Teenage Dirtbag

The final bell rang at Gotham City High, releasing a flood of students into the hallways. Matthew Gordon slipped his calculus textbook into his backpack with practiced efficiency, mentally mapping the shortest route to the parking lot where Eliza would be waiting.

"Gordon!" Mr. Reeves called as Matthew reached the door. "A moment?"

Matthew turned, adjusting his dark glasses. At seventeen, he'd grown into his frame—five-foot-ten, lean but solid, with a quiet confidence that emanated from him without effort. Four years of training with Ted Grant had transformed the skinny boy into someone whose physical presence belied his disability.

"Yes, sir?"

"Your essay on legal implications of metahuman civil liberties," Reeves said, handing him a paper. "Exceptional work. Have you considered law school applications yet?"

Matthew accepted the paper, feeling the 'A+' embossed in the corner. "Columbia, Harvard, and Gotham U so far. My dad's pushing for the last one."

"Commissioner wants to keep you close," Reeves observed with a chuckle. "Can't blame him. Students like you don't come along often."

"Thanks, Mr. Reeves." Matthew smiled, genuinely appreciating the compliment despite knowing the path ahead had been traveled before—in another life, another version of himself.

Outside, Eliza's heartbeat was easily distinguishable amid the after-school chaos—steady, familiar, slightly elevated as she spotted him among the crowd.

"Matt!" she called, waving though she knew he couldn't see it.

Eight years of friendship had cemented Eliza Reed as Matthew's closest connection in this new life. She'd grown from the girl who crashed into him in sixth grade into a fiercely intelligent young woman with political science aspirations and a razor-sharp wit that kept Matthew on his toes.

"Ready to hit Ted's?" she asked as he approached, jingling her car keys. "Dinah texted. She wants a rematch after Tuesday."

"Not sure my ego can take another round with her," Matthew joked, sliding into the passenger seat of Eliza's second-hand Civic. "She's getting too good."

"Your fault for teaching her all your tricks," Eliza replied, starting the engine. "Ted says you're the only sparring partner who gives her a real challenge."

The drive to Ted Grant's gym took them through Gotham's ever-changing landscape. The city had evolved during Matthew's eight years there, with Wayne Enterprises' urban renewal projects transforming sections of downtown while others remained stubbornly unchanged. Matthew tracked the transformations through sound and air currents, building an ever-updating mental map of his adopted home.

"Dad said you got into Columbia early decision," Eliza mentioned as they neared the gym. "Congratulations, by the way."

"Thanks," Matthew replied. "You're still applying to Gotham U law?"

"If I can get the scholarship. Not all of us have Commissioner Gordon's connections." She said it without bitterness—just acknowledging reality. Eliza's father, once a promising GCPD officer, had been killed in the line of duty two years prior, leaving her and her mother to manage on a police widow's pension.

"You'll get it," Matthew assured her. "Your LSAT scores alone guarantee it."

The gym welcomed them with its familiar symphony of sounds—gloves on heavy bags, shuffling feet on canvas, Ted's gruff instructions cutting through it all. Matthew inhaled deeply, allowing the scents of leather, sweat, and liniment to ground him.

"Our champion arrives," Ted called from the ring, where he was working with a younger student. "Dinah's in back, warming up. She's been waiting for you."

Dinah Lance's heartbeat emanated from the rear training room—strong, steady, with the controlled breathing patterns Matthew had helped her develop. Now twenty-one and studying criminology at Gotham University, Dinah had evolved from the rebellious teenager into a disciplined fighter whose skills approached professional level.

"Don't break anything I need for finals," Matthew called to her as he entered the room.

"No promises, Gordon," Dinah replied, her voice carrying the smile her heartbeat confirmed. "Worried I'll mess up that pretty face before prom?"

Matthew groaned. "Not you too. Between my sister and Dad, I can't escape the prom talk."

"Taking Eliza, right?" Dinah asked, throwing a combination at the speed bag.

"As friends," Matthew clarified quickly. "She's got her eye on that exchange student from Metropolis."

"And you've got your eye on no one, as usual." Dinah's tone was teasing but carried an undertone of curiosity that had developed over their years of training together. "Mysterious Matt Gordon, Gotham's most eligible blind bachelor."

Matthew changed the subject, dropping his bag and beginning his warm-up routine. "Three rounds, points only. I've got plans tonight."

"Hot date after all?" Dinah pressed, moving to the center mat.

"Study group," he lied smoothly, wrapping his hands with practiced efficiency.

Their sparring session unfolded with the familiar rhythm of longtime training partners. Dinah had grown formidable—her technique polished, her strength impressive, her fighting instincts sharp. Matthew matched her with his usual grace, holding back just enough to make it challenging without revealing the full extent of his abilities.

Ninety minutes later, sweaty and pleasantly exhausted, Matthew bid farewell to Ted and Dinah, joining Eliza for the drive home.

"You're doing it again," she observed as they neared his neighborhood. "That thing where you get quiet before you're about to do something your dad wouldn't approve of."

