Time flashed forward like pages ripped from a calendar. Two years passed since the accident, and Matthew Gordon stood at the threshold of sixth grade. Elementary school was behind him, middle school loomed ahead—that awkward transitional phase where childhood begins its messy transformation into adolescence.
For most eleven-year-olds, this milestone brought anxiety. For Matthew, it was merely another stage in a performance he'd mastered long ago. The school halls might be different, the teachers unfamiliar, but the dance remained the same: excel without raising eyebrows, help without revealing how much he knew, and navigate the social maze of pre-teen politics without relying on vision.
Gotham City Middle School #3 occupied a century-old brick building in the East End, its weathered facade speaking to generations of students who had passed through its doors. Matthew's first week had been a blur of new schedules, different classrooms, and teachers who hadn't yet learned to announce their presence when entering a room with a blind student.
"Gordon, Matthew," his homeroom teacher called during attendance.
"Present," he replied, head tilted slightly downward—the expected posture for someone who couldn't make eye contact.
"Congratulations on your placement test results," Mrs. Winters added. "The highest mathematics score in your grade level."
A few whispers rippled through the classroom. Matthew shrugged, feigning modesty while inwardly calculating how much to hold back on future assessments. His father had been thrilled, of course.
The first four periods passed uneventfully. When the bell rang for lunch period, Matthew gathered his books and unfolded his white cane.
He was halfway to the cafeteria when a human tornado crashed into him.
Books and papers exploded in all directions. Matthew allowed himself to stumble backward, though he'd sensed the collision coming seconds before impact. His cane clattered against the linoleum, and he made a show of groping for it.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" A girl's voice, breathless and mortified. "I wasn't looking where—oh no, you're... I mean, I didn't realize..."
"Blind?" Matthew supplied, finding his cane and standing up. "It's okay. Neither was I."
The joke hung in the air for a moment before the girl let out a surprised laugh. "Did you just make a blind joke?"
"Someone has to," he replied with a shrug. "Might as well be me."
He could sense her kneeling to gather the scattered materials. Heart rate slightly elevated from embarrassment, breathing pattern suggesting athletic conditioning, a faint scent of chlorine—a swimmer, perhaps.
"I'm Eliza," she said, handing him a textbook. "Eliza Reed. New transfer from Metropolis."
"Matthew Gordon." He accepted the book, deliberately brushing his fingers along the cover as if confirming what it was. "But everyone calls me Matt."
"I'm really sorry about crashing into you. I was running late, and—"
"Forget it," he interrupted. "No harm done. Besides, now I can tell people I ran into the new girl from Metropolis and lived to tell the tale."
Another laugh, more genuine this time. "You're funny. I didn't expect..." She trailed off, catching herself.
"Didn't expect a blind kid to have a sense of humor?" he finished for her.
"I was going to say I didn't expect anyone to be nice on my first day," she countered smoothly. "This place is like a fortress of cliques."
Matthew smiled, appreciating her quick recovery. "Middle school ain't easy. Took me years of careful study to decode it."
"Any insights to share with a newcomer?"
"Cafeteria's the proving ground. Want a native guide?" The offer surprised even him—Matthew typically kept to himself, finding most eleven-year-olds tedious compared to his mental age.
"Absolutely," Eliza replied, relief evident in her voice. "I was dreading the whole 'where do I sit' nightmare."
They walked together toward the cafeteria, Matthew using his cane more for show than necessity. Eliza naturally fell into step beside him, neither hovering anxiously nor striding ahead—a refreshing change from how most people reacted to his blindness.
"So, Commissioner Gordon is your dad?" she asked as they entered the noisy lunch room.
Matthew nodded. "News travels fast."
"My dad's joining the GCPD next month. Transfer from Metropolis PD. He mentioned your father during orientation." Her voice carried genuine admiration. "Said he's the only honest cop in Gotham."
"Don't let him hear you say that," Matthew replied. "He'd say there are plenty of good officers—they just work under difficult circumstances."
They found a table near the windows, away from the main social battlegrounds. Matthew listened as Eliza unpacked her lunch, painting a mental picture of methodical movements and organized containers. Not haphazard or rushed—someone who appreciated order.
"Your dad told you about my accident, didn't he?" Matthew asked, unwrapping his own sandwich.
A hesitation, then: "Yes. Is that okay to mention?"
"It's not a state secret," he replied. "Two years ago, chemical spill. Wrong place, wrong time, right reflexes. Saved a woman and her baby, lost my sight in the process."
"That's...incredible," she said softly.
"Just did what anyone would do."
"No." Eliza's voice turned serious. "Most people wouldn't. My dad says courage isn't about not being afraid—it's about acting despite being afraid."
Matthew shrugged, uncomfortable with praise for an act he barely remembered from his current life. "How are you liking Gotham so far?" he asked, changing the subject.
"It's different from Metropolis," she admitted. "Darker, not just because of less sunlight. But there's something...I don't know...authentic about it? Metropolis feels like it's trying too hard sometimes."
"Most Gothamites would agree," Matthew said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "We wear our flaws on our sleeve here. No pretense."
