Batgirl: Too Hot to Handle

• The cold open takes us to the Cozy Gotham toy factory, the kind of place with rainbow murals, cheerful music, and teddy bears lining the shelves like loyal sentries of childhood joy. Sweaty, crunched-up workers stitch and pack with the dull repetition of routine, until all hell breaks loose. Without warning, the windows explode inward in a hurricane of flame and shattered glass. Screams fill the air as employees scatter like leaves in the wind, fleeing the inferno now crawling across every surface. In through the fire in the form of a maniac who enjoys his job, steps a man in a scorched flight suit. Firefly. His jetpack roars as he lands inside, unleashing a torrent of flame that turns racks of plush toys into firewood. “Sorry, kids,” he quips, raising his flamethrower like a maestro’s baton, “these bears are the hottest toy of the year!” As the inferno spreads, Firefly’s visor catches a glimpse of movement, a dark silhouette behind the office window above the factory floor. With a low chuckle, he ignites his pack and rockets up to the catwalk, smashing through the office door in a storm of smoke and heat. Inside stands a trembling man in a suit, pale as the ash settling outside. Firefly grins through the heat. “You’ve been selling your product on turf that ain’t yours, buddy,” he says, circling the man like a predator. The man stammers, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?” Firefly’s tone sharpens, mockingly offended. “Come on, now. We both know these teddy bears are stuffed with a whole lot more than fluff and hugs.” His tone drops into something colder, “Don’t worry who I am. I’m just the messenger.” The man pleads, eyes wide with desperation. But Firefly only laughs and lights his flamethrower, the room flashing orange and red. “Consider your crispy corpse this a public service announcement to the others.” The screams are brief. The message, scorching.

• Cut to the sun-drenched gymnasium at Gotham Academy, where Barbara Gordon is midair, twisting, flipping, and landing with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from a lifetime of perfecting her craft. Her dismount hits with pinpoint precision, sticking the landing so clean it earns an eruption of applause from the stands. A panel of judges jots down perfect scores, but Barbara barely glances their way. Her attention lands instead on a familiar figure near the back, her father, Commissioner Jim Gordon, clapping with proud restraint and just the hint of a smile cracking his stern demeanor. They reunite afterward, Jim tossing an arm around her shoulder as they head out together, a rare quiet moment between the cop and his daughter. But peace never lasts long in Gotham. As they’re driving home, Jim’s radio squawks to life with an urgent call. His expression tightens as he listens, then turns the car around. Minutes later, they arrive at the scene of the stuffed animal factory, now reduced to a smoldering ash heap crawling with fire trucks and uniformed officers. He parks just far enough to keep her safe. “Stay in the car, Babs,” he orders, already stepping out. Barbara gives him a look, half-serious, half-challenging. “Come on, just let me—” “Absolutely not.” And he’s gone. Barbara frowns, crossing her arms as she watches him from behind the glass. She sees him talking to Detective Yin, the two of them analyzing the scene through low, serious tones. Her curiosity flares. She scans the site, eyes sharp, brain turning over the visuals like a puzzle. Something catches her attention, an oddly misshapen teddy bear lying among the charred remains, half-stuffed and half-melted, but definitely… wrong. Before she knows it, she’s out of the car and walking toward the wreckage. Detective Yin sees her first. “Jim,” she says, pointing past his shoulder. Jim turns just in time to see Barbara crunching across the burnt pavement. “Barbara Jean Gordon, what are you doing out of the car?” he snaps, storming toward her. She throws her hands up with mock innocence. “Oh, what? Is the extinguished fire gonna leap out and bite me?” Yin stifles a laugh. Jim does not. “I told you to stay in the car,” he growls, “You’re not part of this investigation.” “I’m also not blind,” she replies, unfazed. She points behind him at the stuffed bear with something suspicious glinting inside. “That melted Care Bear over there? You might want to take a closer look.” Jim follows her finger, squinting. He adjusts his glasses, leans in, and motions to one of the firemen. “Grab that. Now.” The scorched plush is brought over and, with a careful tear, reveals a tiny plastic bag of white powder nestled inside the stuffing. Barbara crosses her arms triumphantly. “Remind me again what your whole team of cateract-eyed professionals was doing while I sat in the car?” Detective Yin smirks, “She’s got you there, gramps.” Jim scowls. “Barbara. Car. Now.” “What, no ‘thank you’?” Barbara gives back. Jim continues, “This is an active crime scene. It’s dangerous.” “I found that for you!” Barbara protests. Jim waves her off, “Our team would’ve caught it. Eventually.” Barbara turns on her heel, storming back to the car and slamming the door hard enough to make the frame rattle. Yin watches the whole thing play out, then opens her mouth to say something. “Not a word, Detective,” Jim says without looking at Yin.

