Sandro watched Mr. Hamilton uncertainly for a moment; because he could count the number of people who had ever seen him on his fingers, and this reaction had been even more anticlimactic than Wildcard—Anastasia's—own. But, after a moment, he inched into the house and wove around the couch to come over and peer down at an upside down Ana where she'd plopped on the couch and appeared to be looking for a remote between the cushions.

"I feel like I need an instruction manual," he whispered to her.

Ana gave him a knowing look instead of a grin, and then shrugged as best as the couch cushions would allow. "Hey it's not like I know how to do the normal teenager thing either. You wanna play a game?"

Sandro considered the offer. "What's a sugar glider and why haven't you been cleaning its cage?"

"Mumu!" she exclaimed, and tried to sit upright, but then faltered prematurely when apparently she couldn't decide how to do so gracefully. "Um, I'll show you-" He reached down and offered a hand, and she took it, and he dragged her off the back of the couch to set her upright again. Without evidencing a single sign of disorientation, she kept hold of his hand and immediately dragged him off. "C'mon!"

Anastasia pulled him across the house and over to the winding metal staircase that led up into a very small second floor. Sandro followed, curious now instead of entirely nervous.

Still in the kitchen, Mr. Hamilton left the water alone on the stove for a moment, and leaned back to watch as heavy footsteps disappeared en route up to his daughter's bedroom.

Wait a minute. Hmm. He squinted. When are fathers supposed to start glaring dangerously at young boys who hang out with young girls? Thirteen? Sixteen? He plopped his hands on his hips and pursed his lips to consider the dilemma. Fifteen? Okay, fifteen sounds good. I can do fifteen. He docked his head to the side. It's a pity I don't have any friends to consult on the matter. The Joker's face screwed up in incredulity. Did I just wish for friends? Wow. Am I sick? He felt his own forehead. I must just be getting old, finally.

But then a slow smirk writhed across his face, because he'd thought of something else. Poor Helena Wayne is not going to be able to successfully date until she's twenty-two and has preemptively secured a restraining order on behalf of the poor boy in question. Every time she tries, she'll be preemptively stopped by a traumatic memory of her homecoming date tied up upside down with daddy's Batman voice thundering 'WHO SENT YOU?!'

He~hE~He~hE~He~hE~!

He turned back to the water, which had begun to boil, and reached out to open a fresh pack of penne noodles as he deliberated exactly how much of it to make... Better too much than too little, no? If one multiplied Sandro's weight category by Anastasia's appetite, one arrived at a hefty amount of food...!

"This is Mumu," Anastasia explained as she opened up the bird cage. "And please excuse him if he's not feeling his manners today; he used to get to travel with me all the time, until I came dangerously close to splattering him on a roll one day and realized real-life animal companions aren't as immune to dying as cartoon ones..."

She brought out the sleepy little possum, who had just been getting ready to wake up for the evening, and then turned to present him up to Sandro.

The boy blinked in surprise and then crouched down to have a better look at the pale, pink-nosed, and be-striped little creature. "Whoa. What is he?"

"A sugar glider! They're not really related to flying squirrels, but it's the same basic premise." She pulled out the skin flaps on Mumu's side. "See? These is his 'wing skin!' I mean, he can't fly but he falls with style!"

"Does he bite?"

"No—or, I don't think so," she considered the question, and inspected her tiny pet. "Sugars kinda famously exhibit imprint behavior, kinda like geese do, so he can definitely recognize me and my dad and might be more leery about new people. Plus I've been ignoring him lately. I don't know. Want to try holding him anyway?"

"Okay. If it won't scare him too much?"

"Nah, he'll probably sniff about and then jump back to me after a bit, I'd wager."

Sandro hesitantly held out his hands, and Anastasia settled the tiny possum into them. Mumu definitely didn't know what to make of this giant odd-colored person who smelled incredibly peculiar. He looked up Sandro in bewilderment, as if confronted by an unsolvable problem. Ana pet his back, and guided Sandro to do likewise.

"He's so tiny," her enormous best friend laughed. "I'm afraid to squish him. Look at that itty bitty nose of his...!"

Mumu seemed to feel this was all acceptable behavior from Sandro, but then twisted about and jumped straight at Ana's face. Ana yelped prematurely, which warned Sandro what was about to happen, and lifted up her hands in plenty of time to catch the flying creature.

"Do you have any pets?" she inquired of the turtle as Mumu climbed onto the top of her head and surveyed his kingdom.

"Oh boy. Yes," he admitted, and that sounded like the prelude to a story. "Do you have any idea how many scaly pets this city's irresponsible adults end up flushing down toilets in order to abandon them? Well, a small percentage of them do successfully make it into the sewers alive, and we have a large collection of snakes and more than a few odd lizards, turtles, you name it. Donatello strung up a filter system so that the majority of the fish ended up getting strained into a 'pond.' But the capstone came to us one day when little toddler-me waddled up to Donatello carrying a dwarf crocodile roughly as long as I was, and announcing proudly that her name was 'Smiles'."

