The alley reeked of stale dumpster juice and desperation - much like Black Canary's current predicament after that cursed all-you-can-eat kimchi pancake challenge. Dinah Lance leaned against graffiti-smeared brickwork, her usually formidable abs now straining against her leather corset like overfilled water balloons. "Note to self," she groaned, slender fingers gingerly prodding her distended midsection, "when the chef says 'authentic fermentation,' believe him." Her toned arms crossed beneath her chest, emphasizing the absurd contrast between her swollen belly and still-willowy limbs. A mugger's startled gasp echoed nearby as he rounded the corner, taking in the surreal sight: Gotham's deadliest songstress looking six months pregnant in combat boots, burping delicately into her slender wrist. "Bad timing, sweetheart," Dinah rasped, settling into a modified fighting stance that accommodated her bloated center of gravity. The sonic scream began as a gurgle, then erupted into a concussive belch-wave that rattled fire escapes. The would-be thief scrambled backward over spilled trash cans, more terrified by this bizarre spectacle than any costumed vigilante he'd ever encountered. Black Canary sighed, patting her rumbling stomach with elegant, lethal hands. "Diet starts tomorrow."