• The night air is thick and still, clinging to Gotham like a secret. Commissioner Jim Gordon stands beside the glowing Bat-Signal atop the GCPD roof for the third night in a row, trench coat tugged tight against the biting wind. The massive beacon hums and cuts through the sky, casting its symbol far across the city’s smoky underbelly. But no one answers. Again. Jim sighs and checks his watch, the same hour slipping by just like the nights before. His shoulders sag under the weight of long hours and longer worries. He walks toward the power switch, hand hovering over it, when a shadow lands silently behind him. “You’re late,” Jim says without turning. “I’m here,” comes the low voice of the Batman, cool and composed as ever. Gordon turns slowly, holding up a plastic evidence bag with scorched remnants of plush and a powder-filled pouch nestled inside. “In the stuffing. Like a twisted toy surprise,” Jim mutters. “You think someone’s sending a message?” Batman’s eyes narrow behind the cowl. “Is it that obvious? They want you to know. Whoever this is, they’re not afraid.” “You’re telling me,” Jim replies, “Where’ve you been?” Batman hesitates, just for a second. “Elsewhere. Handling a messy situation. I’m afraid, for this case, you’ll be handling it without me.” Gordon’s brow furrows. “You serious?” Batman nods. “Your arson report. The temperature spikes… they were extraordinary. This wasn’t some amateur lighting up the place. This was precise. Practiced.” Jim grits his teeth. “This guy’s a pro.” Batman turns to the ledge, already fading into the night. “So is the GCPD.” And with that, the Dark Knight disappears into the shadows, leaving Jim alone again beneath the symbol. It still glows, less like a call for help now, and more like a challenge waiting to be answered.

• Commissioner Gordon was supposed to be off the clock. That’s what he told Barbara when he left the house, that he just wanted to take a few laps through the East End before heading home. But he noticed a soft glow in the distance turn into roaring flame over a Korean restaurant. He was out of the cruiser before it fully stopped, already on the radio calling in for the fire department. Smoke coiled into the air, dancing over the red neon that blinked faintly through the haze. Jim coughed, pulling his coat over his mouth as he stepped into the building, the front still untouched by the inferno but thick with the smell of kerosene. Then he heard it, a low mechanical hum and the cruel too-casual whistle of someone working with flame instead of running from it. Jim made his way past the empty tables, toward the back kitchen, where a side door led to a narrow corridor. The door was ajar, and beyond it, behind clouds of black smoke, he saw the unmistakable shape of a man in scorched armor, the hiss of ignited fuel burning at his hand. The smell of burnt bodies entered the room. From what he could see, they were clearly cooking more than just kimchi back there. Another front for a drug ring. “Hey, fire bug!” Jim shouted, raising his gun. Firefly turned, surprised only for a split second, then grinned beneath his soot-streaked helmet. “Oo, so close. Well, look who came to dinner,” he said, squeezing the trigger on his flame-thrower just enough to send a warning tongue of fire across the floor. Jim didn’t back down. “Hands where I can see ‘em!” But Firefly just laughed, whipping the flame higher as the corridor lit up in orange. Jim dove to the side, crashing through a storage shelf to avoid the searing blast, but in the chaos, a burning support beam cracked from the ceiling and collapsed. Jim pushed his body just clear, but not clear enough. His left arm caught the edge, the intense heat biting through his sleeve like paper. He screamed, clutching his arm, eyes wet and teeth gritted. Firefly vanished into the back alley in a burst of flame, leaving only the burn and his mocking laughter behind. By the time the fire trucks arrived, the blaze was already swallowing the back half of the building. Jim sat slumped against the curb, cradling his scorched arm. Second-degree burns. It could’ve been worse. It was worse, Firefly was still at large.

