Can't Stop, Won't Stop

The rhythmic thwack of fists against leather echoed through Ted Grant's gym. Matthew circled his opponent, feet silent against the canvas, weight balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. Across from him, Jason Miller—sixteen years old, fifty pounds heavier, and currently struggling to land a single clean hit—was breathing hard, frustration radiating from him in waves of heat and adrenaline.

"Keep your guard up, Miller!" Ted barked from outside the ring. "Gordon's blind, not stupid. He can hear those arms dropping from a mile away."

Matthew suppressed a smile, weaving effortlessly under Jason's next jab. Four weeks of "official" training had established his reputation in the gym—the commissioner's blind son who somehow fought like he had eyes in the back of his head. Ted had moved him from beginner to advanced classes within days, muttering about "natural talent" and "born fighters."

Jason lunged forward with a haymaker that telegraphed so loudly Matthew could have dodged it in his sleep. Instead of simply avoiding it, Matthew slipped inside his opponent's reach, tapped a light jab to the solar plexus, then pivoted away before Jason could react.

"Point Gordon," Ted called. "That's match. Five-two."

Jason's heartbeat spiked with embarrassment and anger. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, just loud enough for the room to hear. "I'm being hustled by a fucking blind kid."

"You're being outboxed by a better fighter," Ted corrected sharply. "Disability's got nothing to do with it. Gordon uses what he has. You waste what you have. Big difference."

Matthew held out a gloved hand. "Good match."

After a moment's hesitation, Jason bumped his glove against Matthew's. "Yeah, whatever. Rematch next week?"

"Sure," Matthew agreed, hiding his surprise at the request. Most of Ted's other students avoided rematches after losing to him once.

As they exited the ring, Matthew sensed a change in the gym's atmosphere. Two new heartbeats by the entrance—one adult, steady and confident; one adolescent, racing with irritation and something like defiance.

As they exited the ring, Matthew sensed a change in the gym's atmosphere. Two new heartbeats by the entrance—one adult, steady and confident; one adolescent, racing with irritation and something like defiance.

"Dinah," Ted greeted the newcomers, his gruff voice softening slightly. "Right on time. And this must be little Dinah."

"Not so little anymore," the younger heartbeat's owner replied, her voice carrying a deliberate edge of disinterest.

"Thanks for agreeing to this, Ted," the older woman said. "I know you don't usually take on students her age."

"Exceptions for old friends," Ted replied. "Besides, better she learns properly than picks up bad habits."

Matthew finished removing his gloves, focusing his senses on the new arrivals. Mother and daughter, similar builds and vocal patterns. The older woman—early forties, athletic despite not having trained seriously in years. The daughter—around seventeen, already trained in some form of combat but with flawed technique, tension in her shoulders suggesting both eagerness and reluctance.

"Matthew, come meet an old friend," Ted called.

Matthew grabbed his folded cane from the corner post and approached, moving with the slightly hesitant gait expected of a blind person in an unfamiliar situation.

"Dinah Drake, this is Matthew Gordon," Ted introduced. "One of my best students, despite only training here a month. Matt, Dinah is an old colleague from my fighting days."

"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am," Matthew said, extending his hand in the direction of her voice.

"Commissioner Gordon's son?" Dinah asked, shaking his hand firmly. "Ted mentioned you. Said you're some kind of prodigy."

Matthew shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I just listen well."

"And this is Dinah's daughter, also Dinah," Ted continued. "She'll be joining our advanced youth class."

"Just Dinah is fine," the younger woman interrupted. "Mom's the only Dinah Drake."

"Lance," her mother corrected with practiced patience. "Dinah Lance. Your father's name, remember?"

The teenager's heartbeat spiked with annoyance—clearly a recurring argument. Matthew extended his hand toward her.

"Nice to meet you, Dinah," he said, deliberately keeping his tone free of the condescension adults often used with teenagers.

She hesitated, then shook his hand. Her grip was stronger than necessary, testing. "You're the blind boxer everyone's talking about? The one who just beat Jason Miller?"

"Word travels fast," Matthew observed.

"Small gym," she replied. "So how does that work exactly? The blind fighting thing?"

"Dinah!" her mother admonished. "That's incredibly rude."

"It's okay," Matthew assured them. "I get that question a lot. It's about using what you have—hearing, touch, spatial awareness. Everyone fights blind sometimes. I just do it all the time."

