Author's Note:
Though it's been a while, I welcome you back.
Just to clarify, I follow the timeline of the DCAU that was posted on DCAU Resource - it's an unofficial timeline, but it's the one I accept. I say that just to make clear that this story-arc, Recruitment, takes place from June to July of 2002, starting mere days after the events of the last episode of Justice League, Starcrossed Part III. The official formation of the League, the day that Green Arrow comes up to the Watchtower in the first episode of Justice League Unlimited, is August 2, 2002. Dates in this story can be important, as they can reflect real-world events.
I do have the rest of the foreseeable future of this story planned out, so I'll be eager to get there when I do. Sorry for the long wait between chapters, and hope you enjoy Recruitment Part III. Please leave a review or send a PM if interested.
I do not own DC, nor do I work for anyone else at the moment.
Atop the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, facing Brooklyn, B'wana Beast stood tall in deep thought, the wind fiercely blowing around him.
The Mac Ballers are moving heroin sometime this week. This much he knew from a street acquaintance. However, as far as the route was concerned, B'wana Beast hadn't been able to discover that for sure. Rumor had it, though, much of the heroin the Mac Ballers possessed was sold in and around Maria Hernandez Park, which is what pissed off the generally flippant hero the most.
My damn backyard, for Pete's sake, he thought for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, his features, had anyone been able to see him, etched in fury.
If B'wana Beast had been able to get more concrete evidence of the Mac Baller's involvement, he might even have brought in the police, but as it was, he was taking this new knowledge rather personally.
Two ambulances, followed swiftly by a single NYPD squad car, passed below, their shrill sirens bringing B'wana Beast back down to Earth. Peering downward at the source of the sirens, he muttered to himself, "Somebody going ta emergency, somebody's going ta jail."
For ten minutes more, he stood there, his mind close to blank, just staring over the whole of Brooklyn, occasionally focusing in on Bushwick, his own neighborhood. God, he thought, Bushwick's in such bad condition. Hell, I guess almost every neighborhood in the city is. Amazingly, though, as B'wana Beast slowly began his descent down the bridge, he still loved this city. Pride, almost indescribable, filled up his chest when he thought about it.
My home has had enough jackwads messing with it recently, he angrily thought, and shuddered, trying to block out the screams that still haunted him to this day. There's no way in hell these damn gangbangers are screwing it up even more.
And though B'wana Beast had never, in his career as a costumed hero, went after a gang, one thought repeated in his mind. They're going down.
On the three-hour walk back to his apartment, B'wana Beast wondered how exactly to go after the Mac Ballers. That, and he prevented three purse thieves and two pick-pocketers from getting away, plus interrupted an armed robbery attempt at Ginger's, of all places.
Crossing Jefferson and Wilson mindlessly, mostly ignoring the catcalls he was receiving from those around him (insofar as Bushwick and surrounding neighborhoods were concerned, he was a bit of a legend) he suddenly heard, "¡Hola, Señor Beast! ¿Cómo estás?"
B'wana Beast looked back, and Carlos, a street acquaintance, was running to catch up with him. "Bien gracias, I think," he replied, his voice gruff. "I was never no good at that Spanish stuff."
"Está bien, está bien," Carlos said, smiling at him. "Hungry," he asked, motioning his head to L.A. Burrito, a Spanish restaurant just ahead of them. "Come in. I buy."
"Hey," B'wana Beast replied hesitantly, "I don't wanna impose or nothing-"
"No, no," Carlos politely protested, "You save me from that mugger months ago. This can be," he paused for a split second, clearly in thought, "repayment, no?"
"Don't that joint," B'wana Beast began, motioning to the restaurant ahead of them, "have a sign 'No shirt, no service' or something like that?"
Carlos looked at the hero's bare chest and shrugged. "Estarían locos para que negar el servicio, señor. You help every person in this neighborhood all the time. You're a Godsend."
For the first time that day, it felt, B'wana Beast smiled. "Thank you," he replied, "that really means a lot."
And it did. As he walked with Carlos into the restaurant, the sentiment continued to resonate with him, even through the leery glares the owners of the restaurant were giving him.
