At the moment, I have three featured characters, and the intent for this blog is to allow for in-character interactions with other Dispatch OCs and Characters.
Feel free to ask or interact with any of my three characters or me, Fish, myself!
If there's a specific one of the three you'd like to interact with[using the ask box or your own posts], be sure to mention their name so they know who's meant to interact!
Deo - 28 , Scorpio , he/him
Andre / Frostbite - 26 , Gemini , he/him
Mox - ? , Capricorn , it/its
OR
[OOC] Fish ! (@fishiteeth Me!!) For questions and doodle requests/prompts and such about/for them outside of interacting withe the characters!
I ask that y'all keep asks or relative posts to be relatively SFW, because I understand that the community is full of minors, and I am not the most comfortable with intensely NSFW asks. Suggestive is okay, (I am an adult) just as long as questions are only directed to characters!
Completely underestimated how much of my time would go to artfight,, I'll see if I can trim what I was writing of DFLLWIYH for a slightly shorter part release before July starts,,,
On the other hand, any artfighters out here in the void? If you have your dispatch ocs posted to your artfight, you should def send them to me
Who's more likely to get pulled over for a traffic violation?
Logically, there is one correct option
Mox would get pulled over for reckless endangerment while driving, if it ever even bothered to learn how to operate a 21st century vehicle
Deo is an A+ driver, never a speeding ticket or parking violation, but any ticket would likely be as a result of his passengers, honestly (in a perfect world)
Andre would be the most likely to get an actual traffic violation. Something mundane like running a stop sign or staying to long in one of those paid parking spots. He’s not a frequent driver, he prefers to take public transit when he can, so he really only drives once in a while to attempt to stay able to drive. I feel like he’d just forget and get caught the first time he does something and then he never does it again 😌
For one of my next chapters,,, i think it would be interesting to open the decision making process to you guys, just to make it seem like this is an open choice based novel because i think thats cool .
in the context of one of the next chapters, Frostbite is sent on his first mission!!
Does he...
Fail at the mission
Succeed at the mission
Voting ended onJun 2
obviously, i'll write the scenario for whichever option has more votes but knowing me I'll end up writing both either way,, but vote!!!
pairing: Freezerburn (Frostbite x Flambae)
word count: 2.9K
synopsis: Frostbite finally finds himself free from jail and on the doorsteps of a brand new job.
warnings: none
part I <- you are here
Andre Sinclaire stands fresh out of jail, barely conscious in the lobby of the Superhero Dispatch Network building.
The world seems to speed around him, like jail time had been holding him back somewhere in the past, even amongst the unfurling future. Bleach and some nasty concoction of chemicals tinge the air ever so slightly sour, pristine and sterile. Muffled phones ring and idle chatter are distant, keeping the space from being too quiet but being just soft enough to feel lonely still. The lobby's not empty, some blue-shirted people stand off and out of the way, talking among themselves in a volume far too soft to understand.
Slowly, he moves. And unfortunately for him and his social anxiety, people begin to stare. Externally, Andre looks rugged; dark sunglasses cast a shadow over his face, stubble a bit scraggly, his hair far from done and his skin a deathly pale that was actually not caused by his stint behind bars. It didn’t help that he drained the air of warmth when he moved, practically sucking the life from the mere air he inhabited.
Internally, he’s all nerves; his eyes flickering beneath his sunglasses as he scans every face and exit, headed in the direction he’d memorized on the map he’d found, each and every movement he made predetermined carefully long before he'd even stepped through the glass doors.
Blonde Blazer, the woman who’d somehow gotten him out of jail, had promised to meet him here to introduce him to his dispatcher. He must’ve been late, had to be, because there was no way someone like her, someone so…superpowered could have such a human imperfection as being late. Andre pauses in the middle of the floor, hands tucked self-consciously in his pockets as he seeks out the woman, feeling so disgustingly lost. A flash of blonde hair moves by and he turns, greeting the sight of the taller woman beside him with a reluctant but comforted sigh.
