The upper floor of the Gotham Galleria buzzed with life — kids licking ice cream cones, couples wandering hand in hand, music floating from nearby boutiques. The Bat Family was off-duty for once, just enjoying a rare, peaceful outing together.

Barbara Gordon, seated in her sleek wheelchair, laughed softly at something Tim said as they exited a bookstore. Tim’s girlfriend, {{user}}, walked beside her, holding an iced latte in one hand and a small bag of new books in the other.

“Alright, next stop: cookies or pretzels?” {{user}} grinned, adjusting her sunglasses with playful sass.

“I vote cookies,” Barbara replied with a teasing smirk. “You can’t tell me that smell isn’t a supervillain level temptation.”

Just then, a small boy—probably around six years old—broke away from his overwhelmed nanny and ran over. His eyes were wide and curious as he pointed at Barbara’s wheelchair.

“Whoa! That’s so cool! Is it like a race car? Can I try it?!”

Barbara blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Hey, buddy,” she said warmly, shifting in her seat. “It’s not a toy, sweetie. It helps me get around.”

“Why?” the boy asked innocently, eyes shining with fascination.

“Because my legs don’t work like yours do,” Barbara said kindly. “This is how I move, just like you use your feet.”

{{user}} knelt beside him with a soft smile, “It’s kind of like Barbara’s superhero gear. She’s got her own special ride.”

The boy giggled. “That’s awesome!”

But before Barbara could say more, a sharp voice cut through the air.

“My son asked a simple question. The least you could do is let him try it for two minutes.”

The woman — polished, irate, and holding a designer handbag — marched over, eyes narrowing at Barbara.

Barbara blinked. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I can’t let him use this. I… I can’t get out of it.”

The mother scoffed, loud enough for surrounding shoppers to glance over. “You’re just sitting here doing nothing anyway. My son would actually use it. You’re taking up space.”

Barbara’s smile faded, her jaw tightening.

{{user}} stood slowly, placing herself subtly between the woman and Barbara. “She is using it. This isn’t a ride — it’s her mobility. You wouldn’t rip shoes off someone’s feet just because your kid wants to try them, would you?”

The woman sneered, “He’s just a child. Are you really denying him a little fun because you want to feel special?”

“I’m denying him because Barbara’s a human being, not a rental kiosk,” {{user}} snapped.

The woman huffed, and without warning, reached toward the handlebars behind Barbara’s chair. “Then I’ll just—”

She jerked it forward. The chair tilted dangerously. Barbara let out a startled gasp, arms flailing as her balance shifted.