AN: Here we are again. This story has been in my head since the middle of Part 2 and finally getting it on paper (or word document, I guess) is such a joy! I hope this story keeps you on your toes! Enjoy, comment, and review! I love feedback!

Just another day at the office, except my office happens to be the streets of Gotham.

I've taken a lot of hits these past five years, both physically and emotionally, so it's nice that my "job" gives my pent up aggression an out. Tonight's punching bag happens to be your average mugger. It reminds me of the first time I saved an innocent citizen. It was kind of an accident, but she needed my help just like this woman needs my help.

This current creep, tall and semi-pudgy with greasy black hair, was smirking at me with a long knife in his hand. The woman is crouching down, pushing herself into the corner made by the dumpster and the disgusting brick wall. Considering she's in a very nice business suit, I know she'll be regretting that later.

The creep lunges at me with his knife-wielding arm outstretched. I shake my head. They never learn.

I hook my right arm around his elbow and pull as I kick my left foot into his stomach. When he's down I move my hand to his wrist and twist. He cries out in pain so I put the poor guy out of his misery. Quick knock to the back of the head and he's out cold. It's kind of become my signature thing.

I walk over to the woman, taking a can of pepper spray out of my pocket. I toss it to her after she stands up.

"Take it," I tell her. "One quick spray to the eyes and a kick to the groin will usually give you enough time to get away. The local sports store is giving self-defense lessons for women using pepper spray on Saturday's for about sixty bucks. It's pretty helpful."

"Th-thank you," she stammers before she runs off.

I cuff the mugger to a pipe with a zip-tie before walking to my motorcycle a few feet away. I pick up my coat and pull it on.

My uniform hasn't really changed much. Instead of a low ponytail braid, I've let my layered hair run free with straight bangs across the front. I still wear the same black boots, pants, thigh holsters and sleeveless body armor with the red bat across the chest. The additions include a red leather vest that buttons right under my breasts and a matching tailcoat that reaches my ankles and has a hood that comes in handy.

Before I straddle my black Aprilia rsv4, I put my finger up to my ear to adjust the radio earpiece.

"Redwing to Black Canary, I need you to do me a favor and inform the Gotham PD that there's a perp currently cuffed to a drain on the corner of Kane and Infatino."

"It's been sent," Dinah replies. "Looks like you'll make it right on time. Early even."

"Yeah, like he ever is," I mumble.

"At least he's stopped giving excuses," Dinah offers.

"Only because I threatened to shoot him if he lied about why he was late ever again." Shadows move in the corner of my eye. My senses heighten and I hardly notice when Dinah speaks.

"Hello, earth to Redwing."

My eyes still searching the dark I ask, "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said that your mother is calling."

"Ignore it." Four men step out of the shadows. I murmur, "Just my night."

"I ignored it," Dinah says, "but that was call number two."

I groan. "I can already guess what she's calling for."

One of the thugs grins. "Little birdy got caught in the wrong nest."

I roll my eyes, get off my bike, and motion for them to come at me. Two of them lunge. I dodge one and throw the other into a wall.

"Your mother's calling again," Dinah informs me.

"Kinda busy here, Canary," I say through clenched teeth as I avoid a punch to the face. I've successfully subdued one thug, but the other two have joined in.

"Maybe something happened to your brother?"

This statement dazes me and my reward is a swing to the stomach. Carson's in deep undercover in one of the drug rings. If something happened–

"Fine, put her through," I huff out. Dinah puts the line through to me. "Hello?"

"Oh, finally you pick up!" Mom complains. She sounds too irritated for something to have happened to Carson. I'm already regretting taking this call.

"Sorry," I say, annoyed as I send a kick into thug number three's jaw. "I'm in the middle of something right now."

I throw another punch, evade another kick.

"Are you at your kickboxing class?" Mom asks.

Kickboxing class. Another example of how in the dark my mother still is. I needed an excuse when the cuts and bruises started showing up and Tim had suggested kickboxing classes. Who knew she'd believe it for this long?

"Yes, Mom, I am," I grumble.

"Will you be done in fifteen minutes?" Oh, no. Here it comes. "Do you need me to pick up Jensen?"

"No, Mom," I say, trying to keep my cool. "I'll be done in five minutes," insert kick and there's only one creep left.

"Are you sure, honey? It wouldn't be a problem for me to pick him up."

I catch the last thugs punch, twist his wrist (probably breaking a few carpals in the process), and knee him under his jaw. All done.

"Mom," I say, trying to put some authority in my voice, "let me make this clear: Jensen is my son. Not to mention I am twenty-two years old. I can pick up Jensen on my own. I don't need you griping me about it every single time."

There's a long pause. I know I hurt her feelings, but sometimes she still treats me like I'm a teenager. I needed to be honest and try to make her understand.

"Okay, Ronnie," Mom says thickly. "I'll see you later this week." Click.

"That was a little harsh," Dinah acknowledges.

I sigh. "I know. The thing is, I asked her to pick up Jensen once and let him stay at her apartment for a few days. It was that time when I went undercover, remember? Then she wanted him over all the time and at first I couldn't say no, so I hardly got to spend time with Jensen by myself. She always wants to go pick him up for me. Sometimes I think she forgets that Jensen is my son and not hers."

Dinah's quiet. That's kind of the best thing about Dinah: she knows when someone just needs to vent and doesn't want advice.

Finally, after a short pause, she says, "So, I'll see you in half an hour-ish?"

"Hopefully less than that," I mutter.

"Don't kill anyone," Dinah teases as I straddle my bike once more.

"No promises," I answer. The engine roars and I take off, speeding the whole way so I can change my clothes and switch to my more "kid friendly" car, the acura TSX, a twenty-first birthday gift from Bruce. Jensen had picked it out because it was "the best shade of red."