“Sorry I’m late,” he offers softly, voice a bit hoarse, “I promise I’m usually more punctual.” Blonde Blazer let out a light, warm laugh, golden hair bouncing as she waves of his concerns, stepping forward past him. Andre very quickly remembers his height, his eyes darting sharply away even hidden beneath his glasses.
“Punctuality is the least I’ll expect from you,” she muses, navigating the cubicles of the office space with a certain air of confidence. Andre just follows behind.
“I will, however, expect to see a difference come from you. I want to see improvement and growth.” She continues, glancing back over her shoulder to Andre, a warm, confident look in her eyes. Andre does his best to not shrink away from it. Blonde Blazer leads him to a conference room, a moderately large, dark room, that, while large enough, feels cloying and claustrophobic.
Across the table from where they stepped in sits a man with a folder in his hands, brown hair tousled down as far as the short locks could reach. He looks up with an unamused gaze, his eyes flicking from the folder in hand to Andre across the table.
“I expected something a bit more…intimidating,” he says dryly, his voice a silky baritone as he closes the folder and lets it fall onto the table. His newly freed hand coming up to brush through the patchy scruff of his shorter beard, his dark eyes dropping down and then dragging back up the form ahead of him in a creeping judgment.
Andre makes a face, his lip curling ever so slightly, almost inpercivably, as his eyes flicker to Blonde Blazer, who invites him to have a seat with a far-too bright smile and a nod. Slowly, he does, his knees not seeming to want to give and risk vulnerability.
“Andre, this is Robert,” she says, waving her arm across the table to the brunette sitting opposite of him across a thinner part of the oval table, “he’ll be your dispatcher. He’s one of our best, so you’ll be in good hands.”
Andre just nods, his gaze moving back to the man across the table. He’s looking at the file again, kissing his teeth before he clicks his tongue.
“Frostbite, huh?” He muses more to himself than anything, but his gaze flickers up to Andre. “You're an awful quiet guy. There’s almost nothing about what you’ve done in your files. No police reports, no witness interviews, almost nothing but your court records." Robert leans forward on his elbows, trying to make his thinner silhouette larger.
"Are you gonna be a problem for me?” He asks from across the table, an air of what felt too much like condescension as he set the file open on the table before he drew his arms back in across his chest. Andre just stares blankly for a moment, his throat clicking as he swallows before he simply shakes his head.
Robert scoffs.
“Sure,” he drawls, low and sarcastic with a dramatic eye-roll before his gaze points to Blonde Blazer. “A word,” he mouths almost sharply, eyes only momentarily flicking back to Andre before his scowl seems to sharpens.
Blonde Blazer moves, gesturing with a small smile for Andre to stay seated as she and Robert move out of the conference room to speak to each other. He doesn’t strain to listen, just turns his head to glance at the pair as they walk out. The glass doors don’t do much to muffle their conversation, so even as he turns back around to face the table, he can hear just about everything they say, and by the way Robert sounds as he speaks, he thinks that might be intentional in a way.
“Why is my file practically empty?” He hears, followed by an irritated sigh and what he only imagines is a prompt hand to hip and forehead combo, one he’s seen Idina sport many a time. “He looked lost when I called him ‘Frostbite’. Did you make a name for him, Blazer? Is this what we’ve come to?” Robert manages to sound both angry and upset, but Blonde Blazer tries to sound hopeful and dissuade Robert’s pessimism.
“You have to trust me here." He hears, softer, a bit more strained on Blonde Blazer's half, and he can almost see her face half-twisted in pleading. "He’s one of those types, Robert, the system will chew him up and spit him back out worse. We’re just catching him before he turns into a real villain.” Blazer reasons and Andre can see the placating gesture of her hands to Robert, trying to ease him into the situation the same way a dog's owner would desperately try to integrate them to a new environment.
“So what do I-?" He cuts himself off sharply with a wave of a hand, "I go in there and treat him like a real-deal villain? When the guy seems terrified to look me in the eye?” Robert seems desperate for an out, saying whatever he could to turn Blonde Blazer’s decision back. Andre stays staring at the wall ahead, his hands in his lap as he heard Blazer’s voice hush ever so much.