Anastasia grinned so hard and so fast she felt the need to slap both hands over her mouth, and then still broke out snorting and giggling none-the-less. "What!?" Purple Turtle confirmed.

"And I still have Lady Smiles-A-Lot, if you can believe it," he laughed. "Though—proportionately speaking—she's significantly smaller and less intimidating to the adults. She's always been the sweetest tempered old lady, though, so I'm not exactly sure why anyone threw her away in the first place. Donatello couldn't even get her to snap at him without deliberately tapping on her tongue to trigger a bite reflex. Honestly, I used her as a pillow sometimes."

"That's unspeakably adorable. How long do crocs live?" Ana wondered, surprised to hear the creature had been 'old' upon coming into Sandro's keeping. Or was that just a way of better-describing her overall demeanor?

"Almost as long as turtles," Sandro answered. "What about Mumu?"

"Sugar gliders only live about twelve years. Mumu's five, so he's already like this cute, portly, middle-aged little man. Who barks. I know you don't believe me, but just wait till he thinks I'm not going to feed him. He totally barks like a tiny, helium-filled dog."

"I see!" That got a laugh out of him.

"Yeah, and I used to have a rabbit, but he died shortly before I met you. Small mammals don't have long lifespans, it seems. Apparently not anything like alligators and turtles, anyway."

"I'm sorry." He shifted awkwardly. "So do you want my help cleaning his cage?"

They bagged up a lot of super-stinky waste and replaced it with clean newspaper and bedding, and then Mumu did indeed bark and bark and bark like a little sputtering balloon, until at last they managed to get his bowl filled with food. He proceeded to pig out in his dish, and Ana closed the cage door behind him.

"I think I've nearly stepped on six knives since I've been in here," Sandro remarked conversationally once the deed was done and it was clear Mumu would be occupied for quite some time.

"Dad says I'm a slob," Ana said with a big grin up at him. "He's probably right."

The months since her move had given Anastasia some time to settle in, and Sandro looked around at walls covered in super hero posters, news clippings, and anime pin-ups. Noticeably absent was a lack of anything native to Gotham, both in terms of villainous portrayals and heroic ones, which was strange for a girl who had clearly loved living there. Her bedspread was crumpled, and covered in unfolded Hoodies and socks that had never been properly stowed, but it was easy to see it was red, blue, and Spider-Man patterned. In contrast, her pillow was pink and bordered in white lace.

There were dart boards on the walls, and an assortment of knives, spikes, stars, and other weapons stuffed into sacks and crates. The only orderly part of the room—somewhat counter-intuitively—was a desk that had books and notebooks neatly organized upon it.

Wait a minute. Sandro blinked rapidly, and then walked over to it without thinking to ask for permission. "You're in Chemistry?" He reached over and lifted up the edges of her text books, and was surprised to see a label for Calculus. He glanced back to her. "That's well above our grade."

Anastasia shifted uncomfortably and then gave a big shrug. "I don't know about that. It only makes it more noticeable how bad I am at reading. English. History. Other languages. I'm in remedial everything. You can't get far like that. You have to be able to apply, and that takes being able to compose and express your thoughts."

Sandro considered this problem. "I will help you," he repeated his earlier offer, but then tapped upon the Calc book. "But you help me back, mm?"

She wiggled in place. "Promise not to get frustrated when I get frustrated at myself and then get more frustrated for being frustrated?"

"Heh. No problem, loudmouth," he grinned.

She beamed at him as if relieved, and it was like he'd won a gold medal.

"Kids!" Mr. Hamilton called up to them from the kitchen. "Food's done!"

And there was really no quicker way to get either of them down the stairs than that, though Wildcard seriously cheated by jumping off the balcony railing and dropping down onto the couch. "Feed~Me~Seymour~!" she sang, and that was likely a reference to another movie worth seeing.

Mr. Hamilton continued to be impressed by how much teenagers could eat, and tried to recall if he'd been similar once. Unfortunately that recalled remembering childhood, and his had a delightful multiple choice disorder to rival Anastasia's most hazy reflections.

"This is really good," a very respectful turtle boy complimented between forkfuls of noodles. "Thank you for cooking."

"There's no cheese!" Anastasia complained for no other reason than to complain, as she was gobbling food up as eagerly as a starved wolf.

"Not everything has to have cheese." Sandro scolded her, and then broke out laughing/choking when the girl sat up straight and rapidly crossed herself.

What a banterful dynamic, Mr Hamilton mused, a-mused. "Thank you, Sandro. Out of curiousity, how old are you?"