He also thought of a way to approach the brewing trouble of the Mac Baller Brims. His experience was limited with this type of stuff, but after listening to Carlos' growing concerns about the gang's power in the neighborhood, something B'wana Beast had missed somehow, he knew he had to tackle the problem.
Nothing wrong with starting tomorrow, the hero considered. I'll tackle them so hard, they ain't never getting up again.
However, sometimes, often even, life doesn't work out as planned, as he was awoken the next morning, at the early hour of 3:39 am, by his pager.
He jerked upward and, wearing only boxers, groggily went downstairs and grabbed the old, rotary phone on the wall, quickly dialing a number in the pitch black conditions of his crappy apartment.
"Hey, Mike, get your ass over heah. There's a big one over in Hollis. Dave is yanking almost everyone in," the voice on the other line said without delay.
"Alright already, Jim," he replied with a groan. "I'll be over there as soon as I get dressed."
"You could come as is," the voice replied, his New York accent, amazingly so, thicker than even Mike's, "maybe put the fire out instantly."
"Get outta here, ya wisenheimer," Mike countered, though a thin smile came onto his lips. "Give me a few – I'll be there."
Mike sighed and hung up the phone, Jim already having done so seconds earlier. Sure, being a firefighter was perhaps one of the most rewarding careers he could think of, but that combined with his costumed-hero routine, well, it just drained him some days.
Not two minutes later, Mike Maxwell, now fully dressed, was driving his '96 Jeep Cherokee through the less busy (it was never completely calm in NYC, Mike knew, as he lived most of his life there) streets, heading to the fire station in Queens.
I sure hope it's not as bad as Jim made it sound, he thought, though he knew it'd be hopeless to consider such. When everyone gets the page, another friend of his once said, might as well buy your wife expensive jewelry, cause you're not going back home 'till the last flame's out. Mike cringed at this memory – the friend in question died less than a year ago in front of him.
He shook his head, blotting out the face that was swarming into his mind. Back ta the mission, he thought quickly. Don't need to think about that now. Think about the Mac Ballers.
Best case scenario, he contemplated, turning his thoughts to the fire that he's going to face, we're done by 10:00 am. Won't get back to Bushwick 'til 11:00. Damn it.
Though Mike full-well knew that at any moment he could get a page, he honestly hoped that today would be clear. He had intended to, at 6:00 am that morning, go out to Maria Hernandez Park, costume and all, to scout the area out. He didn't expect to make contact with the Mac Baller Brims; nonetheless, if he did happen to have the chance, it'd have been nice to maybe see the gang in action, and take note of what members were trolling his streets.
Later, then, he forced himself to think, then, perhaps because he was still partly tired, broke into loud, boisterous laughter. "Not like I can do anything else," Mike said to himself through his heavy chuckles.
The laughter continued all the way to Queens, dispersing unheard by others into the inky night.
Though he hadn't meant to, and he even told himself before he got home to avoid this behavior, Mike had leapt onto his bed from a room away. He landed on target without issue; however, the sudden weight caused one of the bed's legs to give out, and a rather loud thud followed.
On the now-slanted bed, Mike Maxwell was almost already unconscious. While he's had harrowing times before (in both of his career fields), today was a dozy. Worse, he hadn't been able to get back to his apartment until almost 2:00 pm, and he was far too bushed to even consider going out incognito.
He let a large yawn out. The best laid plans and all that, he thought. Seconds later, he drifted off, and after five minutes, he was completely out, lying on his slanted mattress, snores escaping him already.
There were days in which B'wana Beast knew he could juggle both his careers; in fact, for the most part, he handled it pretty well. As aforementioned, though, sometimes days don't go as planned.
The hazy Thursday morning air crept into Mike's apartment, through a cracked window he still had yet to repair, and though he hated himself immensely for putting himself through this, Mike Maxwell stood up, his whole body sore.
He sighed, and without so much as a delay, began rummaging for his costume, or more specifically, his loincloth, as his boots and helmet were stored at the foot of the bed as usual.
Oh, great, he groaned, as he saw his newly-damaged bed. Like I really have the time to fix that up. Shaking his head, he pulled off his clothes, and donned his superhero identity. With a final sigh, he went to the back of his apartment, and leapt down the rickety fire escape.
