From a distance, the imposing figure of Mr. Freeze, clad in his gleaming, high-tech armor, noticed their retreat.
A faint, almost smug smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he raised his freeze gun and pulled the trigger.
A torrent of icy vapor erupted, flooding toward the four women.
But Firefly wasn't about to back down.
With a flick of her wrist, she leveled her flamethrower and unleashed a stream of roaring fire.
Neither said a word—but anyone with eyes could tell: these two weren't just fighting.
They hated each other.
Where one stood, the other refused to yield—mutual destruction waiting to happen.
Cold mist clashed with burning napalm midair, creating a hellish dance of steam and sparks.
The vapor condensed into water, evaporated again under the heat, and the flames flickered as frost gnawed at their edge.
Neither side could overpower the other—the fight was locked in a perfect, deadly stalemate.
"Should we… go help?" Barbara asked, still the most loyal of them all.
She'd never even spoken to Firefly, but she already considered the pyromaniac one of their own.
Her question was directed at Thea—the team's resident expert in exotic tech and weapons.
Thea, meanwhile, was utterly fascinated.
So this was the famous freeze gun.
From what she'd heard, it worked using supercooled ammonia gas—a design surprisingly similar to her own cryo-arrows, which used liquid nitrogen.
In terms of raw temperature, nitrogen was colder and more powerful—but it also lost energy much faster in open air.
Ammonia, on the other hand, underwent a chemical reaction inside the gun before being expelled, making it more stable and efficient.
In short, Freeze's setup was better optimized—plus, his ammo came from the massive pressurized tanks strapped to his back.
Thea's arrows? One shot, one less in the quiver.
Yeah, his system had the advantage—but there was no way she'd walk around with a big volatile tank on her back. That was asking for an explosion.
And speaking of explosions—she knew exactly how to end this.
The trick with Freeze and Firefly was the same: hit the fuel source from afar, let physics do the rest.
So when Barbara asked her question, Thea answered with supreme confidence.
"Of course we can. Watch me take him out in one shot."
Her tone was light—but her eyes gleamed with precision.
She'd already spotted the bulge in Freeze's armor: the tank.
Smart man—he'd armored it heavily, much more carefully than the carefree Firefly, who strutted around with hers fully exposed.
A big, slow-moving target like that was child's play for her to hit.
The only concern was whether her arrow could penetrate that heavy armor, especially with the haze and crossfire messing up visibility.
Moving away from the others, Thea climbed onto a collapsed platform for a better vantage point.
She drew her bow, sighted in on Mr. Freeze—still locked in his icy duel with Firefly—and smirked.
The bowstring twanged.
Her custom arrow—titanium alloy, Teflon-coated—cut through the air and slammed into Freeze's back.
The ten-centimeter tip sank only halfway in, but that was enough.
She waited—one second, two—and then saw it: a pale jet of cold gas hissing from a crack in his armor.
Perfect.
"Time to move!" Thea shouted.
Who knew how much pressure was in that tank—or whether it would explode outward?
Better not to find out.
She darted back toward the others, grabbing Catwoman and Barbara as she passed.
Firefly gave her a confused look—until Thea yanked her by the arm.
"Run!"
Across the battlefield, Mr. Freeze blinked.
Why were they running? Had his opponent run out of fuel?
He didn't have long to wonder.
He squeezed the trigger—
Click. Click.
No mist. No frost.
Just silence.
A split second later, a deafening BOOM echoed through Arkham Asylum.
The shockwave sent Freeze flying, his armored body smashing into a wall before crumpling to the ground.
By the time Thea's group looked back, the asylum's front gate had become a solid wall of ice.
The frost spread outward in a wave, freezing the ground, the walls, the very air.
All four women bolted.
If they could've grown extra legs, they would have.
Thea and Catwoman—both faster—each grabbed one of Firefly's arms, hauling her along.
The poor pyromaniac wasn't just slow; that tank on her back easily weighed over ten kilos.
Without help, she'd have been part of the ice sculpture by now.
Barbara trailed behind, giving her occasional shoves forward.
They burst through the main doors just as the cold wave reached them.
"Thea," Barbara gasped, "next time something that big is about to go off—warn us first!"
"Aw, come on, it worked out fine! We finally got rid of Freeze!" Thea said cheerfully, as if she hadn't almost blown them all to bits.
Barbara and Catwoman exchanged a look.
Then, it was Barbara—ever the honest one—who explained:
"Uh… Freeze's body temperature's below zero. He's immune to freezing. You can't kill him that way."
"Immune?"
Two golden words flashed in Thea's mind like a curse.
What kind of ridiculous passive ability was that?
And no one thought to tell her?!
She turned toward Firefly, half-dreading the realization—
So was she immune to fire, then?
No wonder the woman ran around lugging a tank of napalm without a care in the world.
Still, Thea would never admit a mistake.
Not now, not ever.
She straightened up, brushing imaginary dust from her armor, and said smoothly,
"Of course I knew that. He's not dead—but he'll need time to thaw and recompress his gases. Trust me, we've bought ourselves time. Everything's under control."
Catwoman nodded uncertainly.
Barbara—future librarian and professional non-scientist—had no idea how true that was supposed to be.
And Firefly just shrugged, half-convinced, half-bored.
Thea exhaled in relief. They bought it.
Still, her mind was spinning.
If shooting the tank didn't finish him, what would?
That freeze gun could stop missiles midair.
His armor could shrug off small arms fire.
No matter how she looked at it, he was a nightmare to fight head-on.
And that was just one problem.
The Court of Owls.
Mr. Freeze.
The hordes of enhanced freaks from Arkham's labs.
Each new variable tightened the knot in Thea's chest.
Her pretty brows furrowed.
If things got any worse, there might only be one solution left—
Hellfire Missiles.
But launching one on U.S. soil?
Even Amanda Waller would throw a fit—and she'd definitely make Thea the scapegoat afterward.
No, that would have to be the last resort.