Title: Do Unto Others… : New Recruit

Author: DC Luder

Summary: Gotham City's protectors must defend it against a new predator.

Rating: M for language, violence and adult themes

Author's Note: All recognizable characters belong to DC Comics, not DC Luder.

A/N 2: This chapter has been modified from its original version.

^V^

Residence of Peter Placido, June 19th, 6:45 p.m.

Having left work at six, Pete had the remainder of the surprisingly warm and dry evening to himself. The house was immaculate, the dishes and laundry all clean and with no one to feed but himself, he had a meal of grilled steak and vegetables planned for later in the evening. It was nice when things were simple and quiet, when he could pretend that everything was all right.

Even though they closed at seven-thirty, Pete decided to make an impromptu trip to the lawn and garden store a few miles from his house. The rear deck needed a fresh coat of sealant and he was nearly out of fertilizer for the lawn and flowerbeds. The clear skies scheduled for that weekend made it ideal for him to catch up on work at home. He needed to cast his troubles aside and work on getting life back to the normal routine he thrived on.

Since he knew the store's layout by heart, it took him minutes to acquire the correct amount of sealant cans as well as two bags of the fertilizer. Pete even had a minute to spare to look over the knives in the locked display in the hunting section. He rarely went that far back in the store, namely because it was where the guns were kept.

Approaching the only open register, Pete allowed a young girl to go ahead of him since she was only buying a bag of dog treats. She grinned and thanked him and Pete forced himself to smile softly. He had never liked dogs, even as a child. There had been on in his neighborhood that had always chased him when he rode his bicycle home from school. His father had done nothing about it save for telling Pete that he needed to start solving his won problems.

The dog had never chased him after that. In fact he had never been seen again.

As the girl in front of him diligently paid in quarters, he mused to himself that at young age, they were manageable. Everything about them was genuine, their smiles, their laughter and their intent. When little girls talked to little boys, it wasn't as a means to ruin the lives of others, it was only to be kind and sociable. Not that any little girls had ever talked to him…

Pete sighed as he mused that it was as they grew older that they became a threat. Certainly many of them were able to lead normal lives by going to school and getting jobs and starting families of their own. They were the ones worthy of living. The others, the Whore, the ones that infiltrated the families and destroyed them in the blink of an eye…

Or the rapport of a handgun…

"Sir?"

The male cashier looked at him quizzically and it was then he realized he had been holding up the small line. Pete also realized that he had been squeezing the cart handle so tightly that his fingers throbbed when he eased the pressure. Without another word, he paid in full with exact change and then quickly left the store, knowing for sure that the eyes of the accusing were on him. He didn't like it when people stared at him like that.

Once he returned home, Pete unloaded his bounty in the garage, donning a pair of deerskin gloves before dumping the fertilizer into a small wheelbarrow. From there, he went about spreading the fertilizer over his recently cut lawn, churning it into the rich flowerbeds framing the entire house and then storing the remainder in the garage. The work itself was tedious and time-consuming, contradicting the lack of his personal desire to make his property presentable.

His mother had always said that there was no point living in a house if you didn't make it a home.

At a quarter of eight, Pete stepped into the house, flecks of grass and dirt in his hair and a light scent of hard work surrounding him. He immediately headed for the bathroom, stripping before stepping into the shower. Pete listened carefully as the water streamed over his body, caressing him as it made its way down to the smooth basin of the tub. Looking down at his feet, he watched as the dirty water ran off of him before circling down the drain.

Just like her blood had.

Pete began vigorously washing his hair, letting the hot water bear down on him, driving suds into his eyes. He had to focus on something.

Anything but the girl in the locker room, how she had been like a limp doll in his arms. How she hadn't fought back, called for help, even as he stabbed her, as he had violated her… It hadn't felt right. He hadn't meant to render her unconscious, in doing so, he had been unable to tell her why she was going to pay, why he had chosen her.

He had failed.

"Peter…"

"No…" he whispered back.

"Peter… she didn't pay… she didn't pay for her sins."