"Um," the boy cleared his throat and made sure he'd properly swallowed his food this time. "Only thirteen. I-I know I'm, um, big."

"I see," Mr. Hamilton tilted his head to the side as he loaded his own fork with noodles. "Explains why the imp came home one day whining about about growth hormone." He took a bite.

Sandro straightened and then eyed Anastasia in a critical way that nearly put Mr. Hamilton to laughing. "Being tall's not all it's cracked up to be," he told her with a huff as he went back to eating.

"Says the person who's not suffering from shortness," Anastasia griped. "Anyway Dad said 'no' and reminded me I'm much better than you at flips. So nyah nyah!" She stuck her tongue out at him. Sandro covered her face with a hand. She sputtered and batted his arm away, laughing.

Mr. Hamilton looked down at his food was quiet (but smiling) as he listened to the children jab one another while they ate. You are playing recklessly loose with information around the child of a 'superhero.' As if, lacking for much family, you went out and found yourself a brother. From the worst/best possible place. He took another bite, and glanced up at her. But it's been a very long time since I've seen you play with someone.

And, indeed, Anastasia had upped her game and was now sticking out a tongue-full of half-chewed food at Sandro, who looked like he was just about to be baited into doing likewise in a childish game of chicken. "How did you two manage to bump into one another?" Mr. Hamilton intervened, rescuing the boy from stooping to her level.

"It was right after Nibbles died," Anastasia explained. "Rest in peace—and pieces—sweet valiant Nibblets. I mean Nibbles. Sandro and I both go out at night. I bribed him with pizza to make him talk to me."

Oh sure, butter me up with bad puns. "That was quite some time ago." And you have been rather exclusive companions since.

"Hey, Sandro's self conscious! I was going to tell you eventually," she giggled. Mr. Hamilton sighed silently, wagering he knew better. And he was about to be proven right:

Sandro, who had just loaded up another fork, suddenly turned and stared down at Anastasia. When Ana affected not to notice him, the boy narrowed his eyes at her and then—apparently—kicked her under the table.

"Wh- Ow! What was that for?!" Anastasia demanded half in advance of the actual kicking as Mr. Hamilton blinked between the two of them.

Sandro jerked his chin towards the other side of the table demonstratively. Mr. Hamilton raised a brow and waited. Is someone's perfectly balanced diversionary dance about to topple...?

Anastasia hesitated. She looked from friend to father, and then sat back and looked at her hands. "Okay, okay. Um. He was being chased by thugs, so I helped him out." Sandro cleared his throat. "He was being chased by three armed thugs." Turtle Stare. "Who were part of the local mafia." Stare. "And I killed them." Staarreee. She hugged herself. "One of them had a shotgun, which is how I heard them from so far away."

Joker was very quiet for a moment, mouth thin. Then he said: "You promised me."

Buttercup bit her lip. "I know," she mumbled defeatedly.

The Joker sat down his fork and made to stand but Sandro interjected: "She's been trying to work up the courage to tell you for weeks, sir."

Hands against the table, Mr. Hamilton was quiet for a moment. He looked back to Anastasia, who was cringed down in her chair and looked confused and slightly frightened about what to expect from him. He grimaced and shook his head. "Squirt, if you think I set rules for the fun of it, or because I've some well-hidden authoritarian bent, I'm going to be disappointed in your grasp of my character," he breathed out. "I want you not to die. I want to let you outside without feeling the need to shadow you against your knowledge. I want you to prove I can trust your judgement skills. And, most importantly, I want you to actually enjoy childhood while it's still lingering about to be enjoyed." He threw down his napkin, scooped up his half-finished plate, and turned to go to the sink and wash it off. Anything to get him away from the table, and from his terrified child.

She was more frightened of him than of gunshots. What priorities! (Though for anyone else it would have been spot-on—hey now, that's not helping, Inner Voice.) He'd barely ever even yelled at this ridiculous child across the whole scope of her life, much less swatted her! He'd spanked her once when she'd tried to upend a pot of boiling water on herself as a toddler. The threat of a spank was enough to drive home his meaning at every other point, no? Frustrated. Frustrated! What to say? Just wash dishes. Clean new dishes. Keep occupied. Do not throw things. Do not throw a fit. The house was small and there was no going outside at this hour. He'd just have to keep busy at the kitchen.

"I'm sorry," he heard Anastasia mumble, her voice thick as if she were on the verge of crying. "I didn't realize how stupid it was 'till a turtle was nearly falling on top of me, and then I saw they'd shoot him, and I couldn't've just... just run away or pretended I wasn't there. And we haven't gotten in trouble since, I'm being honest about that!"

