Bleed The Freak

[Flashback]

The nightmares always started the same way. Matt walking home from Ted Grant's gym, a spring evening three years ago, his senses spread wide across the neighborhood as always. Then the distinctive click of a revolver's hammer, a sound that made his blood run cold even before the gunshot shattered the evening quiet.

One block away. Just one block from the Gordon residence.

Matt had run faster than he'd ever allowed himself to run in public, forgetting every pretense of blindness, every careful deception he'd maintained. None of it mattered. Barbara's heartbeat was erratic, her breathing shallow. Blood scent, sharp and coppery, saturated the air.

And laughter. That goddamned laughter.

He'd burst through the front door to find his father unconscious on the floor. Barbara lay nearby, bleeding from a gunshot wound to her abdomen. And standing over her, camera in hand, was the man whose scent Matt would never forget—a noxious cocktail of chemicals, greasepaint, and something fundamentally wrong.

The Joker.

"Well, well! Another Gordon to join our little photoshoot!" The Joker's voice was gleeful, manic. "I didn't know Jimbo had a spare kid. And blind, no less! How deliciously ironic."

Two men flanked the Joker—hired thugs with rapid heartbeats and the distinctive scent patterns of petty criminals elevated beyond their usual territory. They shifted uneasily at Matt's entrance, hands moving toward concealed weapons.

Matt had registered all this in milliseconds. What happened next would revisit him in nightmares for years to come.

He'd moved before conscious thought formed, before the Joker could finish his next sentence. The first thug went down with a shattered knee, the second with a collapsed trachea. Matt had held back nothing, unleashing every ounce of fury he felt at those responsible.

This wasn't Daredevil... it was The Hand.

The Joker's laughter faltered as Matt turned toward him, something in the blind boy's stance triggering a primal warning even in the Clown Prince's broken mind.

"My, my," the Joker murmured, backing toward the kitchen. "You're not just any blind boy, are you?"

Matt hadn't responded with words. He'd launched himself across the room, moving with the fluid grace of his former life, all pretense abandoned in the face of Barbara's fading heartbeat. His fist connected with the Joker's jaw with a sickening crack, driving the madman into the kitchen cabinets.

But the Joker wasn't like other criminals. He'd laughed through the pain, producing a switchblade from his sleeve. "Oh my, you remind me of someone," he'd hissed through bloody teeth. "Same capacity for violence. Same self-righteousness."

The fight had been brutal, quick. Matt had broken the Joker's arm in two places, fractured three ribs, and left him unconscious on the kitchen floor beside his goons. Then, as Barbara's consciousness faded, he'd called 911, carefully rearranging the scene to suggest the Joker and his men had fought among themselves.

When the paramedics arrived, Matt Gordon was once again just the commissioner's blind son, traumatized and helpless, who had stumbled upon the aftermath of violence.

But the Joker knew. Even as he was loaded into a separate ambulance, those mad eyes had found Matt in the chaos, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. A recognition.

You're like me, those eyes had said. You're hiding too. And one day, I will release you.

[Flashback End]

____________________________________________

Matt jerked awake on the hospital waiting room chair, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dream-memory receded, leaving behind the familiar guilt and self-recrimination. He'd failed Barbara that night. Failed to protect her from the violence that had stolen three years of her life, confined her to a wheelchair until experimental surgery finally restored her mobility.

"Mr. Gordon?" A nurse's voice pulled him back to the present. "Your friend is asking for you."

Matt nodded, unfolding himself from the uncomfortable chair. "How is she?"

"Stable. No serious injuries, just bruising and shock."

He followed the nurse down the corridor, his senses mapping the hospital layout automatically. Three doors down, Eliza's heartbeat pulsed steady and strong, a sound that loosened the knot in his chest that had formed the moment her captor had pressed a gun to her head.

"Matt?" Eliza called as he entered the room. "God, I thought they'd never let you in."

"Hospital protocol," he replied, finding the visitor's chair beside her bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got dragged around by a guy with a gun." She attempted humor, but her voice trembled slightly. "The others got put in a suite down the hall. Chloe's family connections at work, I guess."

Matt nodded, taking her hand when she offered it. Her pulse jumped at the contact, then steadied. "Raina's knee?"

"They did surgery already. She'll need physical therapy, but no permanent damage." Eliza squeezed his hand. "Matt... what happened back there? When the lights went out?"

He kept his expression neutral, his heartbeat carefully controlled. "I don't know. I was upstairs when it started. I just tried to get to you when I heard the commotion."

"But you were there. I heard your voice, felt your hand on my shoulder."

Matt hesitated, choosing his words with precision. "When the lights went out, everyone was on equal footing with me. I'm used to navigating in darkness. Being blind an all."

It wasn't a lie, not exactly. But he could feel Eliza's skepticism like a physical presence between them.

"The way those men went down... it was like something from a movie. Professional. Like Batman or—"

"Speaking of your friends," Matt interrupted gently, "maybe we should check on them? I'm sure they're worried about you too."