The sun had just began to rise as B'wana Beast reached Maria Hernandez Park. As expected, save for a few elderly folks, the park was empty, which he was glad to see.
The plan was simple, yet, at the same time, B'wana Beast felt it was slightly stupid. He thought, as he began climbing, I can't believe I'm staking out this place in a flippin' tree.
But nonetheless, he did. Agilely, he crouched on a low tree branch, watching over the early morning activities of the park.
An hour passed eventless. And another. Speaking to birds only gave him so much entertainment, and more bothersome, that last Eurasian curlew was giving him far too much sass than he felt he could take in his worn-out state. An almost unbearable ennui struck him, and he thought, I can only take so much more of this. An hour more tops, and I'm out. Feeling guilty, he realized that he could be better spending his time on other matters. If worse comes to worse, he'd just come out again tomorrow morning.
Stretching his arms out and yawning, he glanced toward the Suydam Street entrance of the park and saw, for the first time all morning, something potentially promising. A twenty-something year-old kid, with ridiculously large earrings, strolled slowly into the park alone, glancing around him. He sat at a bench facing B'wana Beast, completely oblivious to the figure watching over his every motion.
The hell is a white kid doin' up this early here, the hero considered, staring hard at the young man. The fact that the kid was Caucasian was suspicious, as the large majority of Bushwick was of Latino descent. The thing that bothered B'wana Beast more, though, was the fact that despite his age, he was up at this early hour.
It's summertime for Pete's sake, shaking his head in disgust. If I was still twenty, I wouldn't be up 'til half past noon.
The young man then patted his left pocket, as if checking for something, and B'wana Beast distinctly saw the outline of a bag of some sort. Likely heroin, but even if it's not, the kid's holdin'. Selling stuff in my neighborhood.
He clenched his right fist. Now B'wana Beast was angry. Just yesterday, while eating with Carlos, Carlos bemoaned the decreasing safety of the neighborhood. His son had turned ten three weeks prior, and Carlos was worried he'd join some gang if things were still bad in years to come. B'wana Beast, as best he could, comforted his friend, telling him that Bushwick was sure to improve.
Staring down at this young man, with some type of narcotics on him, B'wana Beast realized nothing would get better if the Mac Baller Brims kept their firm hold on NYC. His face grim, he turned his gaze from the boy and looked around the park, making sure few were around. Luckily, save for this soon-to-be unlucky man and a group of older ladies birdwatching, Maria Hernandez Park seemed empty.
Well, he mused, if Batman can do it, so can I.
With that, B'wana Beast leapt from the tree toward the young man on the bench.
In a remote alley a few blocks from the park, B'wana Beast was torn between amusement and annoyance that the young man he was holding over his shoulder was still screaming profanities, as he had been ever since he first tackled him.
While not one to generally interrogate suspects, he knew that special occasions called for special measures. Hence, he pinned the young man against the wall, and quickly pulled out the bag of heroin from the man's pocket. He threw it to the ground in disgust.
"The hell is wrong wit you, man," the guy yelled, clawing at B'wana Beast's right hand. "Let me go now or I'll-"
"Just stop with your yapping," B'wana Beast forcefully said. "I just have a few questions, and then you'll be free to go. Capisce?"
The young man looked at him, with both confusion and anger. B'wana Beast sensed a little fear also.
"Are you with the Mac Baller Brims," the hero asked slowly, trying to emulate a threatening voice.
"No, man," he replied, quickly. "I just sell on my own. I don't work for nobody."
"Ya wanna try again," B'wana Beast replied. "'Cause if you're lying, and I found out – well, things could get mighty ugly."
The young man gulped, and before long, said, "Fine. I'm not a member. That's true, I swear to God. But my brother-" he stopped, the look of pained betrayal on his face.
"Your brother is a Mac Baller," B'wana Beast asked. "Just nod ya head."
"Ye-yeah, he is," the young man stammered, obviously shaken. "I got that stuff from him so I could make my own dough. I'll stop though, I promise. I won't do it no more."
"What's ya name," the hero replied. "I ain't gonna go through your pockets any more. Just be honest and this'll all be over."
"Micah," he replied swiftly. "My brother's Marcus. Please, I won't do this again. Just let me go."