"I'm sorry," he said softly, "I…"

"Peter… what have you done?"

How many nights had he stumbled into the bathroom in wet pajamas, doing his best to not wake them? When his mother had been alive, he had sought her out for comfort after an accident. She would help him wash up and would change his bed for him on her good days. When she was in a bad set, she would simply let him sleep in her bed. After she had died, his father had been less kind.

He shuddered suddenly, thinking back on the disappointment and frustration in his father's face and voice, "Jesus, Pete, this is getting old"

Pete had always apologized and his father had done his best to hide his anger as he stripped wet sheets at two in the morning. He recalled one time after they had left home and moved to the city, Pete had asked if he could sleep in his father's bed. Even though he could tell his father had wanted to say yes, the Whore had refused, calling him a filthy queer who could soil his own bed, not hers.

And instead of defending his son, his father had sided with the Whore.

"Traitor," Pete mumbled as water from the showerhead splashed over his face.

"But it wasn't his fault, Peter."

Shutting the water off, he nodded, "It was hers."

"It was hers," his dead mother agreed with him.

Fourteen minutes later, he was dry and dressed in a pair of green flannel pants. Despite his long day, during and after work, Pete had lost his appetite. He settled on a simple meal of grilled ham and cheese sandwiches and canned vegetable soup. While waiting for it to come to a boil, Pete had looked to see had had messages on his answering machine.

The first had been a message from a "Laura" looking for "Tom" but wasn't sure if she had called the right number. He deleted it and went on to the next.

"Mr. Placido, this is Alicia Wont at the Human Resource department of Wayne Enterprises. I was just calling to confirm your continued interest in applying for a position on our security team. We have an opening for an interview on the twenty-first at four if you are available. Please call to confirm at 800-929-6368, extension 787. Than you and have a wonderful day."

Opportunity has knocked, he thought to himself as he memorized the number.

Returning to the kitchen, he allowed himself a slight smile. He was scheduled to work until six, but with Charles Morgan "owing" him a favor, it wouldn't be too much of a problem to leave early. To Wayne Enterprises. As with a good chunk of Gotham's citizens, he was all too aware of how prestigious employment at WE was. It was better pay, better benefits and exposure to better people. It would be a job his mother would have been proud of… or rather would be.

Over the grilled sandwiches and steaming soup, Pete let his mind drift. A new job, a purposeful job would surely impress his mother. Perhaps then, the urges would be easier to manage, not come so frequently or suddenly. He then brushed such thoughts aside as nothing would ever be enough to fulfill the promise he had made to her. A new job would do nothing to make sure others like him would not suffer at the hand of their kind.

There would always be those that hurt others.

There would always be those that were hurt.

And he would always have to be both.

^V^

The Clocktower, June 20th, 1:11 a.m.

"A what?" Robin blurted out.

I glanced over at him as he jumped off of the edge of one of Oracle's work counters. As a midpoint in patrols, I had her contact everyone in order to have a brief meeting at the Clocktower. To that point, I had been working alone on the case in question, finding no concrete evidence, definitive links between the victims or even a remotely plausible suspect. Enough time had passed that I had grown furious with myself for not making progress.

For needing help.

I repeated myself, "An FBI task force has been brought in, essentially taking over for Special Crimes. They'll be arriving tomorrow morning, so whatever evidence we need to obtain yet, must be taken care of tonight."

Barbara leaned back while Nightwing spoke cautiously, "As in evidence from the locked vault of the Gotham City Police department?"

I nodded in affirmation, and looked at Barbara, "You've given Batgirl the list?"

Robin's face still held a look of confusion, a smaller and more exaggerated version of the one on Nightwing's face. Both had been late in arriving at the Clocktower and had missed the previous discussion where I had outlined the objectives for the remainder of the evening. Fortunately, it did not entail either of their involvement so I clarified in shorthand, "I've assigned Batgirl to retrieve the needed information."

"Stolen evidence," Nightwing muttered.

