.”

No thank you. No sorry for the short notice. 

Victoria sighed and followed.

The room was already buzzing with activity.

Screens lined the walls, filled with maps, data streams, and satellite feeds. Technicians moved between workstations, speaking in low, clipped voices, and the air smelled of coffee and the particular tension that came with something wrong.

One central display showed a section of the city, marked and highlighted in pulsing red.

Victoria barely glanced at it.

What was going on?

Piggot didn't sit.

“We've been tracking anomalies,” she began, her voice flat. “Dimensional anomalies.”

Carol's back straightened instantly, her chin lifted, and eyes narrowed. “Be specific.”

Piggot tapped the console.

The screen shifted.

Data flooded in from energy readings that overlapped and separated and repeated itself. Something complex and… familiar. Familiar in a way Victoria couldn't place, couldn't name, but couldn't ignore.

“For the past several months,” Piggot continued, “we've detected irregularities that don't match any known signatures on record. At first, we assumed isolated incidents. Random noise.”

She paused for half a beat.

“That assumption was incorrect.”

Mark frowned, stepping closer to the screen. “What kind of irregularities?”

Piggot didn't answer directly. Instead, she brought up a new image.

This time, it was a scan.

Victoria leaned forward despite herself, her eyes tracing the strange contours of something that looked almost like a signal but distorted. There was something within it. Something that made her stomach drop.

She didn't know why.

She just knew.

Piggot's voice cut through the silence.

“We found a match.”

Carol's eyes narrowed even further. “A match to what?”

Piggot looked at them.

No one spoke.

“All available records of Amy Dallon.”