Matthew turned toward her, genuinely surprised. "What are you talking about?"

"Please," Eliza scoffed. "I've known you since sixth grade, Matt. You get this look when you're planning something. Like the time you 'accidentally' got Mercer suspended by recording his drug deal behind the gym. Or when you disappeared during the field trip to Wayne Enterprises."

"I got lost," Matthew protested, though the lie sounded weak even to him.

"You don't get lost," Eliza stated flatly. "Ever. It's freaky, actually."

Matthew sighed. Eliza knew him too well—not the full truth, but enough to recognize his patterns. In eight years, she'd become attuned to his quirks, his capabilities, the inconsistencies in his carefully maintained blind persona.

"Just going to do some research for a paper," he offered. "Nothing exciting."

Eliza huffed, unconvinced but unwilling to press further. "Fine, keep your secrets. Just... be careful, okay? Whatever it is."

"Always am," he promised as she pulled up to his house.

Inside, the Gordon residence was quiet. His father working late again, Barbara away at graduate school in Metropolis studying computer science. Matthew moved through the familiar space, checking messages (none), before retreating to his room.

He waited, listening to the house settle around him, confirming his solitude. When satisfied, Matthew retrieved his gear from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed—black sweatpants, a reinforced sweatshirt, sturdy boots, gloves with hardened knuckles, and a police baton "borrowed" from evidence storage during a school tour of the precinct years ago.

The last item was the mask—a simple black bandana that covered the upper half of his face, leaving his unseeing eyes concealed. No specialized costume, no dramatic symbol. Just practical darkness that could blend into Gotham's shadows.

At midnight, Matthew slipped out his window and into the night. Not for patrol—not tonight. Tonight had a different purpose.

The Meta-Brawl operated in a converted warehouse near the edge of the Bowery. From the outside, it appeared abandoned—windows bricked over, doors reinforced with seemingly rusted metal. But Matthew's senses detected the vibrations of a crowd within, the electric excitement of spectators gathered for something forbidden.

He'd discovered the underground fighting ring six months ago while tracking a weapons dealer for one of the Ghost's anonymous tips. Instead of reporting it, curiosity had led him inside—and eventually into the ring itself.

For a blind fighter with no documentation and cash payment, Meta-Brawl offered the perfect opportunity to test his limits without consequences. The Ghost helped the GCPD; Matthew Gordon was the commissioner's model son; but here, as "The Man Without Fear," he could engage his warrior self—the part of his soul that Ted Grant's gym couldn't fully satisfy.

Matthew slipped in through a service entrance he'd mapped during previous visits, making his way through maintenance corridors to the fighters' preparation area. The air thrummed with anticipation, cocktailed with sweat, blood, and money changing hands.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence," a cultured female voice purred from the doorway. "Our undefeated blind wonder."

Roulette. Real name Veronica Sinclair. Matthew had pieced together her identity over months of careful eavesdropping. Casino owner, underground fight promoter, and rumored metahuman trafficker—though he'd found no evidence of the latter at Meta-Brawl, which seemed to employ willing fighters exclusively.

"Had a math test," Matthew replied, adjusting his gloves. "Priorities."

Roulette laughed, the sound rich with genuine amusement. "Always the comedian. Well, I've got something special for you tonight. New fighter, undefeated elsewhere. Calls herself 'Ravager.' Thought you two might provide an interesting match."

Matthew nodded, focusing his senses beyond Roulette to the arena beyond. The crowd was larger than usual—at least three hundred spectators. High-end cologne and perfume suggested wealthier clientele than typical. Something had drawn Gotham's elite to tonight's matches.

"Any rules I should know about?" Matthew asked, stretching his shoulders.

"Same as always. No kills, no permanent maiming. Beyond that..." Roulette's shrug was audible in her silk attire. "Entertain the crowd, make me money, and I don't particularly care."

She departed in a waft of expensive perfume, leaving Matthew to complete his preparations. Twenty minutes later, a runner appeared to escort him to the arena entrance.

The roar hit him like a physical force as he emerged—louder, more electric than previous nights. His moniker echoed through the space as the announcer worked the crowd.

"...undefeated in fifteen matches! The man who conquers darkness! The fighter who fears nothing! The Man Without Fear!"

Matthew rolled his shoulders, centering himself as he approached the raised platform that served as the fighting ring. No ropes, no referee—just a twenty-foot square outlined in chalk, with four-foot drops on all sides to discourage escape.

Across the arena, another entrance opened. The crowd's reaction shifted—less familiar with this new fighter, but intrigued by the novelty. Matthew focused his senses on his opponent.

Female, younger than expected—probably his age or close to it. Athletic build, perfectly balanced stance suggesting extensive training. Carrying two objects—swords? No, practice blades, dulled but still dangerous. Her heart rate was controlled, almost unnaturally so, and her body temperature ran slightly higher than normal. Possibly metahuman, or enhanced somehow.