I paused before continuing, "Oracle will be looking into the agents that are on the task force, which leaves you two setting up surveillance at the Regency. Twelfth floor suites are all reserved, I want eyes and ears everywhere."

Nightwing nodded but Robin opted to speak up, "… We're going to spy on feds? Can't I be the one that breaks into GCPD? At least that's not a federal offense."

I glared at him. Robin's mask wasn't able to hide the fact that he uneasy with his task, but even still, he would perform it to his best. Especially at the right hand of his ally. For the last week, Dick had been finding excuses to be in Gotham, most often shortly before patrols started. Barbara, on her own will, had called his precinct on Bludhaven to find out he had taken two weeks off for "family matters".

When she had reported her findings, Barbara had commented that it was a nice gesture.

I had agreed, but was quick to remind her that he had his own responsibilities, and that dedicating his time to Gotham would impede upon them.

"When you see Dick," she had said, "Just say 'thank you' and not some perversely well thought out insult."

I intended on thanking him. Later.

Batgirl, who had been quietly standing beside the window, waited intently for a signal to leave. When I looked to her, I said, "Bring everything to the Cave."

Without a word, she nodded and made a silent exit.

Nightwing then cleared his throat, "So, what exactly does 'everything' include?"

"Regrettably not much," Barbara answered for me, "Not much. We already have access to anything they've logged into the system, but before the feds can get their hands on the physical and trace evidence and ruin it…"

"What about the security footage from the Fitness Center? That leads anywhere?

I nodded, "Somewhat… Barbara has copied all of them so that I could hand the tapes over to Gordon… Barbara was able to match everyone checking in and leaving after the victim arrived. There was only one person who didn't match up," nodding to Barbara, she quickly brought the up the clip. It was brief, barely five seconds long, but it showed a dark clothed figure walking right out the front door, his face concealed by the collar of a turtle neck pulled up over his chin and a baseball cap set low over his brow.

When she paused it, capturing the obscure figure just as his gloved hand reached for the door handle, I explained, "The other footage puts this at the exact moment the witness found the body in the locker room."

A moment passed as Barbara let the clip resume, the person's face never appearing.

"That's him…" Robin whispered.

"Yes," I replied, "But as with the previous crime scenes, there is no trace evidence. The blood I found on the locker room floor belonged to the victim, I thought there was a foot print in the shower but it was just dried soap. Forensics has spent the last few days matching any trace DNA and prints to the fifty-six women that had been in the locker room that day."

"Still nothing form the bar, from the park…" Barbara sighed, "The feds will be revisiting all of the old crime scenes, for show more than anything else. No doubt they'll do interrogations of anyone that was at the bar and the gym, hassling completely innocent people instead of trying to pin down a suspect…"

"None of them were on both lists were they?" Nightwing asked. His involvement in the case to date had been light and erratic. Catching up on every detail from the last few months would take him most of his time off from work.

Barbara shook her head, "No. And at any rate, our mystery man wouldn't be on the list. It certainly rules out the cousin-slash-gym attendant. This guy was much taller, at least twenty pounds heavier."

"All muscle," Robin noted.

I nodded at Barbara and she was quick to point to a black duffle bag, "All of the cameras and bugs are read and programmed to activated by motion or sound. Batteries will have to be changed in fourteen days… hopefully we won't have to worry about that."

Waiting until Robin and Nightwing had departed, I looked to Barbara, "Your father is livid."

"I bet. He hates federal agents," she replied as she attacked one of her keyboards, "He, like you, does not play well with others… At any rate, I've been working on compiling everything, however minimal. Combined with the psychological profile, it hit's a few thousand paroled offenders living on the east coast, narrowed down to one-hundred twenty that live within a hundred mile radius of Gotham."

"That is if he doesn't live in the city itself."

She shrugged, although she didn't look up at me, "I don't think he does. I think, if he did, there would be more victims, that he wouldn't have wasted so much time before increasing his tempo. Kind of hard to picture someone like that being surrounded by young, pretty tweens all of the time and being able to resist temptation."

