Author's Note:

This is the fifth part of my Recruitment storyline.

Let me know how you felt, or if you had any questions, via either personal message or review. Also, if you spot any errors, please let me know.

The two poems partially recited are both written by Scottish poet Robert Burns. They are, in order, "For a' That and a' That" and "To a Mouse" - different variations exist, I'm sure, but to my knowledge, I used the most common ones.

I also want to say that the town of Marmaduke, Arkansas, suffered a devastating blow when a tornado destroyed portions of the town on April 2, 2006. This story takes place around mid-July 2002, so that wasn't addressed at all in the story. No one died due to this tornado, though infrastructure was badly damaged, and around fifty individuals were injured. I mean no disrespect to the people of this town with this chapter, as they've had enough to deal with in recent times.

I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I don't own the rights to DC or to Robert Burns' poetry.

Two things were certain to happen when Cynthia entered a new town. First, law enforcement would inevitably take notice of the flamboyant, young woman, and ask her to leave. Second, and just as frequently, she would refuse to listen.

Against the early, dusky atmosphere, as soon as she saw the sign welcoming her to town, Cynthia smiled. Marmaduke, Arkansas, a small town, with a population probably just around a thousand people, she thought, seemed like the perfect place to settle down for a week or two, if not longer. That is, if the police don't chase me out first, she glumly considered.

Just after passing the high school, it's as though her thoughts took a life of their own, for nonchalantly coming down the street was a dusty police cruiser, obviously making a beeline toward her.

Cynthia's grin dissipated. Wow, they don't waste any time here, she considered, already annoyed. She knew exactly how this conversation was going to play out, and while she was used to it, it got her heated every time. She pointedly readjusted the many bracelets on her right wrist, giving off the distinct aura of being overly bored. The car then pulled up beside her, and the officer inside removed his tinted sunglasses.

"Good morning, ma'am," came the southern drawl of the officer, leering at her suspiciously from the comforts of his cruiser. "We have a local ordinance against beggars or homeless taking refuge on city property, so-"

"I'm not a beggar," Cynthia said with a growl. "I'm just passing on through, you know?"

"For God's sake," the officer replied quickly in agitation, "you're not even wearing shoes. Even if you're not a beggar, I know a trouble-maker when I see one. A young woman in a green dress, no shoes, and fifty bracelets walks into my town - believe me, I smell trouble."

"Yeah, and I smell bullsh-"

"You've got a mouth on you, young lady," the officer cut in, clearly unamused. "Listen, I'mma circle around the high school here, and if you're out of sight, then you're out of mind. If you're still standing here, though," he warned, shaking his head at her, "then I'm not afraid to tell you you'll be in a sorry state once you leave Marmaduke."

Oh, scary, the young woman thought, but bit down her tongue before she could say it aloud. While she could easily escape from a cell should she need to, the young woman was tired and hungry. Neither of those problems were likely to improve whilst sitting in jail.

Sighing, she replied, her tone bored, "Yeah, sure. Whatever."

Eying her one last time, he shook his head again and slowly drove away. True to his word, he turned at the high school. Cynthia flipped off the disappearing cruiser, not much caring if he saw, and began walking across the street in front of here.

She stopped when she saw a young man grinning back at her twenty feet off. Annoyed, she said, her voice full of sass, "Can I help you?"

The young man shook his head, brushing his brown hair from his eyes. "Naw, thanks though," he replied. "Looks like I can help you out, though."

Confused, and more than a bit irritated, she put her hands up in annoyance. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you, but you should walk with me back ta my house. Sheriff Royd ain't lying, ma'am. He'll haul your ass in if you ain't outta here when he gets back."

Cynthia rolled her eyes, though began walking toward the stranger. "Fine. Let's go."

"Sure thang," he replied, and they both walked across the expansive street to a clear field. "I live right on West Franklin Street," he began, "so we can just cut through here." Cynthia remained silent at this, so the man took his cue and continued speaking. "I'm Willie. Listen, Royd's not a nice guy, and he don't take too well to strangers. Small-town mentality and all that."

"More like cop-mentality really," Cynthia muttered. "Sorry if I got snarky with you. I'm Cynthia," she added, forcing a smile at the young man, "and I've been on the road for almost a day, and first thing that happens when I come into town is a cop biting my head off. I'm tired of it."