B'wana Beast stared at this pitiful begging, torn. "Okay, listen up," he replied, "I'll let ya go, on one condition."
Micah nodded his head frantically, and replied, "Sure, whatever you want, man."
"I want to meet up with you tomorrow morning. Same place – Maria Hernandez. And you'll tell me a time and location of a Mac Ballers meet-up. Any of 'em, I don't care. You don't come here tomorrow with that piece of information, and I'll screw up your life so much you'd think you were a neo-Nazi ovah in the Bronx. Ya hear me?"
Trembling all over, Micah nodded again. B'wana Beast let him go, and he crumbled to the ground. He looked up at the hero and got up as quickly as possible. Micah then began running.
Worked out pretty well, B'wana Beast thought, watching Micah scampering away. Scared the crap outta him with my Batman routine. Gonna have to try that again someday. He grinned, albeit darkly. If the kid can get me what I want, then maybe this whole thing will be tied up by tomorrow, at least as far as Bushwick is concerned. Let the NYPD take care of the bosses. If I can stop that garbage from entering my neighborhood, I've won.
With that positive thought in mind, B'wana Beast began walking back home, in all likelihood, to catch a few more winks.
He did so without trouble.
The factory, long-since abandoned, looked almost spooky against the shimmering light of the moon. Doesn't help matters that it's getting chilly, B'wana Beast thought, shivering. At times like this, he'd wished he had a shirt component to his costume.
It was approximately 38 hours later, nearing 11:00 pm. B'wana Beast stood where he's been standing the last hour and a half – on an unused fire escape facing the building in which three to eight members of the Mac Baller Brims were meeting tonight. At least, according to Micah.
There's no way in hell the kid's lying ta me, he reassured himself, sure he was right. It ain't no setup neither. They'll be here.
And thirty minutes later, they arrived. Two sleek, light gray Chevrolet Avalanches pulled up to the side of the empty building. Out stepped five distinct individuals, and B'wana Beast, his eyesight not at all hindered by the quickly decreasing light, took note of each one.
Only a few of 'em have guns, B'wana Beast saw, and smiled. This shouldn't be too bad at all.
The men swiftly scurried into the factory, and a few minutes later, B'wana Beast bounded down toward the entrance.
The first two went down easy, all things considered. Though some of the bodyguards were damn quick, B'wana Beast had just the edge on them. That, and the gang members had absolutely no idea at all what had hit them in the first thirty seconds of the conflict.
He had gotten cocky, though, and right before he had knocked out the third guard (a jackwad who thought a Mohawk and the color yellow went together), a bullet entered his leg, and got lodged in there deep.
B'wana Beast was now kneeling on the ground, looking around him for the final two individuals – a spiky, green-haired kid, and an older, Asian man, likely the leader in this little get-together.
The green-haired gang member was bolting across the empty, expansive floor of the factory. The Asian Mac Baller, B'wana Beast was disappointed to notice, was no longer in sight.
Three down, the now-sweaty hero considered, two to go. He cringed as he stood up. God, how cliché. Gotta stop doing that.
"Blasted leg hurts like hell," he muttered, and then leapt toward the last remaining gang member in sight. While initially he'd thought he could ignore the gunshot wound for the most part, he had to admit, a bullet lodged in his leg made catching up considerably more difficult.
Luckily, he didn't have to.
While the green-haired man was looking over his shoulder back at B'wana Beast, he collided unexpectedly into what he thought was a wall, and was knocked unconscious almost instantly. That wall, to B'wana Beast's surprise, was none other than Wonder Woman.
She looked up from the crumpled body on the floor to him, standing ten feet away. "B'wana Beast, I presume?"
"Yeah," he replied roughly, and began walking gingerly toward her, "and while I'm pleased to meet ya, ya caught me at a bit of a bad time."
"I can see that," Wonder Woman replied, motioning her head to the body below her. "Is this some gang?"
"The Mac Baller Brims," B'wana Beast confirmed, now standing close in front of her. "One got away before I could get ta him. I need to track that bozo down and take him out. Every second wasted here is another five feet for the jerkwad."
"You do know you're wounded, yes," she asked, almost sardonically B'wana Beast thought.
