The hallway fell silent as Matthew stepped through the main entrance of P.S. 87. Barbara's hand rested protectively on his shoulder, guiding him forward though he hardly needed the assistance. He could sense the school's layout perfectly—the rows of lockers lining the walls, the bulletin boards plastered with announcements, the scuffed linoleum floors still damp from morning cleaning.
What he couldn't ignore were the stares. Dozens of children watching his every move, ugh. He hadn't missed this feeling as a kid.
Matthew tightened his grip on his cane, forcing himself to tap it methodically against the floor despite knowing exactly where every obstacle lay. The white cane marked him as different, but it also provided necessary cover. Without it, how would he explain navigating the school with perfect accuracy?
"Your classroom is just down this hall," Barbara said, her voice deliberately upbeat. "Mrs. Davis said they've arranged a special desk for you near the front."
"Thanks, Babs," he replied, sensing her anxiety in her quickened pulse. She was more nervous about this day than he was.
As they approached his fourth-grade classroom, a boy leaning against the water fountain snickered. "Look out, it's the blind bat and his seeing-eye sister."
Matthew felt Barbara stiffen beside him. "Shut it, Donovan," she snapped, her voice carrying the edge that only a protective thirteen-year-old could muster.
"What's he gonna do about it? He can't even see me," the boy taunted.
Matthew squeezed Barbara's arm, a silent request to let it go. "It's fine," he murmured. "Not worth it."
But Barbara Gordon had inherited their father's stubborn sense of justice. She stepped toward Donovan, lowering her voice to a dangerous whisper. "My brother pushed a woman and her baby out of the way of a chemical truck. What's the bravest thing you've ever done, besides picking on a blind kid?"
The tension crackled between them until Donovan finally backed down, slinking away with a muttered insult. Matthew suppressed a smile. Damn, his sister was a force of nature.
"You didn't have to do that," he said as they continued toward his classroom.
He was just a kid, and Matt to be completely honest.. didn't give a shit.
"Yes, I did," Barbara replied simply. "Dad says we stand up for what's right, even when it's hard."
The classroom door loomed ahead. Matthew could hear Mrs. Davis inside, arranging papers on her desk. Twenty-four students already seated, their curious whispers focused on the doorway where he stood.
"You'll be okay?" Barbara asked, hesitating.
"I'll be fine," he assured her. "Go on, you'll be late for your own class."
She squeezed his shoulder one last time before reluctantly departing. Matthew took a deep breath and stepped into the classroom alone.
"Ah, Matthew," Mrs. Davis greeted warmly, her footsteps approaching. "Welcome back. We've all been thinking about you."
Her hand lightly touched his arm, guiding him toward the front of the room. Matthew pretended to focus on not tripping over anything, though he'd already mapped every desk, chair, and backpack in his path.
"Class, as you know, Matthew is returning today after his accident," Mrs. Davis announced. "I expect everyone to be helpful and considerate as he adjusts."
The heartbeats around him quickened with curiosity. A forest of eyes tracking his movements. Matthew allowed Mrs. Davis to show him to his seat—a desk slightly separated from the others, with a tape recorder and specialized materials already arranged.
"We've ordered some braille textbooks," she explained quietly, "but they haven't arrived yet. In the meantime, Jason has volunteered to be your reading partner."
A boy at the neighboring desk leaned over. "Hey, Matt," he said, his voice friendly. "Mrs. Davis said I'm supposed to help read stuff to you."
"Thanks," Matthew replied, recognizing Jason from before the accident—a quiet kid who excelled at math and rarely caused trouble.
The morning passed in a blur of awkward adjustments. Matthew quickly realized the greatest challenge wouldn't be keeping up with schoolwork—it would be pretending he needed help at all. When Mrs. Davis handed out a math quiz, he deliberately hesitated before answering questions he could solve instantly. When the class read aloud from their history textbook, he feigned concentration as Jason whispered the text, though he could hear every word from every book in the room.
By lunchtime, he'd developed a system: count to three before answering any question, occasionally ask for clarification even when none was needed, and make small, strategic errors that wouldn't affect his overall performance. It felt disingenuous, but necessary.
The cafeteria presented new challenges. The cacophony of voices, clattering trays, and squeaking chairs threatened to overwhelm his enhanced senses. Matthew found himself filtering through layers of sound automatically, focusing on his immediate surroundings while relegating the rest to background noise.
"You can sit with us," Jason offered, guiding him to a table where several other boys were already seated.
The conversation stalled as Matthew settled in, his classmates uncertain how to act around him. The silence stretched uncomfortably until a boy named Daniel blurted out, "Does it hurt? Your eyes, I mean."
"Daniel!" Jason hissed. "You can't just ask that."
"It's okay," Matthew said, appreciating the direct question over whispered speculation. "Not anymore. Just feels... dark."