“Come on, Robert,” she says, and he can see just how patronizing and pleading her face is without having to turn, “give him a chance. Even if he’s no supervillain, you could help him become a better man, the perfect hero.” Andre can hear that Robert wants to fight that, but he doesn’t, and he can hear the defeated sigh that follows.
“Fine. But I get to say 'I told you' so when he doesn’t cut it. Those guys will eat him alive.”
The doors open and both Blonde Blazer and Robert reenter the conference room, slipping into the places they both occupied before they left. Robert lets out a huff as he sits back down, looking through the file one last time before he slides it across the table toward Blazer and folds his hands over the wood.
“Frostbite,” he says, voice pointed and agitated and tired all at once as he leans forward over his arms, “Welcome to Z-Team."
"This is a team of less-than-sophisticated individuals who’ve shown a less-than-savory side of their powers for the means of villainy. You’ve been brought onto the team by Blonde Blazer, who sees potential in you.” Robert’s eyes narrow to Andre, who just shifts slightly in the chair.
“Although I can’t even imagine what she sees in you, I trust her judgement. For your sake, I hope you don’t disappoint.” Robert’s eyes slip back toward Blonde Blazer, who just looks pleased with herself, especially with how her arms crossed over her chest and she beams like her namesake.
His gaze moves back to Andre, his brow furrowing as it does so.
“You’ll have your first assignment tomorrow morning. I’ll expect you bright and early so we can get you set up for your first mission. Do I make myself clear?” Robert questions, expecting more of a response than the one Andre wants to provide.
Andre just nods, still quiet and hidden away behind his sunglasses. Robert’s shoulders fall and he sinks back into the chair with a grunt, shaking his head.
“Fantastic,” the sarcasm spills forth, “we’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
With that, Blazer guides Andre out of the conference room and toward the exit of the building.
“Give him some time to warm up to you,” she starts, reaching to place a comforting hand on Andre’s shoulder, only to recoil at the cold and laughs it off like it hadn’t even happened. “You’ll see tomorrow. I’m sure the rest of the Z-Team’ll love you.”
Andre can only hope as he steps out into the daylight beyond the doors of the office building, immediately grateful for his sunglasses, especially as the glare of the midday sun practically blinds him and his poor, light-sensitive eyes. He heads home without another word, or back to as close of home as he can get.
The bus ride home is long, made arduous when he has to tug his jacket in front of his face to avoid the stares of other riders for some semblance of aloneness. Everything seems like its still in place when he gets to his stop, stepping off the bus at his apartment complex with a sigh of relief. He takes the stairs slowly, one hand fixed to the rail as he climbs step-by-step, mentally preparing himself for the worst.
His apartment, almost oddly enough, hasn't been touched in four months. Its a miracle there's no eviction note on the door, and that there's even a door still on the frame.
Luckily, the worst has not yet come. His key still unlocks the door and almost everything is still in order, save for the still-packed boxes disrupted by the police when he was arrested. His mail had piled up just behind the door, most of it junk, but a decent amount being letters from Idina, his adoptive mother.
She knew he was in jail. He had told her, had called her first when he had been booked.
So why did she send so many letters?
Andre sighs and scoops up all of the envelopes, dumping them onto the counter before heading to the fridge. So much for grocery shopping. Almost everything within his fridge is rotting or rotten, save only for the condiments and the water bottles stored near the top. Everything else would need to get tossed.
So Andre sets to work. He hauls a trashcan over and begins emptying tupperware and throwing containers into the bag, haphazardly tossing any tupperware he could salvage toward his sink. His mind swims and he loses himself in thought, brows furrowing as he works.
He thinks far too much in the suffocating silence. About his fridge, about the groceries he’d have to buy and when, about his first day tomorrow. That was the scariest to think about. His first day at a real job ever. It’s a lot to think about, even more that he knows has to settle in, but the time will come for that. At the moment, he forces himself to focus on not spilling any of his four-month-old takeout that had begun to turn into slime in its container, freezing it in his touch before it could drip to the linoleum.