• It was well past midnight when Jim Gordon limped through the front door, his coat draped awkwardly over his injured arm. The house was quiet, save for the soft buzz of the kitchen light and the faint hum of the fridge. He’d hoped to slip in unnoticed, but Barbara was already there, sitting cross-legged on the living room couch, arms folded and eyes sharp with concern. She stood up the moment she saw him, her gaze immediately locking onto the bandage peeking through his jacket. “Dad,” she said, stepping closer, “You’re hurt.” Jim waved her off, trying to act like it was nothing, “Just a scrape. Comes with the badge.” Barbara didn’t buy it. “You’re not supposed to be fighting fires, Dad. That’s what the fire department’s for. You’re a commissioner, a detective, not a soldier. Not Batman!” “Well Batman can’t do everything, ya know,” Jim snapped, the weariness in his voice curling into frustration. “Plus he’s busy, and I’m more than capable of doing my job without capes and gadgets.” She took a breath, trying to keep herself calm. Her voice cracked a little. “I can’t lose you too. Not like Mom.” Jim’s face tightened, “And I have a job to make sure I don’t lose you,” he said, “That means doing what needs to be done.” Barbara stepped forward. “Then let me help. I good with stuff like this. I can notice how the targets are linked, simple pattern recognition. If we work together, maybe we can figure out where Firefly will strike next. You won’t have to just clean up the mess, you can prevent one--” He held up his hand, stopping her cold. “No. You don’t tell me how to do my job, Barbara. That’s the end of it.” “But—” “I said no,” he snapped. “From now on, we don’t talk about this case. About my work. About any of it. I don’t want you involved, and I don’t want you interested in work that can kill you.” She stood still as he stormed off toward the bathroom to treat his wounds, her heart pounding in her chest. It wasn’t just that he’d shut her out, it was the look in his eyes. That tired, wounded look that said he didn’t know how much longer he could hold the weight on his own. Barbara retreated to her room in silence, but her mind was already racing. It’s too late, she was interested. Very interested in his line of work. If her dad was going to keep secrets, then maybe she would too. That night, the beginnings of a new identity took form. Something bold. Something sharp. Something hers. She thought of Huntress, the fierce vigilante who’d walked the same streets and shown Gotham that women could fight too. The purple. The edge. The confidence. She took inspiration from that legacy and stitched it into something new. Batgirl. Not a sidekick. Not someone waiting in the wings. Her own force in Gotham. Someone who can handle the smaller things that might not be on the Caped Crusader’s priority list. And she would start by bringing down the man who nearly burned her father alive.

• Barbara sat on her bed, laptop casting a blue glow across the dark room. The silence of the Gordon household was deceptive. On the other side of the city, something was brewing, and she wasn’t about to just sit back and wait for the next match to strike. She pulled up Gotham’s public police records, scanning pages of incident reports, cross-referencing them with a detailed street map. Her fingers tapped rapidly, marking points of arson, tracing lines to known drug activity. The deeper she dug, the more the chaos started to look like order. Like something intentional. And then she saw it. A pattern. Strange clarity to the madness, a boundary. A line that seemed invisible to everyone else, but not to her. “This is turf,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes. The so-called random arsons weren’t random at all. They formed a border, separating Gotham into neatly divided zones. Whoever Firefly was working with, they weren’t just torching buildings. They were enforcing lines. Zooming in on the map, Barbara flagged two locations that didn’t happen to match up with the invisible lines that she was looking at. Creeping outside the border, one was a laser tag arena, and the other was a car wash. Both had recent, low-key reports of suspected narcotics deals. “These guys stepped out of their lane,” she said to herself, leaning back, impressed with herself, “That makes them next.” She tapped the laser tag location, highlighting it. “And if I were a fire-obsessed psycho with a point to prove, I’d pick the place that seemed less falamable.” Barbara closed the laptop with a decisive snap. She felt the heat was coming, and this time, Batgirl would be waiting.