She had brought up the accumulated profile derived from the evidence, using a criminal profile we had on every major criminal and rogue. In place of a mug shot, she had used a still frame from the video footage. Twenty-five to forty-five year old male, some combat training, six-two, at least two hundred pounds, physically fit, blood type A, a possible victim of childhood trauma that lead him to have a hatred for women with an even stronger desire for control over them…

To punish them.

After she started looking into the airline passenger lists, checking to make sure our FBI friends were indeed arriving on time, I left Barbara to her work. Having already met with Gordon for the evening, where he primarily vented about the FBI, I intended to spend the remainder of the evening retracing the crime scenes, right from the very beginning. With the task force on the way, it would be my last chance to do so in private.

Another undesired aspect of federal involvement meant that Gordon and his Special Crimes unit would no longer be in charge of the investigation, forcing me to act even further outside of the law. After speaking with the commissioner earlier that evening, he had wished me the best of luck and issued his usual warning of being careful not to step on any toes if possible. I had very few run-ins with federal agents, and I intended on keeping it that way. Gordon had also promised to do what he could for me, which included having a birthday party on the third floor of Gotham City Police Headquarters, luring away the officers on guard duty for the massive evidence room.

Not that Cassandra wouldn't have been able to get in otherwise…

Tracing the crime scenes had been futile in the sense of obtaining evidence, but it was all I had left. Trying to mentally recreate the attacks back to the motive and then to the selection of his victims. Barbara was right, there was an endless supply of young, attractive women and so far he had selected girls with varying colored hair, eyes, different heights and ages, upper class, middle class, college graduates and high school seniors.

The only common denominator had been young, healthy Caucasian women, ready to begin their lives.

At a quarter of four, I found myself in the 'Mobile, parked in a service alley across from the First National Bank, listening to a surprising lull in scanner activity. In my years of work, I had handled numerous robbery attempts, most of which had been poorly planned and executed. A quiet beep sounded on the instrument panel, interrupting the silence of the vehicle and a moment later, Barbara's tired face was on the display.

I hoped silently that her efforts had not been as futile as mine.

"Well," she yawned before continuing, "I've spent the last two hours touring the FBI's computer records… and Special Agent In Charge Rich Caffery's e-mail... His preliminary profile is intensely focused on a sex offender being the suspect, not even remotely considering a psychopath."

After a beat, I countered, "It's an easy answer. This one is anything but… Sex offenders want to gratify their urges and desires, this one… he's not in it for the thrill. He wants the control, he needs it."

She nodded, "Well, I wouldn't call what he did last week as being in control."

"Something happened, something to upset him…"

Barbara nodded before saying, "Be interesting to find out what woman scarred him so badly, that he would need to do this. Even a mother spanking their kid one time too many or missing a football game couldn't possibly be enough to cause this…."

I suddenly flashed to my mother's smiling face.

Telling me that my father would be missing dinner.

Thanksgiving.

My birthday.

Barbara had suggested that a mother had been responsible for this killer's hatred of the opposite sex before, shortly after the victim in the park. The violent assault and complete disregard of covering up his acts suggested he felt they deserved their fate. I thought back on the countless young lives I had faced over the years that had been tormented through years of abuse.

It was quite possible that a young boy could grow up to be the monster he had feared as a child.

^V^

Wayne Manor, June 20th, 7:15 a.m.

As I sat in bed drinking a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee, I decided that Bruce Wayne would be taking a four-day weekend.

Setting the mug down on the breakfast tray Alfred had already brought up, I reached for my cell phone and called the Melinda. She answered, shocked given how early the time was, and asked, "What can I do for you?"

"I, uh… I can you have the Gulfstream ready this morning… I was thinking about taking a few friends to Aruba, you know, just for a few days. Maybe a week."

"Of course… I'll head into the office right now…"

"You're not there?"

"Mr. Wayne, it's seven in the morning?"