Eliza allowed the subject change, though Matt could sense her filing away questions for later. She hadn't survived as the daughter of a GCPD officer without developing good instincts.

They found Chloe, Sophia, and Raina in a private suite three times the size of Eliza's room. Sophia's broken nose had been set, leaving her with raccoon-like bruising around both eyes. Raina dozed fitfully, her surgically repaired knee elevated and wrapped. Chloe sat beside her, holding an ice pack to her swollen cheek.

"Look who finally escaped the commoners' ward," Chloe joked weakly as they entered.

"Better company down there," Eliza replied, settling carefully onto the edge of Raina's bed.

Matt offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "How's everyone holding up?"

"Like we got ran over by a gorilla," Sophia mumbled through her swollen face. "But alive, thanks to... whoever that was."

"Batman," Chloe supplied. "Had to be. Who else could take down armed men in pitch darkness?"

Matt kept his expression neutral. "I'm just glad everyone's okay."

"Define 'okay,'" Raina muttered, stirring from her medication-induced doze. "My dancing career is officially on hold."

"Girl, your dancing career consisted of doing the robot after three tequila shots," Eliza pointed out, drawing a pained laugh from the others.

Matt marveled at their resilience, the way humor served as both shield and release. His friends—and they were friends now, he realized, not just Eliza's college acquaintances—had stared death in the face less than six hours ago. Yet here they were, bruised but unbroken, finding strength in each other's company.

"Fair point," Raina conceded. "Matt, did you see anything? S-shit... I mean... sorry, poor choice of words."

"I never see anything," he replied with practiced self-deprecation. "But I heard plenty. Most of it I'd rather forget."

Wait.

Footsteps...

The door swung open before anyone could question him further. A woman entered, her heartbeat elevated with concern, her perfume expensive but understated. 

"Chloe!" the woman exclaimed, crossing to her daughter's bedside. "I came as soon as I got your message."

"Mom, I'm fine," Chloe protested, though she leaned into her mother's embrace. "Just a little banged up."

"Katherine Kane," the woman introduced herself to the room at large, her composure returning once she'd verified her daughter's condition. "Chloe's mother."

Matt recognized the name immediately. Katherine Kane—rumored to be Gotham's newest vigilante, if his research was correct. The heartbeat confirmed it, controlled under pressure, elevated slightly with the adrenaline of recent activity. She'd come in civilian clothes, but she'd been in a different outfit within the last hour.

"Matthew Gordon," he replied, extending his hand in her general direction. "And this is Eliza Reed."

Katherine's handshake was firm, professional. "Gordon? The commissioner's son?"

"That's right."

"I've heard about you." Her tone suggested more than casual awareness. "Chloe mentioned you were with them tonight. You weren't injured?"

Matt shook his head. "Lucky, I guess."

"Very." Katherine's focus shifted, her body language conveying subtle reassessment. "Chloe says you kept everyone calm afterward. Thank you for that."

"Matt's good in a crisis," Eliza offered. "Always has been."

Katherine moved closer to Chloe, her protective instincts evident in her positioning. But something in her demeanor softened as she observed her daughter's gaze track Matt's movements—a mother recognizing the particular quality of attention her child gave to someone special.

"You were at Wayne Manor earlier tonight?" Katherine asked. "Bruce mentioned you're friends with Dick?"

The careful probing wasn't lost on Matt. Katherine Kane was gathering intelligence, linking his connections to the Wayne household with his presence during a vigilante intervention. Batman's ally was as suspicious as Batman himself.

"Dick and I go back a few years," Matt confirmed. "He invited me for dinner, and Bruce was kind enough to loan me this suit when Eliza called about the Iceberg Lounge."

Katherine nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation. The conversation shifted to recovery plans and hospital discharge timelines. 

__________________________________

In the Iceberg Lounge's private office, Oswald Cobblepot reviewed security footage with cold fury etched into every line of his face. Rose Wilson stood nearby, her posture military-straight, expression deliberately blank.

"Fifteen men," Cobblepot murmured, pausing the footage at a particularly telling frame. "All neutralized within minutes of the lights failing. No fatalities."

"Batman's work," suggested Victor Zsasz from his position by the door. The scarred assassin's voice carried customary disinterest, but his eyes remained fixed on Rose with predatory focus.

"Batman was occupied across town," Cobblepot countered. "Confirmed sighting at the water treatment facility with Nygma. This was someone else."

Candice, still shaken but professionally composed, cleared her throat. "Sir, if I may..."

Cobblepot gestured for her to continue.

"One of them saved me. A man, young, I think. I couldn't see his face clearly—it was dark, and he wore something covering the upper half." Her voice strengthened with each word. "He came out of nowhere when one of Black Mask's men had me cornered. Threw him against the wall like he weighed nothing."

Cobblepot's gaze shifted to Rose. "And you were where during all this?"

"Upstairs," she replied evenly. "I handled the men who went for the office."

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

Zsasz's scarred mouth twisted into something approximating a smile. "Six armed men? Impressive for a girl your age."