Mr. Hamilton closed his eyes. Both times she'd done something dangerous (both times he'd found out about), she'd unexpectedly rescued someone. She had an uncanny ability to accidentally be in the wrong/right place at the right/wrong time. "Just... finish eating, and go play video games for awhile," he told her quietly. "We'll talk later, after you and I have both calmed down."

Sandro poked and prodded Ana into finishing her food, and then accompanied her into the living room when she finally gave up on the last few noodles. She turned the television on to a random news station, sat down on the floor in front of the couch to block all vision of the kitchen, and pushed the volume to max while she rummaged unseeing through a library of PlayStation games.

"So," Sandro whispered to her, "I'd give an arm and a leg for that reaction from my own dad." And not just because it had been delivered in an incredibly even tone, either, but because her dad had been able to explain himself and his anger in a clear way. Even Sandro, on hearing him talk that way, had wondered what his own family would feel if they'd known how much trouble he'd gotten into that day. Anastasia's lucky timing, unique skill set, and unintended element of surprise had probably–

"I know," she mumbled, voice garbled with what looked to be a lot of unnecessary guilt and dread. "You don't have to rub it in."

"–Ana... Wildcard. I've a serious question." And it had only just occurred to him to ask. She looked up at him uncertainly, her face heated up despite the fact that she hadn't even cried yet. "Wild, what did you see happen to me that night, a few steps into the future, if you hadn't shouted something and intervened?"

Her crumpled brows smoothed out, and her entire face mellowed into a strange sort of zoned-out expression. "I watched your head explode," she said slowly and matter-of-factly. "Or, well, implode? There wouldn't have been much left of it still holding together by the end, either way. It must have been a slug he was using, and not buckshot. Buckshot wouldn't have done that."

Sandro stared at her, stunned by her glaze-eyed way of transmitting this information. "Wild..." he began, humbled and unnerved, as an ugly realization slowly dawned. "Do you see yourself die a lot?"

"Every day," she agreed, still in some incredibly weird state of zen. "Every time I jump. Every time I stand at the crosswalk, watching traffic go by. Whenever I'm on the gymnastics beam. When I juggle knives. All the time."

He got the impression her father did not know that. It sounded bizarrely private, and like it belonged to an entirely different part of herself which other people didn't get to see. After an uncertain glance back towards the kitchen, Sandro came up to sit beside her and reached behind to rub her back and shoulder to try and pull her out of this fugue she seemed to have fallen into. "Thank you." She blinked at him uncertainly. "For saving my life. For being my friend."

Wildcard stared up at him in vague bafflement for a long moment. Then she jerked slightly, as if coming awake from a near dose-off. She took a slow breath, blinked rapidly, lowered her head, and then leaned heavily into him. He put his other arm around her and pulled her into tight squeeze. He could feel bouncy curls of hair under his chin.

Mine.

"You mad at me?" he asked her after a bit.

"No," she confessed. "Thank you for making me tell the truth."

He smiled fondly to himself, but perked up as he noticed something wrapped up just behind the PlayStation. He squinted at the rolls of material, and then looked down quickly through her stack of games. "You own Dance Dance Revolution," he realized.

"Oh, yeah, I love it," she said, rubbing at her face and sitting back up slowly. He released her. "It helps me train the same brain muscles as reading, actually."

He frowned at her. "Because of all the arrows blurring together?"

She nodded. "It's linked to sound and I sorta memorize the songs anyway, but it lets me hop around instead of keeping me stuck at a desk so I really like it. I keep buying new versions and trading the old ones in."

"We must immediately compete to determine who is the best," he informed her sagely. "There can only be one master of the dance."

Her eyes widened. Then a grin split her face again. "You are on," she growled excitedly, and reached for the bundled controllers.

When (very loud) electronica music spilled across the house, Mr. Hamilton did finally allow himself to look back across the kitchen and watch the children. They were turned away from him and trading taunts as they geared up for the first steps of what appeared to be single-combat-by-form-of-dance.

Anastasia had brought this boy home after weeks of silence, without a warning and without an apology. She'd immediately and blatantly flaunted the fact that she intended to tell him some things she truly oughtn't, and gone so far as to point out the glasgow smile. Then, exercising her charisma almost hamishly thick, she'd proceeded to steer every conversation to avoid any discussion of his martial training, extracurricular activities, or parents, as if—by force of personality and enthusiasm alone—she could get her father to play along and go 'Oh well, whatever, have fun!' (Which, to be fair, might actually have been within her list of capabilities).

But all of this she did as if no one's safety was at stake. As if they hadn't let Gotham because of a leak of information.

On the other hand... Mr. Hamilton looked from Anastasia to Sandro as the two of them stepped and stomped at an equally rapid pace through the opening lines of the song. He squinted thoughtfully.

...Clearly someone is a good influence on someone.