"That late?" I falsely exclaimed, "I had no idea, God, I'm so sorry Melinda… I thought it was like two in the morning…"

She paused before replying, "An honest mistake. I'll call the pilot right now and text you the details."

"You're the best."

"I certainly am."

Hanging up, I set the phone down on the bed beside me, catching myself looking at the empty space beside me. For so long, it had been natural for either Selina to stay at the Manor or for me to sleep at her penthouse. In the last few weeks, we had barely spent hours together let alone entire nights. If only the trip to Aruba wasn't a ruse, if only Selina and I were actually leaving for a random paradise getaway…

Bruce Wayne would be making it to the airport that morning but he would not make his flight, nor would his imaginary guests. In fact, Bruce Wayne would be calling the pilot minutes before scheduled take-off and tell him to treat himself with the trip and next few days off. With the agents arriving around nine, I would be occupied observing them instead of boarding my personal jet. After patrols, I had Barbara contact the others to have them be ready first thing in the morning for undercover assignments. The investigation team's first day in Gotham would be second only to their last day.

Cassandra already agreed to meet me at the airport with Tim, in their own disguises, and we would then stake out various spots to keep an eye on and then divide them amongst ourselves. Dick had agreed to stakeout police headquarters, guised as himself in uniform under the false pretenses that he and Barbara were there visiting her father. Including SAIC Caffery, there were five federal agents coming to Gotham to do make a somewhat legitimate attempt to catch a predator.

Caffery's name had sparked a few memories of a usually ferocious and victorious agent who had specialized in the most violent cases he could get involved with. Returning to the Cave after patrols, I had spent a good hour reading up on him, skimming through newspaper articles, new footage as well as the dossier Barbara had compiled. As I had anticipated, he had been behind thirty-six apprehensions of violent offenders, eleven of which had the suspect ending up in a body bag instead of handcuffs.

And he was bound for Gotham…

Alfred rapped on the door softly before entering the bedroom. He scowled slightly at the uneaten omelet before asking, "Seeing how we have chosen to skip the most important of meals, might one inquire as to what is in store for the day?"

I had left a note on his door to wake me at seven in the morning, something I had never asked of him. He had done so, promptly at the hour directed, with a tray of warm breakfast and hot coffee. Knowing that my sleep deprived state of mind would not be open to conversation, he had managed to contain his inquiries until I had least had caffeine. I took a bite of the cold omelet to appease him before explaining the basics of my plan.

He nodded curtly, taking the tray when he was satisfied that half of the plate was cleared, "A formidable plan, sir. I shall fetch the necessary supplies from the Cave."

When Alfred left, I rose to my feet, stretching my back, arms and legs before crossing the open room. After a quick shower and shave, I stepped out of the bathroom to see that Alfred had already selected a pair of worn khakis, scuffed loafers and thin turtleneck from the costume vault in the Cave, along with a scruffy tweed coat that had seen better decades. As I donned them, Alfred appeared once more, carrying a large stainless steel tote containing a world-class costume make up kit.

Given that I already had the scholarly look going, I went about selecting a pair of thick eyeglasses with dark rims and bifocals. Although thick as the bottom of a soda bottle, they were clear and had no affect on my vision. I then decided that my thick black hair looked hardly intelligent and chose a wig which not only featured frizzy gray hair, but also added four inches to my forehead.

Standing before the bathroom mirror once more, I began applying a light coverall that paled my complexion slightly and also blended my skin tone with that of the wig. Alfred busied himself by mixing a temporary coloring mixture that would match my eyebrows to that of my new do. While I applied it carefully, he asking, "Will we be requiring a nose job, sir?"

I shook my head looking at the nearly unrecognizable face in the mirror, "I think this is more than enough… although…" After a brief search in one of the compartments, I found a set of contact lenses and promptly inserted them, turning my icy blue eyes to a rich hazel color.

"Dashing to the last, Master Bruce," Alfred remarked.

