Disclaimer: I don't own anything that's owned by DC, amazingly enough. See, my name is not DC. Those aren't even my initials!

This is a CAT fic. As usual, I highly suggest that you start at the beginning (The Unkindness of Ravens, or "Posterity" for those with short attention spans.) The official timeline is available for easy access at www. freewebs. com / bitemetechie / catverse. html (make the spaces go away.) This story isn't on it yet, but it takes place after "Moose Tracks and Thankful Men."

Interview Skills

Recording of an interview between Mr. Desmond and the final job applicant, 1 October. Recovered from police vaults 13 October.

MD: Good afternoon, Miss…

JS: Smith. Jane Smith.

MD: Jane Smith?

JS: That's my name, don't wear it out.

MD: I…see. Miss Smith, I'll be blunt—why are you here?

JS: A job, what else?

MD: I doubt very much that you want to work for me. Any serious candidates for the job would have dressed professionally and learned to show some respect to a potential employer.

JS: Come on, I can't be the only one who came down here in jeans. There must have been at least a couple of people like me.

MD: Yes, as a matter of fact. Alice Jones and Nova Johnson—I take it they're friends of yours.

JS: Of course. We thought it would be fun to work together.

MD: Well, they didn't make it past the pre-screening. I don't suppose you'd like to tell me how you got through, with this joke of a resume?

JS: Hey, what's wrong with my resume? I have plenty of jobs listed, with dozens of perfectly reputable employers right here in Gotham.

MD: I can't help but notice that you never stayed at any of these jobs for longer than a week.

JS: No…but I have a perfectly good reason for leaving every one of those jobs. Like…the Tokyo Steakhouse? They never should have hired us in the first place. But I went down there with my friends, and Nova showed off her fancy spatula skills, and Alice charmed the pants off the guy with her fancy Japanese language skills, and I don't even want to tell you what I did, but they needed two cooks and a waitress, so they hired us.

Our first night on the floor, I was on grill one with the Wayne Enterprises business party, Nova was on grill two with the LexCorp party, and Al was running back and forth between us, filling drinks and trying to be friendly.

MD: What does this have to do with…

JS: I'm getting to it. You know how sometimes the chef will toss a piece of food into the air and you're supposed to catch it in your mouth? Well, it was my first time, and my aim wasn't great. I probably should have tried it with cold rice instead of hot shrimp. I flipped it right into Bruce Wayne's eye. The little pansy had to be rushed to the hospital, and that was it for me.

Then the Captain got a little too excited about setting things on fire.

MD: What Captain?

JS: Nova. She's a walking fire hazard. Of course, she had to wait until after the ambulance was gone. When everyone was distracted by her antics with the fire extinguisher, one of the LexCorp dudes groped Al, so she did the logical thing and shoved him face-first into the Captain's mountain of flaming onions.

MD: So you were all fired in one fell swoop?

JS: Yep! Funny thing is, though, not ten minutes after we left, Batman showed up. I hear something really brutal went down between him and Lex Luthor. We were lucky to miss it! Although I bet it would have been fun to watch…from a safe distance…

MD: That's all very interesting. Are you done wasting my time?

JS: No, not quite. I mean, there's got to be something else on that list you want to hear about. Ask me about the day I was a mall cop. That's totally relevant.

MD: All right. Tell me about your work in mall security. I have nothing better to do.

JS: Well, we were casing the place…

MD: Casing?

JS: You know, checking out the security, in preparation for a big robbery. No, don't get up. Let me finish the story. We were assessing the blind spots in the security camera setup, when we got a little…distracted by the arcade. Boss man wasn't too happy about that, but every once in a while he does come around to our point of view. Probably because he can't pick us up and carry us with him when we misbehave.

MD: Boss?

JS: Yes, of course we have a boss. You don't think we have the initiative to do all this on our own, do you? The urge, maybe, but not the motivation. But I bet you want me to wrap this up, don't you? Well, there we were in the mall arcade, and right inside the door was the mother lode—House of the Dead.