• Perched on a darkened rooftop just across the street, Batgirl sat motionless, her cape drawn tight around her like the wings of a gargoyle. The only motion came from her fingertips, rhythmically tapping the edge of her amature utility belt. The rhythmic hum of the nearby streetlight the only sound keeping her company, besides the occasional squeak of a rat scurrying through puddles beneath the rusted pipes of the closed car wash. Nothing. Not even a flicker of heat in the air. But just when her faith in her hunch began to waver, headlights cut through the gloom. A trio of matte black SUVs, no plates, no logos, rolled into the car wash like they owned it. The automatic gate didn’t buzz. It was manually opened. “Bingo,” Barbara muttered under her breath, adjusting the zoom on her binoculars. Out stepped a handful of burly men in tracksuits and gold chains, walking clichés of organized crime, all swagger and no subtlety. They moved with purpose, ducking into the car wash's side entrance, briefcases in tow. Batgirl crept along the edge of the rooftop, sticking to the shadows. Her gut screamed at her to intervene, something shady was going down. But her logic held firm. She wasn’t here for them. She was waiting for the fire. For the spark. So she waited. Minutes ticked by. The deal wrapped up. Briefcases exchanged. Hands shaken. The men turned to leave, heading back to their cars. Barbara’s heart sank. “Did I blow it?” she whispered to herself. “Wrong call?” And then—buzzzzzzz. A sharp, insectile hum sliced through the silence. A faint yellow shimmer flickered above the rooftops. Barbara’s eyes snapped upward. Descending from the sky like a vengeful wasp dipped in napalm was Firefly.

• Firefly swooped low over the car wash lot. He taunted the gangsters with a mock salute, “Hope you fellas didn’t spring for the deluxe wash!” he jeered, aiming the nozzle toward the ground and letting a stream of fire lick dangerously close to their feet. The men panicked, scrambling for their black SUVs in a frantic mess of shouting and cursing. Before they could make a clean getaway, Firefly arched upward and let loose a concentrated blast, melting their tires into bubbling puddles of rubber. The vehicles burst into flames in an instant, casting the lot in a violent orange glow. The men bolted, some stumbling over each other to escape the inferno. Firefly took aim for the men themselves, that’s when Barbara made her move. Perched on the second-story ledge, Batgirl called down with a bold quip, "What’s the matter, Fly Guy? Pyro insurance premiums getting too steep?" Firefly’s head jerked toward her, his charred helmet reflecting the blaze below. For a second, he just laughed, a raspy, twisted sound, "And what’s this?" he bellowed, "A little bat-chick? Gotham really is getting desperate!" Without warning, he turned his flamethrower on the building itself. Barbara dove down into the chaos, trying to cut him off. She sprang toward the old pipes and hoses along the wall, yanking one free and blasting him with a stream of tepid water. It sputtered and hissed uselessly against the flames, barely slowing him down. Annoyed, Firefly snarled and grabbed a nearby canister, one of the heavy-duty chemical tanks used for soap at the wash. He sprayed a wide circle around Barbara's position, the chemical reeking even through the smoke, then snapped his finger on the trigger of his flamethrower with a cocky grin. In a flash, the chemical trail ignited, creating a roaring ring of fire around her. "Sorry, sweet cheeks," Firefly cackled, stepping backward through the flames, "I'd love to stay for the bat-barbeque, but I’ve got another pit stop tonight!" With a blast of his jets, he was gone, soaring into the smoky night. 

• Barbara’s world shrank to the vicious ring of fire holding her in. Her suit, stitched by her own hands, was tough but not fireproof. It trapped the heat against her skin like an oven, sweat pouring down her face inside her mask. The smoke curled into her lungs, making her cough and gag. Panic clawed at the edges of her mind, but she forced it down. Focus, Babs, focus! She dug behind her belt, pulling out the homemade grappling hook she’d rigged up, nylon rope stolen from an old camping kit and hooks from her dresser. She didn’t have a backup or a second shot. She aimed through the shimmering waves of heat and threw with all her might. From Bab’s perspective, she watched it fly like slow motion through the air. The hook caught the old, rusted sprinkler pipe above her. She yanked hard, testing it, “Hold… please hold…” With everything she had, Barbara climbed. Her hands burned against the rope as she hauled herself upward, ignoring the pain. Just as the fire nipped at her cape, she swung herself up and out, crashing through a cracked window. Glass shattered around her as she tumbled into the dark alley beyond, coughing and gasping for air. Alive.