Most distinctive was her scent—a subtle mix of metal and something chemical that suggested augmentation or experimentation. And beneath it all, something oddly familiar that Matthew couldn't quite place.

"Fighters ready!" the announcer called. "Begin!"

His opponent didn't hesitate, launching forward with impressive speed. Matthew sidestepped, allowing her momentum to carry her past him. She recovered instantly, pivoting with grace that spoke of years of martial arts training.

"Interesting," she murmured, voice low enough that only Matthew's enhanced hearing caught it. "You're faster than you look."

The fight began in earnest then. Matthew kept his movements controlled, revealing skill but not his full capabilities. He'd learned that victory was expected, but too much dominance raised questions he preferred to avoid.

His opponent was exceptional—better than anyone he'd faced at Meta-Brawl before. Her style blended multiple disciplines, favoring a modified Krav Maga with elements of something more esoteric. The practice swords extended her reach dangerously, forcing Matthew to close distance carefully.

Five minutes in, they were both breathing hard. Matthew had landed several solid hits, but she'd connected with her blades twice, leaving bruises he'd feel tomorrow. The crowd was getting their money's worth.

A misstep—deliberate or fatigue-induced, Matthew couldn't tell—gave him an opening. He swept her legs, sending her tumbling to the canvas. Rather than press his advantage, Matthew stepped back, allowing her to recover.

"I don't need your charity," she spat, flipping back to her feet.

"Not charity," Matthew replied. "Respect."

Something in her heartbeat changed—a skip, a moment of confusion. Then her attacks redoubled, fury adding power but costing precision. Matthew weathered the assault, waiting for the inevitable opening.

It came three minutes later. An overextended strike left her right side exposed. Matthew slipped inside her guard, landed two precision hits to pressure points on her arm, and followed with a leg sweep that sent her crashing down. This time, he maintained position, using controlled joint manipulation to immobilize her.

"Yield," he suggested quietly.

For a moment, he thought she'd refuse. Then, muscles relaxing incrementally, she tapped the canvas. The crowd erupted as the announcer declared Matthew victorious. He released her immediately, offering a hand up.

She ignored it, rising on her own. "You're blind," she stated flatly, voice pitched for his ears alone.

Matthew stiffened. No one at Meta-Brawl knew his disability—it wasn't visible beneath his mask, and he'd been careful to never reveal it.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, maintaining his stance.

"Your eyes never track movement," she replied, gathering her practice swords. "And you tilted your head to listen when I circled you. Classic blind fighter compensation."

Before Matthew could respond, she turned away. "Don't worry, your secret's safe. Wouldn't want to ruin the mystique."

She disappeared through her entrance, leaving Matthew unsettled. Whoever "Ravager" was, she was dangerous.

_________________________

From a private viewing box above the arena floor, Roulette smiled as she tallied the night's profits in her head. The Man Without Fear versus Ravager had drawn her biggest crowd yet—and bigger side bets.

"Impressive fighters," her guest remarked, adjusting his monocle. "Particularly the boy. Self-trained?"

"Not entirely," Roulette replied, studying Oswald Cobblepot—the Penguin, as Gotham's underworld knew him. "His technique suggests formal instruction, but he's adapted it into something unique."

"Reminds me of someone," Penguin mused, sipping champagne. "That spatial awareness, the way he anticipates rather than reacts. Very... bat-like."

Roulette arched an eyebrow. "Comparing my fighter to your city's vigilante problem? I'm not sure whether to be flattered or insulted."

"Neither," Penguin said with a dismissive wave. "Merely an observation. Young talent should be nurtured. Perhaps guided toward more... profitable ventures than simple prize fighting."

"He's not for sale, Oswald," Roulette said firmly. "And not for recruitment either. Our arrangement is strictly business—you provide security and discretion, I provide entertainment and a percentage. The fighters are mine."

Penguin inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his eyes remained calculating behind the monocle. "Of course, my dear. Just professional curiosity."

Below, the Man Without Fear disappeared from the arena, swallowed by the shadows of the exit. Something about the young fighter nagged at Penguin's instincts.

And the Penguin hadn't built his empire by ignoring his instincts.

_____________________________

Matthew Gordon slipped through his bedroom window at 3:17 AM, muscles aching pleasantly from exertion. He'd won again, maintained his cover, and earned enough cash to supplement the emergency fund hidden beneath his floorboards. A successful night by any measure.

Except for Ravager's parting observation. Someone had recognized his blindness. As he stashed his gear and showered away the evidence of his activities, Matthew considered whether he should withdraw from Meta-Brawl. The risk might outweigh the benefits now.

His comm unit beeped softly—the encrypted channel he maintained for the Ghost's GCPD intelligence gathering. Another decision for another day. For now, Gotham's underworld carried on, and Matthew Gordon had work to do.

In the darkness of his room, he smiled. Senior year, college applications, Meta-Brawl fighting, anonymous crime tips—a wild life indeed.

Some things never change.