MD: Uh…

JS: You know, House of the Dead? Video game? Shooting zombies? It's a classic. Of course, the snot-nosed little kid playing it didn't know that. He probably saw those retarded movies and thought the game was some kind of crappy knockoff. That didn't stop him from making a total ass of himself, screaming out how great he was and how he dared any "real man" in the place to challenge him. And when no one came forward, he started singing the Daniel Boone song.

We couldn't let that go. I challenged the little pipsqueak, and he had the nerve to laugh. Can you believe that? I know female gamers are rare and all, but those of us who do exist are serious about it. You don't just assume that breasts cancel out any possible desire or ability for violence. Seriously. An assumption like that isn't just stupid, it's dangerous.

We all knew we had to beat the living crap out of the brat—preferably with a stick, but that kind of thing would have brought us to the security guards' attention, so we did it in-game instead. All three of us, in quick succession, whipped the pants off the kid. Then we invited him to come home with us if he wanted a real challenge. Squishy wasn't too happy about that, but he came around to our way of thinking when the brat called him "four eyes." We had to change our plans and make the mall robbery an inside job, but it was worth it. We may not have gotten what we went in for, but now we have House of the Dead in the kitchen. Gives Al a chance to get near certain appliances without Certain Doom.

MD: Um…

JS: Oh, right, the kid. So, he came home with us, and we played our own little game. And you haven't seen anything until you've seen a thirteen-year-old boy crying over a couple of missing fingers. Hey, he was lucky we didn't shoot off anything else important. Not that he would have known the difference by the time Squishums got through with him. Actually, I'm just glad he let us go first. We recently came into some…supplies…that never quite made it to the Army base, and we had to test them out on something.

I'll never forget the sight of Mon Capitan cuddling with her M-16. She's like Rambo, or…Forrest Gump, taking that thing apart and slapping it back together in ten seconds flat. And she taught us how to make MRE bombs. I'm always glad to learn about another form of explosives, but making them with Tobasco sauce just takes the cake. Those things are mean.

MD: Uh…

JS: Hey, looks like I've kept you entertained long enough. Don't even try to get up. You'll just fall on your face. Incidentally, if you survive this, you should consider upgrading your security. It shouldn't have been this easy to disperse an airborne toxin through your heating vents. How long have you been in Gotham?

MD: Muh…

JS: I know, I know, you didn't design the building. Still, you should have known about the weaknesses, and been a lot more suspicious about your job applicants. You should be glad I'm the one who passed the screening, though. Al couldn't take a neutralizing injection without doping herself up on Xanax beforehand, and then she'd be useless for the rest of the day. And the Captain is useless as a storyteller. Can't make words come right when she talks out loud. "They're all there, Captain; now you've got to get them in the right order." So, trust me, the plans they had in mind wouldn't have been nearly so amusing. For you, anyway.

MD: Umph!

JS: Didn't I just tell you not to try to get up? Didn't I say you would fall on your face?

MD: Uh…

JS: And look what happened. I swear, I'm surrounded by idiots. Listen, Desmond, you've managed to piss off a friend of mine, and since you don't want him to come down here in person, I suggest you just lie there and answer my questions. If you answer satisfactorily, you'll get off easy. We'll make this look like a routine robbery—you'd better have something shiny enough to make this worth my while, by the way—and as long as you keep your mouth shut, you won't have to go on paying for past mistakes.

Oh, and you might also want to keep your mouth shut about the "Squishy" nickname. The last person who heard about that and let it slip…well, I don't envy whoever had to identify the body. Poor guy.

Do I see a smile?

Um…Desmond?

Buddy?

Uh…

Oh. Crap. I wonder if he was allergic to penicillin…

Or maybe to something that was actually in that little cocktail. Hmm. Guess we'll have to torch the place…or lay the blame on Poison Ivy…yeah, that'll work.

Tell me you've got something shiny in the safe, D. Tell me this wasn't a total waste of my time.

Tell me if it's real…

Tell me what you feel in my love.

Tell me what you need.

Tell me you believe in my love.

Tell me what to give.

Tell me how to live for your love.

Tell me what you see.

Uh…and don't tell anyone I was singing that.

Author's note: Thank you for reading, and if you enjoyed this one, you'll lurve "Headstones of Henchgirls" by BiteMeTechie.