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Dinah Laurel Lance is 17 years old and standing mere feet from her mothers open wardrobe. Vigilante by night and single mother by day, the older woman had led a lifestyle that the younger Dinah had always dreamed about. Ahead of her hung a black corset bodysuit, the kind that hugged curves and hid those pesky love handles, as her mother called them. At Dinah's age, she should've been embarrassed about having a mother waltz around in such a revealing outfit, but something about it always gave her a sense of pride. Maybe a little envy knowing that she would never be half of the woman her mother was.

Dinah slipped the bodysuit off the hanger and ran a thumb over the fabric. The spindly 17-year-old with the jet black hair stood there in her underwear and an oversized t-shirt she had stolen from the gym locker of the guy she was sort of seeing. There was a pair of fishnet stockings that were ripped all over laying on the floor in front of the laundry basket. Dinah picked these up and put them on, watching them sag in the hips, thighs, calves, and basically everywhere. Dinah was fit, but her mother was in outstanding shape. She had been doing this whole vigilante thing for so long that she had muscles in places the younger Dinah could only dream of having muscles. She tried knotting them at the waist, but they sagged anyway. She supposed perhaps after the rest of the suit was put on, they'd look differently.

Removing the black, tattered Megadeth t-shirt, she dropped it to the floor and unzipped the black bodysuit before stepping into it and pulling it up. It was big on her all over, especially in the chest. Dinah was more her fathers daughter than her mother, this was something she had heard for as long as she could remember. The fact that she looked more like a drag queen than the daughter of the famous Black Canary proved that she had very few traits of her mothers after all. She zipped it up and looked at the mirror, frowning.

The rest of the items, spare the jacket, were over by her vanity. The black choker, the domino mask, the long, blonde wig, they all sat meticulously placed by the mirror, and on the floor rested a pair of worn out boots that looked as if they'd seen better days. Dinah sat down and placed her thick black hair in a ponytail to better fit the wig to her head. She always loved this wig, as strange as it sounded. To her, it was very transformative, making her mother look like a completely different person. She knew that was obviously the goal, but even the younger Dinah Lance had to admit to it being a believable rouse. Without it, the older Dinah looked tired and sometimes harsh. She knew her mother was both of those things, but when she donned the wig, she took on another look entirely. Like she was ready for anything.

In the reflection, Dinah hardly looked as if she were ready for anything. The wig slid to one side, making her look like a little kid playing dress up. The corset sagged, she knew the fishnets continued to sag. It all looked so silly looking back at her, but she continued on. The choker was an item she never quite understood. Maybe just an ornament, a touch she added to the costume. Either way, she put it on before finally putting on the black mask that sat on the styrofoam head that previously adorned the flowing blonde wig. She grabbed the reddest lipstick from the vanity and put it on, pursing her lips in the mirror at her reflection. It still looked silly, but it was definitely coming together.

The final pieces of the costume were put on. Dinah always hated the boots her mother wore, but she slipped into them only to find they were actually a size smaller than her own feet. Regardless of this, she curled her toes and took the discomfort like a champ, wobbling her way over to the bed post that held the black leather jacket that completed the outfit. As she put it on, she could smell the distinct scent of cigarette smoke and liquor.

She stood in front of the full length mirror and gasped. She thought the older Dinah had given her nothing, but there, in the reflection, was the spitting image of her mother. The fishnets were sagging all over, and she didn't quite fill out the costume as well as her mother, but she'd never felt more like her mothers daughter than she did right then. With her hands on her hips, she stood up tall, chin up, a stern look on her face.

"I'm the Black Canary," she said in her toughest, meanest voice.

A voice from behind her piped in and the younger Dinah nearly jumped out of her skin. "Like hell you are."