"I'll worry about it after the guy's down," he replied gruffly. "Listen," he added, again feeling anger grow inside him slowly, "other times, most times, I'm a much more fun guy ta be around. This week's just been more stressful than usual and these assholes are selling smack in my own backyard."
"Care at all if I tag along," Wonder Woman simply asked, a look of satisfaction on her face.
"Naw, but this is personal, so I'm in charge," he replied, then without so much as a warning, leapt to the door the Asian man most likely exited. The heroine quickly turned to follow, thinking about the potential this new face showed, and what he could add to the Justice League.
As it turned out, Wonder Woman's presence was virtually inconsequential. After ten minutes of manic leaping, with her flying lazily behind, B'wana Beast caught up with a scared, middle-aged Asian man. At first, Wonder Woman was admittedly skeptical that this was the intended target, as she felt he appeared harmless enough. That is, until he pulled out a gun.
Swiftly, B'wana Beast disarmed the man, then threw him hard against a wall. He then pulled him up, and pressed him hard against said wall.
"Listen, ya bozo, are you selling smack in Bushwick? Yes or no," he asked menacingly.
The man nodded his head, and replied, "I am, we are. Don't kill me."
"You the boss of what the Mac Ballers do in Bushwick?"
"Yes," the man replied, his voice sterner, "but killing me will accomplish nothing. Someone will just replace me. You can't stop us from selling here."
B'wana Beast's eyes drilled into his opponents. "Wanna bet on that?"
There came no reply, and B'wana Beast added, "Here's what ya gonna do. Go to your boss, and tell him if they keep selling drugs in Bushwick, I'll come after each and every one of you punks. I got names, and I got connections. Ya think you can last long with Superman and Batman breaking up every single transaction ya try ta make?" The man stared in absolute horror at the implications of B'wana Beast's words.
"Cause if ya do, think again," the hero finished, and shoved him back hard, knocking him out.
As the threat was now out of commission, he knelt down, apparently greatly in need of a breather, massaging his bleeding leg.
Ya did it, he thought wildly to himself. Ya did it. Taking a few more deep breaths, he stood up and ambled slowly to Wonder Woman, whose presence now did rather befuddle him. He held out his hand.
"Nice to meet ya," he said, gently taking the woman's hand. "What can I do ta help ya out?"
"The League's increasing its membership," she replied, not wasting any time, wanting her new acquaintance to get medical assistance as soon as possible, "and if you so choose, you're welcome to join our ranks."
After a few seconds, B'wana Beast found his voice. "Are ya sure? I mean, I'm flattered of course, but I've not really done much outside of Brooklyn. I didn't fight off no Thanagarians. There's a gal over in Manhattan, Vixen, who'd do a helluvah lot better than me in the League. I'm not that type of hero."
"We've already asked Vixen, and she's agreed to join. You're up," Wonder Woman replied, smiling. She stood silent for a few seconds, appearing torn. When she finally resumed, her voice was considerably gentler. "I'll be honest, when we did some background research on you, we looked into your personal life. You're a firefighter, yes?"
Surprised, though considering that he shouldn't be, he nodded. "But I don't think," he added, "it's right you go poking inta my life like that."
"We had to make sure we offered positions to only the best," Wonder Woman diplomatically replied. "The point is, you were here during the 9/11 attack. On duty."
"We all were on duty that day," B'wana Beast replied darkly, feeling slightly choked up at the memories. "I lost some great friends. I got in, got out, and survived. Many didn't. That doesn't make me a hero."
Her voice firm, Wonder Woman said, "Yes, it does."
Neither one spoke for almost a minute, until B'wana Beast nodded and said, "I'll join, but I'll need ta be part-time or something. I don't want to give up my job down here."
"That's fine," she said smoothly. "It'll be arranged. Welcome," Wonder Woman added, a smile now reappearing on her face, "to the Justice League."
Roger Hayden couldn't believe the luck he had. After only five months in Belle Reve, he was collected by one Jonathan Cheval, or, as he preferred to be called, Monocle.
And now here he was, the secret base of a group of villains fated to finally remove the Justice League from the equation. While the man who took on the moniker Psycho-Pirate wasn't entirely sure what to expect, one thing was obvious: he didn't quite expect this.