Their conversation flowed easily—Eliza describing her old school, Matthew offering insights about teachers and classes. She was smart, articulate, with a dry wit that belied her age. For the first time in months, Matthew found himself genuinely engaged with someone his physical age.
Their lunch was interrupted by a shadow falling across their table.
"Well, if it isn't Blind Justice," a voice sneered. "Making friends with the new meat?"
Matthew recognized the speaker instantly—Derek Mercer, eighth-grader and self-appointed tormentor of sixth-grade students. His heartbeat suggested excitement, adrenaline surging at the prospect of asserting dominance.
"Mercer," Matthew acknowledged calmly. "Didn't hear you mouth-breathing nearby. Must be getting better at personal hygiene."
A ripple of surprised laughter spread through nearby tables. Derek's pulse quickened with anger.
"You think you're so smart for a blind freak," he hissed, leaning closer. "Daddy's little charity case."
Matthew remained unruffled, a stark contrast to his former self who might have fought back physically. "Original as always, Derek. Did you look up 'freak' in the dictionary, or did someone read it to you?"
He sensed Eliza's shock beside him, her body tensing for confrontation. Derek's attention shifted to her.
"New girl already hanging out with the handicapped? Low standards, huh?"
"Lower than yours?" Eliza shot back. "At least he has a legitimate excuse for not seeing things clearly. What's yours for being a jerk?"
Derek's hand moved—not toward Matthew, but toward Eliza's lunch tray. Matthew detected the shift in air current, the subtle creak of muscles tensing. Without appearing to know what was happening, he tilted his head as if listening.
"Mrs. Peterson's coming down the hall," he announced. "Sounds like she's not happy."
Derek froze. Matthew knew the vice principal was nowhere nearby—but also knew Derek had been caught by her twice already this year. The bluff worked. Derek's heartbeat spiked with anxiety.
"This isn't over, Gordon," he muttered, backing away.
When he was gone, Eliza let out a breath. "That was amazing! How did you know she was coming?"
Matthew tapped his ear. "I didn't."
"Well, it worked. Though I think you made an enemy."
Oh please, he's just snotty brat.
"Derek was already an enemy," Matthew said mildly. "But bullies rely on fear. Take that away, and they lose power."
Eliza studied him—he could feel her gaze. "You're strange, you know that? Not in a bad way," she hastened to add. "Just...different."
"Different how?" he asked, genuinely curious about her perception.
"Most kids our age would be either terrified or throwing punches. You just...dismantled him. With words. Like you knew exactly what buttons to push." She paused. "And you weren't afraid at all."
Matthew shrugged, realizing he'd slipped again, displaying more poise than an eleven-year-old should possess. "When you can't see danger coming, you learn not to waste energy worrying about it."
Before Eliza could pursue the topic, the bell rang signaling the end of lunch period. They gathered their things, Matthew once again performing his careful navigation ritual.
"What class do you have next?" Eliza asked.
"Science with Mr. Branley. You?"
"Same! Can I walk with you?"
Matthew nodded, surprised at how much he welcomed the company. They headed to class together, navigating the crowded hallway as Eliza naturally described obstacles without being condescending.
Mr. Branley was already setting up when they arrived. "Ah, Mr. Gordon. And you must be Miss Reed. Welcome to Gotham Middle."
"Thank you, sir," Eliza replied politely.
"Matthew, would you mind if Miss Reed shares your lab table? As our newest student, she could benefit from your...unique perspective."
Matthew nodded, hiding his amusement at the teacher's careful wording. His "unique perspective" had earned him the highest science scores in fifth grade.
As they settled at their lab table, Matthew sensed Mr. Branley lingering nearby, studying him with what felt like suspicion. The teacher's breathing pattern had altered slightly, his heartbeat elevated—signs of someone deep in thought.
"Something wrong, Mr. Branley?" Matthew asked.
"No, no," the teacher replied quickly. "Just...impressed with your adaptation, Matthew. Your last essay on cellular mitosis was graduate-level work."
Seriously...
"I listen to a lot of science podcasts," Matthew explained with a deliberately self-deprecating smile. Another half-truth—he had indeed been listening to university-level lectures, but his understanding came from a lifetime of accumulated knowledge.
"Indeed." Mr. Branley's voice carried an undercurrent of skepticism. "Well, I'll be interested to see how you apply that knowledge in today's experiment. Miss Reed, you'll find working with Matthew most...educational."
As the teacher moved away, Eliza leaned closer. "What was that about?"
"Mr. Branley finds me puzzling," Matthew replied quietly. "He can't quite figure out how a blind student produces the work I do."
"And how do you?" she whispered.
Matthew smiled enigmatically. "Maybe I'm just a good listener."
The rest of the class passed uneventfully, though Matthew remained aware of Mr. Branley's periodic observation.
When the final bell rang, Matthew packed his materials, Eliza waited nearby, her presence now familiar after just one day.
"Same time tomorrow for lunch?" she asked as they exited the classroom.
"Sure," he replied, surprised at his own eagerness. "I'd like that."