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Pen waits for somebody to come find her. She knows abstractly that this can go on for years, but she's still alarmed, when it turns out it's going to take more than a week.

At least there is Cindy, even though he isn't her real daddy. Cindy is fun and makes tasty food and brings her presents to keep occupied with and doesn't mind that she draws on the walls and likes it when she sings and takes her to the place with room to fly most days, and lets her paint him pretty. Pen makes elaborate K'nex structures, becomes quite adept at piloting her helicopter (it has room to fly even inside the apartment), and improves at drawing. She learns the lyrics to a lot of Queen songs. She does not go in the dangerous room or out the dangerous door; she's safe but Mommy isn't here to safe Cindy too and Pen can't do it because she's not a mint. She can do other things, though. She can play and read and eat waffles and paint Cindy.

She paints him most of the time, now, and she sings while she does it.
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Tonight, not for the first time, he needs to be painted after dark; he has business with the unfriendly people again. So he brings his makeup out to where Pen is playing in the living room.

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Pen puts down her K'nex and goes to sit on him for easy access to his face without skipping a beat in the chorale she's singing. Paint paint paint!

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He is going to be so pretty.

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Opinions may differ on that.

They are interrupted by someone crashing through the closed window.
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Pen jumps at the sound, making a smear across Cindy's forehead. "Eek!" she squeaks, twisting around in his lap to look past her wings at the intruder.

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The intruder is a man in dull black armour, a black mask with short pointed ears or horns standing up from the top of his head, and a long black cape. He stares at them, frozen with surprise, crouched on the floor amid the spray of broken glass.

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"Batsy!" exclaims Cindy, half delighted, half admonishing. "Not that I'm not thrilled, but you could've picked a better time."

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The costumed man growls.

"Who is this," he says flatly.
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"Cindy, this your friend who find people?" asks Pen quizzically.

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"Nope," says Cindy. "This is Batman. And Iiii would just love to know what - he's - doing here."

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"Break window," observes Pen. "That what he do here."

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"Mm, but why," he says, "that's the question. I haven't even hardly done anything - not like lllast time."

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Batman growls again. It seems to be his only setting.

"Public graffiti," he says, still in that harsh voice with that same flat angry stare. "An office worker with mob ties. You were sending a message. To who?"
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He smiles.

"Not to you," he murmurs. "And yet - here you are. I'm al—most—touched."
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"You ruin voice talking growly, not sing pretty," Pen advises Batman.

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(Cindy - the Joker - giggles.)

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"Huh," says the Joker, regarding Batman thoughtfully. "You just don't know what to do with yourself, do ya?"
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Well. No. He really doesn't.

The Joker has a small child in his apartment. On his lap. Doing his makeup. She seems perfectly happy to be there. (If she were scared, this would be much easier to handle.)

She has wings.



After a long moment, he says (still in that growly voice): "He's a killer, you know." Just in case she doesn't. Just in case she cares.
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"Mommy fix it later," shrugs Pen.

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"...He set a man on fire," says Batman, a hint of incredulity in his customary growl.

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"She fix it," asserts Pen. "Or other Mommies fix it. Mommies fix stuff."

(But she does draw her wings a little closer to herself when he says "fire".)
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"Some things can't be fixed."
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"Sure," says Pen. "That not one."

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His eyes flick up to the Joker's half-painted face.

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