The whole fridge takes about an hour to empty and clean, and he only gets to make a list that gets magnetized to the fridge before he goes off and collapses on his dusty couch, a sigh punched out from his mouth. He has so much planning to do.
Superheroes and supervillains had costumes. Real, signature costumes. He had his heated bodysuit and gloves. Something he absolutely refused to be anywhere further than home with nothing else on. So he starts brainstorming, drafting costume designs on the backs of envelopes and letters, purposefully keeping Idina’s untouched but marking up almost every other sheet of available paper with ease.
Time seems to fly as idea after idea is drafted then reworked or torn down in favor of something else. A mangled web of papers taped to the wall eventually forms a full suit, or something close at least. Something functional but warm, something would keep him from freezing to death but not prevent his ice from slipping through, since that was what Blonde Blazer wanted him for anyways.
He had the groundwork and just needed to build up from there. A snowsuit, similar to those used in snowsports, and a jacket to match would make active life considerably easier in his body. Before he gets the chance to forget, he texts Idina his plans, welcoming her back into his life after the four months of involuntary silence.
Idina’s quick to get on board with Andre’s plans, genuinely just happy to have her boy back in her life, still asking for her help.
Andre pieces together what he has to use for his costume from whatever he has already, laying everything out in order, then going to sleep early to make sure he has everything he needs in preparation for tomorrow.
He wakes up approximately thirty minutes before his alarm and stays up, staring blankly at his ceiling until his phone chirps to tell him it was time to roll over and get up.
Five o'clock didn't feel right climbing out of a bed pressed to the corner of a tiny box of an apartment. Blood rushes from his head as soon as he sits up, a brutal feeling that elicits a groan and a pair of gloved hands pressed hard to his eyes.
Andre manages to pull himself up from the bed with a hand to his window sill and another to the worn rolling chair acting as a poor bedside table. On his feet, a hand shifts to his spine to brace himself through each step toward the bathroom. One hand hooks to a heater and drags it along with him, so much time away from home melting back into familiar habits again.
The heater is settled in the doorway to warm the bathroom for the morning, skin already cooling to an almost painful point the moment he turns his thermal suit on in favor to reach a hand into the set the shower to scalding hot. Carefully designed cybernetics are stripped and tossed to a washing machine (where despite the dominantly electric design, they are in-fact safe), and fingers blackened by decay navigate the world again for the first time in what felt like forever. Shower's taken, teeth are brushed, face is shaved free of that scraggly beard, and by the time he's done brushing and drying his hair, his suit's fresh and clean enough to slip into again.
For what's essentially a skin-tight bodysuit, its designed to be incredibly comfortable. Soft fabric absolutely decked to the nines with microtransmitters that detected every minimal change in heat to be as physically comfortable as possible for the wearer. Had a little panel on the chest for manual adjusting as well, if it got too cold or warm in the surroundings. The suit was technically one of a kind, only a replica to the original Idina had designed when he was younger.
Andre steps back out into his studio box, walking past his walls lined with workbench space and computers and dusty technology —shame no one broke in, they would've found a goldmine— to collect what scraps of his outfit he already had in place.
He's got a jacket that's still in decent condition, a few pairs of sweatpants, and boots. In the span of about twenty minutes, all he could pull together was the bare essentials to simply not look almost nude. If anything, he'd see if he could find a decent thrift later for anything better.
The jacket's on and he'd chosen the darkest pair of sweatpants out of the bunch to attempt to look put together. He has to sit for a moment to put his boots on, frozen fingers still struggling just a bit to manage the laces. For an instant, Andre's thankful he doesn't have any actual mirrors beside the small one in his bathroom to see the potential atrocity of his outfit. All he can do from here is hope that he doesn't look crazy enough to be mistaken for a crackhead as soon as he walks into his new workplace. That would suck.
:D part one of the freezerburn fic kinda nervous (lie)...if yall like this I'll have a poll coming to follow it for one of the next chapters as a...y'know, player based option kinda like the game :D