Looking around distastefully, he warily eyed Monocle, standing to his left. "This," Psycho-Pirate skeptically began, spreading his arms out to the dark, musty, old wreck of a building, "is it? And people think I'm crazy," he ended in a mutter.
"Such a location will work quite fine for our purposes, I assure you," Monocle replied, looking, to Psycho-Pirate's amusement, slightly hurt.
The sparse open room before them, Psycho-Pirate guessed, had previously been a factory of sorts. Dilapidated to the extreme, as portions of the wall throughout were crumbled, Psycho-Pirate could swear he could see the stars from where he was standing. Inside.
"What in the hell can even make a hole that size," Psycho-Pirate asked, motioning toward the opening with his head.
Before Monocle could reply, another voice rang out, causing Psycho-Pirate to jump.
"I'd say Thanagarians, but this building's way older."
From the darkness walked out a taller, bald-headed African-American male. He nodded his head curtly at the new individual in front of him. "I'm Bloodsport. You're our new friend, ain't ya?"
Psycho-Pirate stared at the man before him, and began laughing. Both Monocle and Bloodsport looked at their new partner in confusion, hoping for an explanation. The laughter subsided into giggling, and Psycho-Pirate shrugged at the both of them. His voice now deadly serious, he replied, "It's perfectly okay. I'm unstable, but the doctors still think I'm able to operate heavy machinery. Cranes, and the like."
Bug-eyed, Bloodsport glanced in desperation to Monocle, who curtly shook his head. The message, as far as Bloodsport was concerned, was clear – don't antagonize the lunatic. The black man walked away without another word, though Psycho-Pirate could swear he heard the man muttering to himself once he got a considerable distance.
"You seem to have unsettled one of your partners," Monocle stated, he himself not entirely sure what he just witnessed. "I have to admit, I had hoped you'd be more inclined to show some, shall we say, team spirit."
"When the going gets tough, don't worry," Psycho-Pirate replied, the tone of his voice now completely normal, "I'll back you all up. How many more were you going to recruit?"
"Ideally, three," Monocle replied. "After we recruit the last few people, we'll work together on the best plan of attack for a few weeks. After which, we should be good to go."
"A few weeks," Psycho-Pirate dubiously echoed. "Aren't you taking a bit longer than what's smart?"
"I've oft heard it said," Monocle said, "and I've been at this for some time now, that slow and steady wins the race. Barging into a bank and demanding the Justice League face us while we all still barely know each other is what I would consider unwise."
"Hey, whatever floats your boat," Psycho-Pirate replied. He glanced around, still very unimpressed with his surroundings. "Do I even get a bed in this place?"
"We've converted the smaller offices into rooms. I'll have Angle Man, another associate of our, show you around."
And with that, he went to collect Angle Man. After telling him briefly about his duties of showing the new teammate around, he added to "not be too concerned with any displays of insanity." Angle Man shook his head in disapproval at this, but went to him anyways.
Minutes later, Monocle pressed a hidden button on the wall of an unused closet. The wall opened up slowly, and Monocle quietly descended the stairs to a hidden portion of the factory.
Keeping his mind clear, walking past crumbling walls and deplorable conditions overall, he reached a small room, the door still amazingly intact. After three minutes, a reply came. "Please come in."
Monocle did, and faced his employer. Or, more accurately, the person who thought he was employing Monocle.
"I just wished to inform you, dear friend," Monocle began, "that I have recently received and returned with Psycho-Pirate. I agree with your assessment – he can be greatly useful to our cause.
The man slowly nodded. After a few minutes, he replied, "Thank you for this. And are we on track?"
"Yes, we should be able to strike the Justice League in three weeks' time."
"Perfect," the man replied. A few more minutes passed silently, and he eventually asked, "Is that all, friend?"
"It is, yes. I will keep you up-to-date should anything occur you should know about. Until then, I bid you adieu." Monocle bowed, then turned from him and began walking away.
After minutes of trying to keep his mind blank, Monocle realized how close he was to his ultimate goal, and yet how easy it'd be to mess up somehow. Won't mess up, he thought to himself.
The Turtle's going down.