• Barbara tore off the top half of her scorched costume as she staggered down the alley, stripping it away like dead skin. The purple fabric peeled off, blackened and sticky with sweat, revealing just her sports bra and pants underneath. Her chest heaved as she leaned against the cold brick wall, feeling every bit of the heat she’d just escaped still clinging to her skin. She doubled over, hands on her knees, every instinct screaming at her to quit, to call it a night before she got herself killed. For a flicker of a moment, doubt crept in. Am I in over my head? She wasn’t Batman. She didn’t have a cave full of gadgets, or a lifetime of training in twenty-seven martial arts. She was just Barbara Gordon, a smart mouth, a brain for patterns, and a homemade suit that was practically melting onto her body. But she remembered. Firefly wasn’t finished. He’d said it himself, another stop tonight. Barbara pushed herself upright and stumbled toward a puddle pooled from a broken gutter. She caught her reflection there, shimmering in the dirty water, blackened eyeliner, messy hair, bruised pride, but something else too. Grit. A silent promise to herself. You chose this. She knelt, scooped the water into her hands, and splashed it over her face and shoulders, cooling the fire raging inside and out. She exhaled slow, steadying herself. No backup. No shortcuts. Just grit. Grabbing the still intact parts of her costume, she redonned the battered fabric, gritting her teeth against the discomfort, and tightened her makeshift mask back over her face. Nine blocks to the laser tag arena. Nine blocks to stop a madman. With her fists clenched and resolve burning hotter than any flame Firefly could muster, Barbara sprinted into the night, her soaked boots splashing through the Gotham puddles.

• Barbara sprinted the last block, her legs burning as fiercely as the smoke now billowing out of the laser tag building ahead. She skidded to a halt outside the door. The rational part of her screamed to wait, but there wasn’t time. Not if anyone was still inside. Not if Firefly was still wreaking havoc. Barbara clenched her fists, forced herself to take a breath, and charged through the crumbling entrance. The heat hit her like a wall but she pressed on, weaving between the melted skeletons of game consoles and neon signs. She spotted Firefly, gleefully blasting flames across the main lobby, his back turned to her. She tightened her jaw, running through a dozen bad ideas before settling on the worst one. Perfect. She picked up a broken piece of signage and hurled it like a javelin at his fuel tank. The shot was wild, but it connected. BOOM. A brilliant explosion of fire and metal tore through the lobby as Barbara dove for the nearest window. She hurled herself through it just as the shockwave rolled outward, the force blasting her onto the concrete outside. Glass rained down around her like sharp confetti, slicing tiny cuts across her stitching, but she didn’t care. She lay there for a moment, chest heaving, before dragging herself up and peering back through the shattered frame. Inside, Firefly was sprawled across the scorched floor, the remains of his jetpack sparking and smoking behind him. For one terrifying second, Barbara thought she might’ve actually killed him, but then she saw the slow, stubborn rise and fall of his chest. His suit had saved him from the worst of it, leaving him alive but very, very unconscious. Barbara let out a ragged, relieved laugh, the adrenaline still buzzing through her like a live wire.

• Red and blue lights painted the soot-stained alley walls. Barbara crouched low behind a dumpster, heart still thudding and sweat with the grime on her face beneath the cowl. From her hiding spot, she watched the fire trucks and patrol cars swarm the scene, a blur of urgency. EMTs scrambled to assess the damage, while two responders hoisted Firefly’s limp body onto a stretcher. The villain was charred, but breathing. He'd live. And more importantly, he’d pay. She peeked around the corner just as her father’s unmarked car pulled up, Commissioner Gordon stepping out with his coat billowing behind him. He walked toward the chaos, taking in the wreckage with a grim face. A nearby officer remarked something about how lucky it was that Firefly’s own equipment blew up on him. Another chimed in that the guy practically took himself out. Jim Gordon crossed his arms, squinting at the smoking wreckage. “Well,” he said, “sometimes, karma’s just punctual.” Barbara’s jaw clenched behind her mask. Karma? That’s what this was to them? Some random cosmic fluke? Not the careful, calculated intervention of someone who risked her life and almost got roasted alive? She stared at her father, waiting, hoping he might notice something, a clue, a sign. But he just turned away, already discussing next steps with the fire chief. Barbara nearly stepped forward, almost announced herself right there and then. Let them know. Let him know. But she didn’t. Of course she didn’t. She wasn’t doing this for applause. And besides, she knew better. With a quiet scoff, Batgirl turned coat back into the shadows, the alley swallowing her whole as she disappeared into the night. Not even a thank you.