Ted's heartbeat changed subtly—interest, perhaps, at Matthew's explanation. It echoed the lessons Stick had hammered into him lifetime ago: sight was a crutch, a distraction from truly sensing your environment.

"Huh," Dinah said, skepticism giving way to curiosity. "So you could teach me to fight in the dark?"

Matthew smiled. "Maybe someday. I'm still learning myself."

"Alright, enough chat," Ted interjected. "Dinah, let's assess your current level. Matt, your dad should be here soon, right?"

Matthew nodded, checking the time on his braille watch. "Five minutes, probably."

"Hit the showers then. Good work today."

As Matthew gathered his things, he continued monitoring the conversation behind him. Ted was already putting Dinah through basic forms, assessing her technique. The girl was skilled but undisciplined, strength without finesse. Her mother watched with a mixture of pride and concern, her heartbeat revealing more anxiety than her composed exterior suggested.

There was history here—not just between Ted and the older Dinah, but with the daughter too. Something complicated that made this more than a simple training arrangement.

In the locker room, Matthew showered quickly, considering what he knew about Dinah Drake. The name had appeared in his research on Gotham's vigilante history—Black Canary, a member of the Justice Society alongside Ted's Wildcat. If his suspicions were correct, the younger Dinah was following in her mother's footsteps, with or without permission.

Another legacy. Another child carrying the weight of heroism.

By the time Matthew emerged, freshly changed with his gym bag over his shoulder, he could hear his father's car idling outside. Ted was still working with Dinah, her movements becoming more precise under his guidance.

"I'm heading out," Matthew called.

"See you Friday, Gordon," Ted replied without breaking rhythm. "Work on that left hook."

"Will do. Nice meeting you, Ms. Drake, Dinah."

The older woman offered a warm goodbye, while the daughter merely grunted, focused on her training. Matthew made his way outside, using his cane more for appearance than necessity.

His father's window rolled down as he approached. "Good session?" James Gordon asked.

"Great one," Matthew replied, sliding into the passenger seat. "Beat Jason Miller again."

Gordon chuckled, pulling away from the curb. "Ted mentioned you're progressing faster than expected. Said you might have a future in competitive adaptive boxing if you're interested."

"Maybe," Matthew said noncommittally. "How was your day?"

His father's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "Interesting. Major drug bust at the docks went sideways. Would have lost the shipment if Batman hadn't intervened."

Matthew feigned casual interest. "You worked with Batman again? Thought the GCPD officially considered him a vigilante."

"Officially, yes," Gordon admitted. "Unofficially... sometimes Gotham needs all the help it can get."

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they stopped for Chinese food—a Friday tradition when Barbara had debate team practice. Matthew listened attentively as his father described developments at the precinct, filing away details that might be useful for the Ghost's intelligence gathering.

It was these moments—ordinary, domestic, warm—that still occasionally caught Matthew off guard. In his previous life, dinner with his father had ended when he was ten years old. Now, at fourteen, he was experiencing the simple pleasure of sharing spring rolls and swapping stories with a parent who knew him, valued him, and expected him home for dinner.

"You're quiet," Gordon observed as they neared home. "Everything okay?"

Matthew nodded. "Just thinking about the new girl at the gym. Ted seems to know her mom well."

"Dinah Drake?" Gordon asked, surprise evident in his voice. "She's back in Gotham?"

"You know her?"

Gordon hesitated. "From the old days. She and Ted were... part of a group that helped during the war. Before my time on the force, but the stories lingered."

The careful phrasing told Matthew his father knew more than he was sharing—knew about Black Canary and Wildcat, perhaps about the entire Justice Society. Another piece of the puzzle that was James Gordon slid into place.

"Her daughter's my age," Matthew said. "Well, a few years older. Seems intense."

"Like mother, like daughter, I'd imagine," Gordon replied cryptically. "The Drakes were never known for doing anything halfway."

_________________________________________

Miles away, beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne pulled off the cowl, setting it on the console of the massive computer system that dominated the Batcave.

"Productive evening, sir?" Alfred inquired, appearing with a tray of post-patrol essentials—water, protein shake, first aid kit.

"Gordon's operation was solid," Bruce replied, accepting the water. "They'd have succeeded even without my intervention, but the timeline would have been compromised. Two shipments instead of one."