Rose didn't react to the provocation. "I'm good at my job."

"Indeed." Cobblepot studied her for a long moment. "Yet our mystery savior remains unidentified. Someone with exceptional combat skills, able to navigate perfect darkness, who just happened to be present during an attack on my establishment."

"Whoever it was," Candice interjected, "they saved lives. Mine included."

Cobblepot nodded slowly. "And for that, they have my gratitude. Unusual as it may be to feel indebted to a vigilante."

"We don't know it was a vigilante," Rose pointed out. "Could have been a rival crew."

"Perhaps." Cobblepot wasn't convinced. "Though the methodology suggests otherwise. No fatalities. Deliberate incapacitation rather than elimination. Very... bat-like."

Zsasz pushed away from the wall. "Want me to look into it?"

"No." Cobblepot's response was immediate. "Our priority is Black Mask. This... intervention... can be examined later."

Rose remained still, her expression carefully neutral despite the relief flooding through her. The last thing she needed was Zsasz investigating her activities or connections.

"You're dismissed, Ms. Wilson," Cobblepot said finally. "But stay available. This situation with Sionis will require all hands."

She nodded once, then exited without further comment, aware of Zsasz's eyes tracking her every movement. The assassin suspected something—his instincts were too sharp to miss the gaps in her account. But proving anything would be difficult, especially with Penguin focused on retaliation against Black Mask.

As she slipped out of the club through a service entrance, Rose found herself thinking of Matthew Gordon.

A puzzle, that one. And Rose had never been able to resist puzzles.

............

......

.....

The Gordon house was quiet when Matt finally arrived home shortly after dawn. His father had remained at the precinct, coordinating the investigation and political fallout from the attack. Barbara had left three increasingly worried voicemails as news of the incident spread.

Matt collapsed onto the living room couch, exhaustion hitting him like a physical blow. The adrenaline that had sustained him through the night had finally ebbed, leaving behind bone-deep weariness and the emotional whiplash of killing two distinct lives.

For years, he'd maintained the separation—Matthew Gordon, the commissioner's blind son, and the Ghost, an anonymous source of intelligence for the GCPD. Careful, controlled, compartmentalized.

Tonight had shattered those boundaries. He'd fought openly, revealed capabilities that couldn't be explained away. Even if no one connected him directly to the takedowns, questions would follow. Eliza's suspicions. Bruce Wayne's interest. Katherine Kane's assessment.

And yet...

It had felt right. Undeniably, soul-deep right to do what he was born to do. To protect the innocent, to stand between victims and those who would harm them. Not from the shadows, not through proxies, but with his own hands.

The front door opened, interrupting his thoughts. Barbara's wheelchair created distinctive vibrations against the hardwood floor—she used it occasionally on days when her surgically repaired spine protested too much against walking.

"Matt?" Her voice cracked with emotion. "Oh thank God."

Before he could respond, she'd crossed the room and enveloped him in a fierce hug, her arms wrapping around his shoulders with surprising strength. Dampness spread across his shoulder as she pressed her face against him.

"I'm okay," he assured her, returning the embrace. "I'm fine, Babs. Not even a scratch."

"I saw the news," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "Black Mask's crew, hostages... they said you were there."

"I was," he confirmed. "But I'm okay. Everyone made it out."

Barbara pulled back, and Matt could sense her studying his face, looking for signs of trauma or deception. What she saw apparently satisfied her because her heartbeat gradually steadied.

"Dad's been at the precinct all night," she said. "He called to make sure I checked on you. Said you were still at the hospital with your friends."

"Eliza and the others are okay. Banged up, but okay."

Barbara's hand found his, squeezing tight. "When I got the call, all I could think was... not you too. Not after—"

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't need to. The Joker's attack hung between them, an unspoken trauma they shared from opposite sides of consciousness.

"I'm right here," Matt said softly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Barbara nodded, her breathing steadying. "The police report said Batman might have been involved? That someone took down all the attackers in the dark?"

Matt maintained his neutral expression through years of practice. "Maybe. I was upstairs when it started. By the time I got downstairs, it was all over."

"Upstairs?" Barbara's tone shifted subtly. "With who?"

"Just a girl I met at the bar." Matt shrugged, deflecting. "We were talking."

Barbara's heartbeat betrayed her skepticism, but she didn't press. Instead, she released his hand and moved back slightly.

"You should get some sleep," she said. "You look exhausted."

"Pot, kettle," he countered with a tired smile. "You've been up all night too."

"Oracle never sleeps," she replied, then froze as she realized what she'd said.

Matt pretended not to notice the slip. "Well, Matthew Gordon definitely needs to. Wake me if Dad calls?"

Barbara agreed, and Matt retreated to his room, leaving her to her own thoughts and electronic vigil. As he collapsed onto his bed, still wearing Bruce Wayne's custom suit minus the jacket and tie, Matt found himself at a crossroads he'd been approaching for years.

How long can one deny fate?