• The Gordon house was blanketed in the heavy silence that only the earliest hours of morning could bring. The dim hallway light spilled into Barbara’s room as Jim peeked his head in. His daughter sat on her bed, an ice pack held to her head, her brow knit in discomfort. His worry flared instantly. “What happened?” he asked, stepping in, “You hurt?” Barbara winced, then offered a forced, sheepish smile. “Botched a landing during practice. Bad form. I’ll live.” Jim studied her for a moment, the tension in her shoulders, the sweat that hadn’t quite dried, the faint scent of smoke she probably thought she’d masked. But he said nothing. Instead, he softened and stepped forward, ruffling her hair. “Just be careful, Babs. I know you know better than hanging out with the wrong crowd. You’re smart, tough… but you’re not invincible. And I’d really like to keep the one good thing I’ve got left.” Barbara blinked, the guilt threatening to crush her chest. “I love you too, Dad.” He kissed her forehead and turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Try to get some sleep. And remember, smoking causes cancer.” The door clicked shut behind him. Barbara exhaled a shaky breath, letting her shoulders fall. She tossed the ice pack aside and turned toward her open window for fresh air, only to jump back with a gasp at the voice that emerged from the darkness. “I imagine Dad doesn’t know about your new hobby.” Perched on the ledge like a shadow made solid, Batman stood, cape draped like curtains over the night. Barbara’s heart practically exploded from her chest. “You scared the hell out of me!” she hissed, grabbing the edge of her desk to stay upright. “Please don’t tell him! Please, he’ll never let me out of the house again.” Batman’s glare was unreadable, “You’re reckless. You nearly got yourself killed.” Barbara shrank slightly under his gaze. She had no defense. She knew he was right. Then, unexpectedly, he said, “Good work.” She blinked, “Wait… what?” “You’ve got a lot of your father in you,” Batman said, stepping further into the room. “But if you plan on doing this again, and I suspect you do, then you need to be smarter. More prepared.” Barbara straightened with cautious hope. “I will. I swear.” “With what?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Smoke bombs from the dollar store?” Her cheeks flushed. Guilty. Batman moved toward the window again. “I have resources. You may find them useful.” Her eyes lit up. “Does this mean I get to be like Robin?” Batman turned back just enough to shoot her a sideways look. “No. You’ll remain independent. Your own agent. I’ll supply what you need. And I’ll be watching.” Barbara grinned. “How am I supposed to contact you?” He stepped onto the ledge, cape fluttering with the breeze. “You won’t.” And with that, he vanished into the Gotham skyline, leaving Barbara breathless, stunned, and more determined than ever.

In the final scene, the air in a gaudy penthouse office crackled with tension. Light slicing across the angular features of Roman Sionis, better known as Black Mask. A pair of goons stood at attention, one nervously wringing his hands, the other doing his best to look invisible. The one in front cleared his throat and spoke with as much bravery as he could muster, “Boss… Firefly’s in custody. GCPD’s got him.” Black Mask froze. His fingers slowly curled into fists before slamming down on the desk with such force that the pens jumped and the nearby whiskey glass shattered. He turned, black skull mask catching the light, and stared directly into the messenger’s soul. “You’re joking,” he growled. “N-no, sir! I swear, he got caught. Some… vigilante. Not the Bat. A girl.” The room went silent. The tension stretched tight, until Black Mask calmly reached for the pistol on his desk. The goon’s eyes widened with panic. “P-please! I’m just the messenger!” Black Mask didn’t blink. The gun fired once. The man dropped. The second goon didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Black Mask tucked the gun away and turned to him, “Find me someone else. Someone meaner. Someone deadlier.” The surviving lackey gave a jerky nod and all but bolted from the room. The perspective slowly drifted backward, gliding toward the high window as the sound of city sirens whispered from below. Just beyond the glass, perched in silence on the rooftop ledge, was the silhouette of a watching figure. A smirk curled beneath the shadowed mask. Sleek goggles glinted in the moonlight. Costumed cat ears caught the wind and she had just found something very, very interesting.