Dinah Laurel Lance (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
raptorcanaria) wrote2008-08-04 11:13 am
raptorcanaria) wrote2008-08-04 11:13 am
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"This is my town."
It's a voice designed to instill fear into the heart of man. To make it clear that the speaker tolerates no argument; that he expects to be obeyed - no scratch that: it's a voice designed to force abeyance, with expectations not actually a factor in the equation.
It needs work.
Dinah looks up from where she was binding the wrists and ankles of the gang of armed muggers she's just taken down with her bare hands. Above her, on the railing of a fire escape, crouches a human figure shrouded in black and shadow. She can't make out a face, and even the shape is hard to make out, thanks to a long cape that hangs down from the sillouhette. It is scary, at first. She's heard the stories; it's hard not to, everyone's talking about it. Not just the Justice Society, not just her Dad's cop friends, but customers in the flower store, and the papers. And - people in the bar. He's the reason Gotham's famous even there.
Her fingers stumble in the knot-work, but she sets her jaw and finishes. She's the Black Canary now, and shes not going to let herself be intimidated like some dumb teenager being caught doing something she shouldn't.
She is a dumb teenager, and she has been caught doing something she shouldn't, but she'll be blowed if she's going to let herself be intimidated by anyone outside the Justice Society.
She stands up, her hands on her hips. She's since put away her Mom's outfit and replaced it with one of her own, with help form the Bar in supplying the raw materials. It is, in fact the exact same costume, but this one fits, and she can put her hands on her hips and adopt a confident stance, without fear that her impractical neckline will let her down.
"It's not just your town," she insists, and with satisfied relief, decides that she can't detect any nervousness in her own voice. "Other people live here too."
"You're in the way," the man - Batman - says. "I don't need an amateur ruining my work."
"Excuse me?" Dinah returns, irritated. "Amateur? The Black Canary was cleaning up the streets of Gotham before you were even born!" OK, that's a guess, but it's probably true, unless he's really old or something.
"But have you been?" the figure straightens, his cape billowing out behind him in an unnecessary show of dramatics. (Which Dinah, against her better nature, thinks really cool.) "Does your mother know you're out after dark, Miss Lance?"
It's like a punch to the stomach.
Not the threat, nor the information, but the unbelievable breach of superhero etiquette.
"Not while we're in costume!" Dinah snaps at him. But he's already disappeared into the rooftops above.
It's a voice designed to instill fear into the heart of man. To make it clear that the speaker tolerates no argument; that he expects to be obeyed - no scratch that: it's a voice designed to force abeyance, with expectations not actually a factor in the equation.
It needs work.
Dinah looks up from where she was binding the wrists and ankles of the gang of armed muggers she's just taken down with her bare hands. Above her, on the railing of a fire escape, crouches a human figure shrouded in black and shadow. She can't make out a face, and even the shape is hard to make out, thanks to a long cape that hangs down from the sillouhette. It is scary, at first. She's heard the stories; it's hard not to, everyone's talking about it. Not just the Justice Society, not just her Dad's cop friends, but customers in the flower store, and the papers. And - people in the bar. He's the reason Gotham's famous even there.
Her fingers stumble in the knot-work, but she sets her jaw and finishes. She's the Black Canary now, and shes not going to let herself be intimidated like some dumb teenager being caught doing something she shouldn't.
She is a dumb teenager, and she has been caught doing something she shouldn't, but she'll be blowed if she's going to let herself be intimidated by anyone outside the Justice Society.
She stands up, her hands on her hips. She's since put away her Mom's outfit and replaced it with one of her own, with help form the Bar in supplying the raw materials. It is, in fact the exact same costume, but this one fits, and she can put her hands on her hips and adopt a confident stance, without fear that her impractical neckline will let her down.
"It's not just your town," she insists, and with satisfied relief, decides that she can't detect any nervousness in her own voice. "Other people live here too."
"You're in the way," the man - Batman - says. "I don't need an amateur ruining my work."
"Excuse me?" Dinah returns, irritated. "Amateur? The Black Canary was cleaning up the streets of Gotham before you were even born!" OK, that's a guess, but it's probably true, unless he's really old or something.
"But have you been?" the figure straightens, his cape billowing out behind him in an unnecessary show of dramatics. (Which Dinah, against her better nature, thinks really cool.) "Does your mother know you're out after dark, Miss Lance?"
It's like a punch to the stomach.
Not the threat, nor the information, but the unbelievable breach of superhero etiquette.
"Not while we're in costume!" Dinah snaps at him. But he's already disappeared into the rooftops above.