If The Suit Fits

In hindsight, silver and white is a terrible colour scheme for crime-fighting.

In fairness to myself, this is my first time on patrol. That alone is a little embarrassing at the age of twenty-two, but I wanted to finish my studies before I got lost in the thrill of superheroics. Having experienced it now, I was definitely right to wait. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a bit of a thrill-seeker, and as terrifying as this is, it’s also pretty exciting.

And honestly, a little arousing. I get to show off my body all the time, but it’s not every day I get to show off my full strength. It feels good to toss bad guys around the place. Way better than I’d imagined, even.

What I didn’t realise is that my colour scheme would make me a shiny, reflective target, or — more importantly — that my entire outfit would be thoroughly trashed after my very first scuffle.

It’s a good thing I’d had the forethought to make a spare. I’ll have to wear that one tomorrow.

Assuming that there is a tomorrow.

I’d made the somewhat unwise decision of challenging the biggest guy around, you know, to make a name for myself. Turns out, the biggest guy around has almost a hundred minions between me and him, all willing to shoot people who try to close that gap.

Nice forethought from him there, not so much from me.

So, I’ve been pinned down in this warehouse for almost ten minutes now. As flight isn’t one of my superpowers and I’m not faster than a speeding bullet, I don’t have an easy escape route. I could break through a wall easily enough, collapsing the path behind me, but I’ll be damned if I end up as just another collateral-property-damage kind of hero.

Especially because I know very well that breaking apart a warehouse on your debut is a surefire way to get a dumb moniker from the press, intentional destruction or not.

It seems bizarre to think that Mom retired over twenty years ago and she still hasn’t lived down the Wrecking Boobs nickname, even if most of the media used the far more PG title of Damage Girl in their headlines. I know guys who have posters of her on their walls in her iconic outfit, dark blue and purple, those unfortunately-too-familiar tits almost bursting out of the confines of the molded leather.

I’d opted to go for spandex, not leather, after hearing some of mom’s stories. I also understand her choice of colours now.

So, although I’m glad that I inherited mom’s powers, I’m absolutely not taking on the legacy of her mantle. Not that I have the tits to collapse a building around me, but still. I could probably cause some minor damage with these things, even if Mom keeps insisting that I’ll “hit my growth spurt eventually” in that condescending tone of hers.

At least I inherited her height along with the powers. I can’t imagine how much harder my life would have been if I’d been stuck with my head at the level of mom’s chest. Even though being 6’11” might get me a few — well, a lot of — looks in my civilian identity, I’d much rather that than have another reason for mom to pity me. Plus, I’ve just discovered that it feels great when I’m towering over a thug, lifting him up, and slamming him into a wall with barely any effort. It’d be so much more difficult to do that if I was Dad’s height of 5’11”. He’s not exactly short, but Mom and I are in another league. I kinda love it, honestly.

Overall, I guess, thanks Mom, both for the powers and the physique. Even if I don’t have the boobs. Whatever.

Regardless of that, I’d been hoping for a cool name like Valiant or Crusader, but I’ll settle for anything that isn’t Dead Girl at this point.

Back to the matter at hand: how do I escape?

I hear a crash from the entrance behind me, followed by a couple of gunshots. If it’s just another two or three thugs arriving, I won’t have a problem, but bullet-resistant isn’t quite the same as bulletproof. If they get too close with too powerful a round, I’m toast.

Another crash, closer this time. Another series of gunshots. I’ve been pushing my way into the warehouse and it sounds like I’m about to be surrounded. My time is running out.

I need to make a move.

Obviously, not a stealthy one. Stupid costume.

I exit the side-room I’ve hidden myself in, trying to simultaneously make myself look both imposing and as small a target as possible. I’m not sure it works, but there’s no one here yet anyway. The thugs ahead of me have fallen back to their boss and the reinforcements haven’t quite made it to this section of the warehouse yet.

Pushing forwards it is; time to face some bad guys.

I tear the metal door off its hinges, holding it in front of me as a shield while I enter the room and assess the situation. Fuck, that’s a lot of gunfire. Superhearing isn’t going to be much use here. My reflexes are better than average, so I manage to catch most of the incoming rounds on my improvised shield, but I let a few slip past on purpose, testing out my limits. I can barely feel the tickle of the impact at this range, so I shift the shield a little, embracing every gentle kiss from the hail of bullets.

Fuck, this feels really good.

I don’t know if my eyes are safe, and I’m not willing to risk it, so I close them for a moment, bathing in the shower of gunfire. My ears don’t pick up anyone moving closer to me, so I decide to wait them out. Hopefully the image of an almost 7-foot tall woman gleefully embracing their weapons will scare a few of these guys shitless and I’ll get to pick them off a few at a time.