"Most gratifying to be useful," Alfred remarked dryly. "Master Richard was quite disappointed to miss the action."

Bruce glanced toward the staircase leading to the manor. "Homework comes first. That was our agreement."

"Indeed, though he completed his assignments with remarkable efficiency before surrendering to sleep." Alfred began gathering the discarded pieces of the Batsuit. "He mentioned your young guest from the gala again—the Gordon boy. Seems quite taken with him."

Bruce paused mid-sip. "Matthew Gordon. Interesting kid."

"Might I detect more than casual observation in that assessment?"

Bruce tapped a few keys, bringing up a file on the main screen, GORDON, MATTHEW J. A photograph showed a thin ginger boy with dark glasses and a white cane, standing beside his father at a police function.

"Blinded at nine saving a mother and child from a chemical spill," Bruce recited from memory. "Top of his class at St. Michael's. Training with Ted Grant. According to Dick, conversationally brilliant and surprisingly funny."

"High praise from Master Richard," Alfred noted. "He's not easily impressed these days."

Bruce scrolled through the file, revealing academic records, medical reports, and news clippings about the accident. "Ted called him a natural fighter. Said his spatial awareness is off the charts despite total blindness."

"Perhaps a friendship worth encouraging?" Alfred suggested. "Master Richard has few peers he genuinely connects with. This is a good thing."

Bruce closed the file. "Maybe. I did promise Dick they could get together sometime." He paused, recalling something. "Did you know the kid made a Batman joke when he met Dick? Called me the Dark Knight right to his face, then laughed it off."

"Bold," Alfred remarked, eyebrows raised. "Though I've observed that those without sight often develop a rather distinctive sense of humor."

"Maybe," Bruce acknowledged, though something about what Dick told him nagged at him. "Keep an ear out, would you? If Dick wants to invite him over, let's make it happen."

"Very good, sir. And now, perhaps some rest? Commissioner Gordon isn't the only one with a breakfast meeting tomorrow."

Bruce nodded, rising from the console.

___________________________

Back at Ted Grant's gym, the final students were filtering out as Dinah Drake helped her daughter stretch after their session.

"Dinah...he's good," Ted remarked, nodding toward the door where Matthew had exited earlier. "Gordon's kid. One of the best natural fighters I've seen."

"He's blind," Dinah pointed out.

"Which makes it more impressive, not less," Ted countered. "You know me. I'm always going to be straight with you. The Kid has something special. Reminds me of Wayne, back when I trained him."

Dinah's head snapped up. "You're serious..."

Ted's expression remained neutral, but his heartbeat betrayed mild alarm at his own slip. "Years ago. After his parents died. Before he went abroad and became.....well, you know."

"Huh," Dinah murmured, filing away this unexpected connection. "And now Gordon's kid."

"Different circumstances," Ted said firmly. "Wayne needed to channel his anger. Gordon's just making the most of what he has."

The younger Dinah approached, unwrapping her hand bindings. "So when do I get to spar with the blind wonder?"

"When you've earned it," Ted replied firmly. "Gordon's been training seriously for years, regardless of how much he pretends that's not true. He would embarrass you."

"You're still shaking off bad habits from those street fighting classes you thought I didn't know about." Ted stated firmly.

"I've been fighting longer than your mother's been alive," Ted interrupted. "I know sloppy technique when I see it."

Dinah Drake placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "The point is to learn properly now. Ted's the best there is."

"Used to be," Ted corrected with a hint of melancholy. "These days I just pass along what I can to the next generation." His gaze drifted toward the door. "Kids like Gordon. And you too, if you're willing to put in the work."

As mother and daughter gathered their things, Dinah Drake found herself wondering about the connections Ted had revealed—Bruce Wayne, the commissioner's son, her own daughter. 

Ted was not one to blow smoke, when he said it, he meant it. A blind kid.... just as, if not more talented than Bruce...

And look at what Bruce turned out to be.

What would Matthew Gordon look like?

Perhaps some legacies couldn't be escaped, only managed.

"Same time Monday?" she asked Ted.

"Monday," he confirmed. "And Dinah? Both of you—it's good to have you back in Gotham."

Despite her reservations, Dinah found herself agreeing. It was good to be back, even with all the complications that entailed. Some cities got under your skin, became part of who you were.

Gotham was like that.