“211, may I get your name and location please?” Darcy asked, fingers poised over her keyboard. The headset she'd grabbed for her shift was too loose again and was rotating backwards, out of her hair. No time to fix it with a call on the line.
“He-hello?” Darcy's heart sank. The voice on the line was a child. “There's a bad man—” The little boy was trying to whisper (smart kid), but his voice kept cracking upwards in fear.
“Sweetie, I need your location or I don't know where to send help,” Darcy coaxed, waving John over from the corner.
“M-my house,” the child whispered over a sudden burst of static. “The bad man's making the TV crackle.”
John stood behind her now and lay his left hand at the base of her neck. “Which city is your house in sweetie?” Darcy asked while trying to simultaneously relax enough for John to sync up his mind, project through the phone, and enter ‘probable electromagnetic powers’ into the computer. John was rotating her headset back in place, the sweet man.
“Springfield.” That came fast and steady, all though Darcy could angry voices in the background, a man shouting and a woman pleading for him to calm down.
“Good, good job, sweetie. In Missouri?” John’s mind linked up, finally, and Darcy could feel him following through her to the connection she'd made with the little boy on the line.
Shit, the East Coast centers were slammed today. A few too many hostages in bank vaults spread across the entire seaboard. Darcy pulled the Kansas City and Boston dispatches into a chat window to inform them they're need to do a hand-off teleport. “And what's your street address love?” She was simultaneously linking John to the psychic keyboard she kept in her memory palace, hooked up to the dispatch chats.
“932 Elk Street.” The boy gulped audibly over the phone. “Please hurry, the bad–Daddy's really angry, the couch is spinning.”
John was dumping all the data on his daddy's powers the little boy was thinking about into the dispatch chat. Boston was setting up the relay from the fixed pad in their offices over to Springfield. Kansas City was sorting their roster into a team with the right mix of skills and powers for a Powered domestic disturbance. Darcy had the local center’s jail on a different line, warning them to prep a suppressor for the range of suspected powers and kept talking to the boy on the line. She got him breathing regularly, even when his mom started screaming, and creeping out the back door. John had disengaged a while ago and was linked up with Amiki in the row behind her, on another call. She was still on the line when a ‘whomp’ of displaced air told her the SWAT Team had arrived and the kind, matronly voice of KC’s best door kicker came on the line to tell her they had the kid. Darcy thanked the team and signed off.
She sighed, grabbed a swig of water, and cracked her neck left, then right. She might not have the flashy powers necessary to swoop in and save the day. But hyper-organization, hyper-multitasking, and voice-projected calming was one of the most useful, if rare, sets of the quiet powers in the dispatch centers. Not that she was going to find out what happened in Springfield unless it went wrong and made the national news. No one had time for follow up. Besides, there was another call coming in.