I ignored him and sprayed too much Old Spice on my neck before finally donning the tweed coat. Before leaving the bedroom, Alfred retrieved a worn leather shoulder bag and from the bed and offered it to me. Although I offered, he refused to hand over the makeup tote, carrying it back down as he followed me into the Cave. I took a moment to pack up long distance recording devices into the bag's front pocket along with a mobile comm. link that looked like a cell phone hands free device.

Stepping out of the costume vault, I spotted Alfred as he stood poised with a small stack of hardcover books. Before I could ask, he said, "An intellect without his books is as practical as a king without his crown."

I offered him a smirk of gratitude and then secured the books in the bag. The titles on the spines were of animal anatomy and physiology, one of which had a tiger bounding through snow on the cover, subtle as ever. As with any undercover operation, I used one of several vehicles that were not registered under my real name. The 1999 green Honda Divic with more than enough dings and scratches to betray the mere thirty-thousand miles on the odometer. Throwing the bag in the passenger's seat, I looked through the window to see that Alfred had already departed.

Bypassing the James Memorial Highway, I took a quiet county route around the city to the airport, giving me additional time to finalize my disguise mentally. It wasn't nearly as in-depth of a stakeout as when I acted under the alias of Matches Malone or tried to infiltrate organized crime as a fake felon, but it didn't hurt to practice. Within miles, I was in the mindset Adjunct-Professor Alex Buckhout, formerly of GSU's prestigious animal science division. I repeated this idea over and over in my head while driving three miles under the limit, ready to brake for any animal crossing.

The first sign of life after leaving Bristol had not been that of the furry type, but a lone jogger. He was fairly tall and appeared to have been going at it for some time given the sweat that drenched the back of his tee shirt. I waved while driving by the curly haired man but he showed no sign of acknowledgement. I clearly understood the focus that drove him, for when I worked, all interruptions were ignored.

Traffic picked up just before the exit for the airport and my slow driving irritated those behind me. Once on the ramp, it was only a quarter of a mile before the main entrance. From there, it was impossible to miss the expansive paved runways that sprawled for miles on the right side of the road. Jets taking off and landing uttered deafening roars from above and I waited until I had found a spot before giving the pilot the okay to leave without me.

I was the first to make the meeting point, which happened to be a small coffee lounge just to the left of the American Airway check-in counter. We all had tickets for random flights, along with fake identification good enough to get into the White House let alone airport security. The small tables were relatively empty and I actually managed to find one with three chairs. An exhausted waitress no taller than five foot approached me and took my order for a large decaf with skim milk and any muffins they had that had berries, but not blueberries,

As she left, I had to fight back a smirk.

Given that they weren't public figures, Tim and Cassandra did not have to go through the same lengths to disguise themselves. Although I had seen them in social settings in casual dress before, it had been far too long. In fact, I couldn't honestly say when the last time had been that I had been in their company when they hadn't been wearing masks.

Tim wore a navy blue Boston Redsox hat along with baggy blue jeans, form fitting gray tee shirt declaring he was a member of the Church of Hot Addiction. Cassandra had also taken on the role of a young, carefree teenager with hip hugging stonewashed shorts that were barely six inches in length and a fitted burgundy tee shirt. They casually scanned the small sitting area, obviously confused when they were unable to spot me.

I waited until they were standing mere feet away with their backs towards me before remarking, "Go Bosox," in a soft New England accent.

Tim turned back, did a double take and then smiled before sitting down with me and Cassandra stared briefly but was quick to look beyond the disguise up close. When my order arrived, the waitress offered to get them something and Tim politely refused. Alone, we quickly and quietly discussed the various points of the arrival bay that could be watched, along with the work that needed to be done throughout the day before patrols started. Tim volunteered for the terminal gate, Cassandra opted for the luggage claim, which left me with the main exit into pickup lane.

After adjusting his hat, Tim commented, "Good thing I skipped school for this…"

"We need to see how they function as a unit. To see if they are going to help or hinder this investigation."

Cassandra finally spoke, "Should help. Right?"