And then I remember the reinforcements behind me.

I remember because one of them has just crashed into my back. That crunching sound was probably his shoulder dislocating as it collided with my traps.

So, turning my back to the few dozen gunmen actively shooting me, I take a look at what I’m up against.

My eyes widen in a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“Hey, sweetie!” Mom calls out from across the warehouse, one hand wrapped around the throat of a thug while the other waves happily at me. “I thought you could use a helping hand!”

As she throws the guy into a pile of wooden crates, I get a good look at what my mom is wearing.

“I hope you don’t mind, my old costumes don’t really fit anymore, that’s the problem with leather, you know, and I saw your nice stretchy one!”

My spare costume is doing a terrible job of covering my mom’s body.

Sure, in terms of our heights and musculature, we match pretty well. I even have the same impressive ass as her, mounted on some dangerously curvy hips. The lower half isn’t the issue though. Where my own D-cups are perfectly contained, snug in my skintight suit, my mother’s tits must have taken one look at my spare suit and declared it beneath them.

Instead of a modest chest area, with space for an as-yet-undecided emblem, my mother’s breasts have torn the entire front of the outfit apart, leaving an enormous tear filled with her ridiculous cleavage.

That isn’t a boob window. That is a boob garage door.

“Mom!” I hiss across the warehouse, angrily tossing the door I’m still holding at an approaching pair of thugs. “That costume doesn’t fit you!”

“Well, I made some necessary adjustments, but I think it suits me very well!” Mom laughs at her joke, causing her breasts to jiggle again. I can’t stop looking at them.

In a single bound, she jumps across the warehouse and joins me in front of the thugs.

“Ooh, it feels good to be back in the action, sweetie. I bet you know just how difficult it was for me to give it up now, don’t you?”

She winks at me. I’m in the middle of my first proper fight and my mom is here, standing next to me, winking at me because she knows just how arousing using my powers must be. She’s right, of course. This is the hottest I’ve ever felt, but it’s embarrassing to be doing this with my mom!

“You go left, I’ll take right, got it baby?”

She pauses. She’s actually waiting for me to respond.

“Got it.” I say, and we push off the ground at the same time, crashing into a pair of thugs each as we toss grown men around like toys.

Within ten seconds, only mom and I are left standing. Seeing her in action is a little like looking into a mirror, but more intimidating. This is a woman with many years more experience than me, showing that despite her retirement, she’s absolutely still got it.

Plus, even though she’s in her fifties, she doesn’t look a month older than me.

“So, who are we taking down, by the way?” Mom asks conversationally as we approach the office rooms of the warehouse.

“Marco Fierri,” I say. “Upcoming drug and weapons dealer.”

“You’re kidding!” Mom exclaims. “I remember his dad from back in the day! He’s still in prison, right where I put him! Guess tonight is going to be a family reunion all around!”

I go to open the door cautiously, but Mom holds me back.

“Hang on, sweetie, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Then, she puffs out her chest, charges forward, and runs straight through the wall next to the door, tits first.

I shrug, plant my back foot, and send the door crashing through the frame with a powerful front kick.

Maybe I’m underestimating my own resilience.

I do, however, call it back into question as a grenade lands at my feet.

Moving as quickly as I can, I scoop up the explosive, spin on my heel, and toss it out into the warehouse.

Two explosions follow. The grenade I just tossed out into the warehouse explodes midair, causing minimal damage but a lot of noise. The other explosion is muffled though, and came from behind me.

I turn around to see my mother pressing her tits together.

She… she didn’t, did she?

“Not just for show,” Mom smirks as she lets go of her chest, a puff of smoke escaping from her cleavage. “You need a much more impressive load to give these puppies a problem!”

“Eww, Mom!”

“What! They don’t call me Wrecking Boobs for nothing!”

“I thought they called you Danger Girl?”

“Well, I’m not a girl anymore, sweetie,” Mom smirks again. “Plus, who do you think suggested Wrecking Boobs in the first place? Gotta show the girls some appreciation!”

It was basically over after that. The rest of the thugs went quietly, though the boss had escaped at some point, but I’ll get him next time.

My first patrol and I’ve suffered more emotional damage than physical.

“Oh, by the way sweetie, I think we should bring your sister with us next time.”

My eyes practically pop out of my head at the suggestion. Thoughts of my younger, taller, bustier sister wearing my costume cross my mind: my 7’2” sister with a chest that makes Mom look underdeveloped.

“She’ll need a bigger costume though,” Mom sighs thoughtfully as she looks down at her chest. “Your costume will definitely not fit her.”

I groan as I take one last look at our costumes, destroyed in very different ways.

“Don’t worry though, sweetie. I’m sure you still have some growing to do.” Mom is smiling at me now. “It’s nice to be back.”