The Nowhere Girl

1. The Legendary Double Dropkick

Even before I got stabbed, I was having a rotten day.

Alright you lot, listen up, cause I'm only saying this once. My name is Gita Mathew Kelly, you's can call be Bluey Mathews, cos we're mates and stuff.

I'm nineteen years old. Until three months ago, I was a normal kid working a dead-end life in my home on Warndurala Station. I should tell you the rest. I've always been loner. Never really had friends, except my brother, that is. My twin brother, Two-Bit Mathews, mild kleptomaniac and a future tax cheat. Everyone calls him Two-Bit Mathews because he won't stop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn't shut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits' worth in. Hence his name. Even in school, teachers forgot his real name was Dazza, formally Darren, and I hardly remember he had one.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

Latest in the in the long line of jackarooing, vendetta-holding Kelly's who made their living off the land.

I could start at any point in my miserable short life to prove it, but things really went bad three months ago in June, when this weird thing happened ...and I gotta say I'm used to the occasional weird experience, but they were over quickly, stuff I could blame on my ADHD... But this was really weird.

One minute I'm chillin' at a roadhouse, minding my own business, then the universe says "YEET" and I find myself in a fandom. And was it peaceful fandom? Nooooo, bold of you to assume my luck is that good. I am in GOTHAM CITY.  And I am a cartoon, the art style kinda looks like Young Justice seasons 1&2.

Also I was dead. And blonde. I was kind of... perfect. It was like looking in a mirror. I have a feeling the thing that brought me here, was the thing that got her killed.

>>>><<<<

Anyway before I got, my day started out normal enough. It was late afternoon have just woken up in a tree next to a bridge in Robinson Park, because I take the nightshift at Bat-Burger. It's not like it's safe to let your guard down in the day either, but I like the odds better than night.

By the way, I've been homeless for the majority of three months.

Some of you may think, Aw, how sad. Others may think, Ha, ha, what a loser. But if you saw me on the street, ninety-nine per cent of you would walk right past like I'm invisible. You'd pray, Don't let her ask me for money. You'd wonder if I'm older than I look, because surely someone who's almost twenty wouldn't be wrapped in a sleeping a stinky sleeping bag, stuck outside in the middle of Gotham. Somebody should help that poor girl!

Whatever. I don't need your sympathy. It's my fault anyway, that I don't have any survival instincts for the city. I'm used to being laughed at. I'm definitely used to being ignored. Let's move on.

I blink the gunk out of my eyes. My mouth tasted like two-day-old cheeseburger. My sleeping bag is warm, and I really don't want to get out of it. But I gotta work to eat and eat to live.

And look it's not that I'm above stealing, I'm not, I did some pickpocketing in the Theatre District last week, but unlike Warndurala Station, Gotham has like twelve orphans in spandex ready to kick my arse.

Random police and park rangers I could deal with. Truant officers, community-service volunteers, drunk collage kids, addicts looking to bash somebody small and weak – all those are as easy to wake up to as pancakes and orange juice.

But I had met Batman last month when I helped the Suicide Squad break into Arkham Asylum (long story, I'll explain later). I'd received the reality check of the century. Man, was he scary in person.