"Ideally, yes. But I'd much rather we see this to the end rather than let this fall into their hands. Caffery has a history of using lethal force… After all this man has done, he deserves to be punished, but not like that."

Rising to my feet, I left a ten dollar bill on the table and left.

^V^

Wayne Enterprises, June 21st, 3:40 p.m.

"Sir, may I see a form of identification, please?"

Pete had just pulled up to the security booth at the entrance of the visitor's parking lot. Even though he had arrived precisely at what time he had planned to, he still felt rushed and fumbled as he retrieved his driver's license to the man garbed in blue. As the card was reviewed, he took a chance to look over the guard. Big, burly, with a grim face that would steer any one with impure thoughts aside. Exactly the kind of power he desired.

Pete found himself explaining that he was there for a job interview at four in the afternoon.

"Very well, if you would put this on your dash," the guard handed over the license and a pink card that read "Visitor: 6/21", "And pull into the visitor's lot on the other side of those trees."

As he placed the card as directed, Pete asked, "Where would I find Human Resources?"

"Take the elevator in the main lobby, get off on the third floor and take a right. There will be a welcome sign that will take you to the HR lobby."

He paused, nodded then drove off. Parking was a challenge given how full the visitor lot was and he had to navigate several rows before finding a space. With one last look in the mirror, he brushed back his hair with his hand and tried a soft smile, surprised at how calm he looked given how anxious he felt. With an updated resume in hand, he took the keys out of the ignition, locked up and headed for the glass doors of the main entrance.

Everywhere he looked, gold emblazoned WE's marked doors, direction signs and even the stone ground he walked on. So lavish and yet tasteful. Their flowerbeds were overflowing with a wide variety of colorful flowers, budding hedges and decorative grasses. Nothing but the best for the best.

The main lobby drew a breath from him. The room itself was cavernous, the ceiling easily two and half stories high. The floors were done in glossy marble, matching the columns and wall paneling. After he took a breath, Pete walked quickly towards a bank of elevator doors and pressed the up button. The doors opened almost immediately and revealed an empty car. Stepping in, he selected the third floor and then rode up alone and in complete silence.

Reaching his destination, Pete turned right as directed and followed a corridor with the beautiful marble flooring and slate blue wall treatments from ceiling to floor. Not a few strides down the hall, he found the overhead sign welcoming him to the Human Resource department. The waiting area was lavishly furnished with over stuffed couches and in the corner, a small kitchenette with self-serve gourmet coffee and snacks. Having an uneasy stomach from his nerves, he simply headed straight to the receptionist desk and said, "I'm Peter Placido, Alicia Wont scheduled a four o clock interview."

The woman seated behind the desk tapped on a keyboard after offering him a warm smile, "All right. I'll inform her that you've arrived."

He nodded in acknowledgement, paused, and then decided to have a seat. She had seemed nice enough, the only visible jewelry had been a gold wedding band and a matching necklace around her neck. He had expected someone younger but she was easily in her forties, gray hairs creeping into her short auburn waves. Pete smiled as he thought that she even had her blouse buttoned to the top.

A respectable woman, his mother would have thought.

"Mr. Placido?"

He looked up to see a door to the side of the front desk had opened and revealed a tall, leggy woman dressed in a knee length black skirt and a teal silk blouse. He stood and approached her, displeased to see she was over run with jewelry, rings, bracelets and a diamond necklace. Her perfume was rich and overwhelming and her makeup was heavy and overdone. Her hand was warm and soft as he shook it, and he did his best to smile instead of strangle her.

"Hi, I'm Alicia."

"Peter Placido," he offered along with the resume. She took it, her fingers just brushing his. A jolt of warmth ran through him and he nearly jerked from it.

"If you're all set, we can step into the interview room and get started." After his curt nod, she held the door open for him and then led the way down a narrow hall.

After opening a door on the left hand wall, she ushered him into a small conference room with a round table and six chairs placed equally apart. After he took a seat, she sat a

chair away from him and scanned the document he had given her, the smile never leaving her face. He reminded himself that it was her job to be overtly friendly, that if he could just get through the next hour…

"I must say, your experience in the field is extensive. What interested us was your studentship at the Police Academy. Did you leave for any specific reason?"