"So you can't see anything? Not even shadows?" Another boy asked.
Matthew shook his head. "Nothing."
"That sucks," Daniel said bluntly. "But at least you're alive, right? My dad said that chemical truck could've killed you."
True kid, very true.
Soon the boys were chatting normally, occasionally remembering to describe what they were eating or doing, but largely treating Matthew as they always had. It was refreshing after weeks of careful handling by adults.
Afternoon classes brought a surprise social studies test. As the room fell silent except for the scratch of pencils on paper, Matthew ran his fingers over the braille worksheet Mrs. Davis had hastily prepared.
The questions were laughably simple to someone who had graduated law school and practiced as an attorney. Matthew had to actively resist answering with college-level analysis. He deliberately simplified his responses, aiming for above-average but not suspiciously exceptional work.
As he worked, something caught his attention—a conversation from outside, near the parking lot. Matthew tilted his head slightly, focusing his hearing beyond the classroom walls.
"The truck will be there at midnight," a man was saying, his voice low and gravelly. "Shipment comes through the north entrance of the harbor. Gordon's cops will be watching the south side because of that anonymous tip."
"How many guards?" another voice asked.
"Just two. Easy pickings. Once we get those guns into the Narrows, Falcone's boys won't know what hit them."
Shit.
Matthew's pencil stopped mid-sentence. An arms shipment coming into Gotham Harbor tonight. His father's officers heading to the wrong location. People would die if those weapons hit the streets.
He had to do something—but what? A nine-year-old blind boy couldn't exactly call in an anonymous tip to the police without raising questions. And he certainly couldn't intercept the shipment himself.
The men's conversation continued, providing details about the exact dock number, the name of the ship, and their planned escape route. Matthew committed every word to memory, forming a plan.
When school ended, Barbara was waiting outside his classroom. "How was it?" she asked anxiously as they walked home.
"Better than expected," he replied truthfully. The other children's initial awkwardness had faded by day's end, and several had offered to help him catch up on missed assignments.
At home, Matthew waited until Barbara became engrossed in her homework before slipping into his father's study. He knew James Gordon wouldn't be home for hours—plenty of time for what he needed to do.
Finding paper wasn't difficult. The commissioner kept a notepad in the top desk drawer, exactly where Matthew remembered it being. The challenge was making his handwriting unrecognizable while still legible.
Using his left hand and deliberately distorting his usual style, Matthew wrote out the details of the weapons shipment—dock number, time, number of guards, and the planned distribution route through the Narrows. He signed it simply "A Concerned Citizen" and folded it carefully.
The next challenge was delivery. His father needed to receive this information before midnight, but it couldn't come from his blind son. Matthew considered his options as he listened to Barbara moving around the kitchen, starting dinner preparations.
"Hey Babs," he called out, emerging from the study with the note hidden in his pocket. "Is Dad's precinct on the way to the library?"
"Yeah, why?" she asked, poking her head around the corner.
"Could we drop something off for him? I made him a card in art class today." The lie felt justified given the stakes.
Barbara hesitated. "I was going to wait until he got home, but I do need to return some books... Sure, we can go if you're up for it."
Half an hour later, they stood in the bustling lobby of the GCPD headquarters. Officers hurried past, most nodding in recognition at the commissioner's children.
"Commissioner's not here right now," the desk sergeant informed them. "Got called to City Hall for some emergency meeting."
"That's okay," Barbara replied. "Can we leave something on his desk?"
As they were escorted to their father's office, Matthew carefully palmed the folded note, waiting for his moment. When Barbara became distracted by a detective showing her photos of a new K-9 unit, he slipped away, feeling his way along the wall toward the bullpen.
He bumped into a detective—deliberately—sending papers scattering.
"Whoa there, kiddo," the man said, steadying him. "You okay?"
"Sorry, sir," Matthew apologized, using the momentary confusion to drop his note among the fallen papers. "I got turned around looking for the bathroom."
"No harm done," the detective replied, gathering his documents and unknowingly scooping up Matthew's note. "Let me help you back to your dad's office."
By the time Barbara finished her tour and they left the precinct, Matthew had already heard the detective discovering the "anonymous tip" among his papers and rushing to show it to the lieutenant. The information would reach the right people. Those weapons wouldn't make it onto Gotham's streets tonight.
As they walked to the library, a weight lifted from Matthew's shoulders. He had found a way to use his abilities without raising suspicion. A system that allowed him to make a difference while maintaining his cover.
"You're smiling," Barbara observed. "Good day after all, huh?"
Matthew nodded. "Better than I expected."
I didn't have to play dress up to help. A subtler approach would prove just as effective in this new life.
And if not—well, he was only nine. He had plenty of time to figure out what kind Gotham needed him to be.