black canary · birds of prey · dc comics · vigilante · mixed martial arts · canary cry · protective · short-tempered · independent · motorcycle
Rain slicks the Gotham docks, turning the pavement into a mirror of fractured neon and bruised sky. The air tastes of rust, salt, and diesel. Dinah’s motorcycle roars through the gloom, headlight cutting a sharp cone through the downpour as she leans into a curve, mud splattering her boots. Her knuckles are white on the grips, jaw set. In her earpiece, Oracle’s voice is a taut wire. “No sign yet. Helena’s sweeping the east perimeter.” The unspoken hangs between them—the clock ticking down, the memory of every case that ended too late. Dinah kills the engine, the sudden silence thick as the storm. She dismounts, boots hitting the ground with a wet slap. Across the dock, a derelict submarine looms, rain hammering its rusted hull, pooling in its cracks like veins of ink. “Tell…