Your first mission should’ve been cool. It had all the right ingredients: a shady warehouse, intel about traffickers, and the possibility of a chase. Except you had two problems: Diana Prince and Dinah Lance.

Also known as your moms.

“Zip your jacket,” Diana said before you even stepped out of the car.

“Mom, it’s not cold.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

Dinah was worse. She licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off your cheek like you were heading to kindergarten. “Don’t forget the safety on your weapon.”

“Mom, I know how to—”

“Humor me,” she cut in.

By the time you reached the warehouse, you were already exhausted. And then, during the breach, instead of giving tactical hand signals like professionals, they kept fussing.

“Sweetie, watch your footing.” “Stay behind us, don’t rush.” “Do you need water?”

You growled, “We’re literally in the middle of a raid. Can you not?”

Even the criminals seemed confused. One of them shouted, “Are those your moms?”

You almost screamed. Diana lassoed him unconscious while Dinah smirked.

“See?” Dinah teased. “Even the bad guys know you’re our kid.”

“Please stop talking,” you begged.

The mission should’ve been straightforward. But with them, nothing was straightforward. As you moved deeper into the warehouse, Diana kept “suggesting” corrections to your stance—“lower your elbow, you’re telegraphing your strikes”—while Dinah kept making jokes loud enough for the criminals to hear.

At one point you spotted two men sneaking up on you with crowbars. You were ready, muscles tensed—only for Diana to step neatly in front of you, sword flashing, disarming them in seconds.

“I had that!” you shouted.

“I know,” she said serenely, like a teacher patting a student for writing their name correctly.

Meanwhile Dinah unleashed a Canary Cry so powerful it rattled the rafters. Crates toppled, men screamed, and you stumbled, covering your ears.

“Mom!” you hissed. “You nearly deafened me!”

“Builds character,” she winked.

The criminals began shouting at each other, panicked. You tried to look professional, taking cover, firing warning shots, but every time you managed something halfway competent, Diana or Dinah swooped in and made it unnecessary. One guy swung a chain at you—Diana blocked it with her bracers. Another tried to sneak behind you—Dinah clotheslined him before he got close.

“Seriously, do you two want me here or not?” you demanded.

“Of course,” Diana said, pulling another man off his feet like he weighed nothing.

“You’re adorable when you’re mad,” Dinah added.

You groaned into your hands.

Still, eventually, you did contribute. The last thug standing went for a pistol—foolish move. You sprinted, shoulder-checked him into the wall, and wrenched it free before he could aim. He collapsed, groaning.

Both of them froze, watching.

“…Well done,” Diana admitted at last.

“Not bad, kid,” Dinah said, clapping your back so hard you stumbled.

The police swept in moments later to collect the perps. You tried to stand tall, to look like an independent operative, but your moms immediately sandwiched you in a hug.

“Proud of you,” Diana said softly.

“Yeah, but you still need to eat more,” Dinah added.

You sighed, face burning as cops and bystanders stared.

The kicker? One of the officers actually muttered, “Man, I wish my moms were superheroes.”

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. Maybe saving the world wasn’t so bad… if you ignored the fact you were apparently twelve forever.