Pete answered the question just as he had countless times before, "I thought I had wanted to become an officer. But they don't prevent problems, they just handle them after."

"Good point. Even still the education you received there has shown to be very beneficial. My brother-in-law, Michael, is the assistant manager of the First National and had nothing but the best things to say about you."

"Mr. Miller?"

She nodded, "Yep, he said you were one of their best guards, that he would be said to see you leave. Have had any problems at the bank?"

Pete shook his head, "I feel I've been there long enough… time to move on to something better. Something new."

"You seem to have a very steady work record, none of your previous employers wanted to see you go," she grinned at him.

"A compliment, I suppose."

He breezed through the remaining questions about his job history and education, which grew increasingly tedious. She then changed to personal questions and Pete felt his stomach flip, "As a member of the WE Security team, you would be responsible for working a wide variety of shifts, often on short notice. Does this comply with your personal life?"

"I live alone," he replied, "So I'm free to work whenever I'm needed."

"I see. And I see here that you live just outside of the city limits. WE has an excellent commuter incentive program to encourage employees to utilize public transportation…"

Pete nodded and commented on how the idea was wonderful although he had no intentions of ever letting anyone drive him anywhere.

"Also, WE is very keen on keeping this a drug free facility. By accepting the position, you will be submitting yourself to random drug testing, as stated on your application."

Pete nodded, "Fine by me."

"Great. Well, we would also require you complete a training and evaluation period, paid of course, on top of a regularly scheduled shift. When would your date of availability be to begin that period?"

"Monday," Pete replied. Rather than suffer through the tedious two-week period of saying goodbye to fellow employees he could have cared less about, Pete had been fairly direct with the HR representative of the bank saying he was done at the close of business that day. Charles Morgan had already agreed to help cover Pete's hours until a temporary or permanent hire could fill the opening.

"Fantastic," she stood and offered her hand again, "Well, Mr. Placido, pending a clean drug test and uniform fitting, welcome to Wayne Enterprises."

Before leaving, Pete filled out the requisition form for new uniforms. He had asked about a service weapon but was pleased to discover that no guns were permitted on the grounds. He had also received a folder that included a collection of documents he had to sign for health insurance in addition to an employee hand guide. Pete agreed to be there at eight sharp on Monday morning to begin orientation.

As she guided him to the front doors, he asked, "Is Mr. Wayne in the building?"

She laughed rudely and he almost sneered at her, "Not on a Friday afternoon. Actually, you'll be lucky if you see him in your first month here. He's not one for keeping regular hours, but when he does come in, he's holed up on the top floor in his office."

On his way home, he stopped at a small grocery store and bought items to make spaghetti. Friday nights had always been pasta night growing up and he enjoyed carrying on the tradition, even if it was only for himself. While the pasta boiled and meatballs bubbled, Pete felt an eerie calm come over him. The silence of the house didn't unnerve him, in fact it was pleasing.

Plate in tow, he sat in the living room in order to watch the news. After a few bites and a third of a glass of milk, he felt her presence. Before she could say anything, he did, "They liked me, they accepted me."

"How can you be sure?" her ragged voice replied.

"They don't know. They don't have to. It's a new start, a new life."

Her voice came, "They know, Peter. They all know what you are. I don't want you to get hurt-."

The news anchor seemed to speak more loudly as he announced, "Special Agent Rich Caffery and his team of federal agents are well underway in beginning their investigation into the series of ritualistic murders that have taken place over the course of the last year. As many Gothamites now, the police have been trying to track an unknown suspect responsible for the brutal deaths of six young women. The involvement of the FBI is only the latest development in this investigation, of which has yielded little if any incriminating evidence despite months of forensic evaluation. Special Agent Caffery is shown here arriving at Gotham City police headquarters this morning-."

"They can't hurt me," Pete said softly, "No one can."

^V^