The Nowhere Girl

3. Never Meet Your Heroes

A hero is strong. A hero is invulnerable. I'm neither.

The slash of my arm scars over within the day and I take the stitches out. The one on my stomach and knuckle take a little longer.

Jason got me a job as a sever at the Wayne Gala.

It is a simple job the consists of serving rich people drinks and hors d'oeuvres in a suit. The guy in charge ran through the basic steps of what I needed to know and practically hired me on the spot once I mentioned I worked a customer service job because apparently, they were understaffed. I did lie and say I was twenty-one. It is a one-time job, but the pay is nice enough that I might be able to rent a place for a little while.

Bless Jason, however much of an annoying arsehole he is, he got me a uniform to work in.

Not too shabby. It's an all-black suit, slacks, and my old, battered sneakers. I use a bit of hair gel to tame my hair a bit and in the end, I look a little like ginger Kate Bishop from episode 1 of Hawkeye.

>>>><<<<

Rich people have no clue how to party. I mean, they have all the money in the world, but they waste so much time being, I dunno, civilised. Here they are, at a gala, and they're just sitting around in their expensive clothes and jewellery, posing up a storm like they're mannequins in a store window instead of actual people having actual fun.

It's almost enough to make me feel sorry for them.

Almost.

Actually, nah, not even close.

I walked around the ballroom with a tray full of champagne balanced on my arm. The ballroom has literal crystal chandeliers hanging down from the vaulted ceilings, and the floors are made of bright, shiny marble arranged into an elaborate flowery pattern. A group of women walk past me, heels clicking against the floor. My sneakers squeak with each step I take.

Besides occasionally serving drinks to people, I'm yet to say a conventional word to anyone, it seems whenever I serve someone, they had to eye me before deciding if I am worthy of hearing a "Thank you".

Back home, one of my coworkers once said, Everybody should work in customer service at least once. Her version of: You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. Cos customer service tended to humble you pretty fast.

Maybe if I see Bruce tonight, I can work up the nerve to ask him for help.

I have to face it. I'm homesick.

Suddenly, someone pulls the bandana over my eyes, and I hear a boyish chuckle. Making sure I don't drop my tray; I turn around and put the bandana back into place.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Dick, I couldn't help but notice you look a little dejected."

"G'day." I nod at him. He's dressed in a suit and tie much nicer than mine, and his hair is gelled back and had teeth so white they should've come with a warning lable: DO NOT STARE DIRECTLY AT TEETH. PERMANATE BLINDNESS MAY OCCUR. "Bluey, and bored."

"Well, maybe I could keep you company," Dick says, taking a champagne from the tray. "These things are a drag."

Is he fucking with me? Does he recognise my voice from the other night?

I must've given him a funny look because he laughed again. The same laugh he had in Young Justice. It's hard to tell what continuity I ended up in, just based off Dick alone. He seems to be the flirty big brother figure as always.