"Where you come from, darlin'," Willie asked, his face showing legitimate concern, which Cynthia rarely saw.

"Well, I walked here from Knobel, and-"

"Knobel," Willie repeated in surprise. "Geez, girl, that's like a ten-hour walk."

"I think it was shorter," Cynthia said as she shrugged. "But I didn't have any food before I left, and I'm a sorta starved," she added, her voice far more pouty than she would have preferred. "When I'm hungry, I can get irritable, and hence, here we are."

Willie nodded. "What's a girl like you trekking across Arkansas on foot for, though? You homeless or something," he asked, looking at her disheveled dress and absence of shoes.

Cynthia sighed at this question, almost as tired of it as she was the authorities' attitude toward her. "Yeah, I guess you could say I am, though it's by choice. I've been doing this for years."

"I reckon you're a girl who can take care of herself," Willie said.

Unsure as to whether or not that was a question, Cynthia acted like it was. "I can, yeah. Haven't had any trouble in almost six months now, and that was in Manhattan, Kansas. It's okay, though," she explained with a grin, "those guys might be able to have children if they're lucky."

Willie smiled at this also. "You wanna hang around at my place for a bit 'fore you move on? It's me and a friend, but we'd be happy to have you."

"Sure, that'd be great," Cynthia replied swiftly. "Got an extra room or am I sleeping on the couch?"

"Don't you worry," he said, pleased with her enthusiasm, "we have space. It's my parents' old place, and they gave it to me when they left the state. My buddy, Zane, is there 'cause he's got no other place to go when college is outta session. He helps keep things tidy when he can, and just like that, he's got a house to live in."

"Great deal," Cynthia replied. "You in school too?"

"Nah, not me," Willie said with a shake of his head. "I dropped outta high school and never got back to it. I can fix up trucks real nice, though, so hell, it doesn't matter. Yourself?"

Cynthia chuckled. "I've never been in school, at least I don't think. If I was, it was too long ago to remember. Everything I've learned, I learned on the streets."

He looked over her curiously at this remark. "I have to say, that's a mighty strange way to live life."

Again, Cynthia shrugged. "Different strokes for different folks, I guess."

Willie nodded in agreement, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

If Zane gets a free room for keeping the place tidy, Cynthia considered when walking into the medium-sized home, then Willie is really getting screwed on this deal.

Willie grabbed a few empty pizza boxes off the far end of the couch, and patted the cushion. "Honestly, me and Zane are pretty much the only folks who come in here," he said, blushing ever-so slightly. "It's not often we get any guests."

"Hey, do I look like a girl who cares," Cynthia replied, with a smile. She sat down, crossing her legs beneath her dress, and laying her large purse on the right side of her. "What ya got in the way of something to eat, if I can ask without sounding super rude?"

"Oh, I was going to make a few ham sandwiches. That fine with you," Willie asked, heading toward what appeared to be the kitchen.

"Yep," Cynthia shouted in reply, not overly impressed with ham, but at the same time, at the moment she'd likely consume anything resembling food, and maybe a few things that didn't.

She yawned, and began peering over the room. It was dim, quite messy, and rather lived in. Still, she thought, looking to the VHS shelf, I can crash here for a few. Willie seems nice enough anyways, and I can't imagine Zane'd be against having company.

Still rotating her head slowly, she did a double take when she spotted, on a shelf near the modest VHS collection, a small grouping of bongs and pipes, of varying quality. Cynthia chuckled under her breath.

Guess I really did come to the right place.

Seconds later, Willie reentered the room, passing her a small plate and a glass of water. His eyes went from hers to the spot she was staring at, and again blushed.

"We don't really use those," he said quickly. "They're-"

"Why have them if you don't use them," she replied with a smirk. Willie stood above her, looking nervous, which caused Cynthia to giggle. "It's fine, Willie. I don't care. Toke it up all you want. I'm not a judgmental person."

Appearing noticeably less anxious, he sat down in a folding chair across from her, an end table between the two of them.

"You ever-" Willie began cautiously.

"I'm no saint," Cynthia replied with a smile. "I'd have some on me myself if it wasn't for the fact police are always on my butt." She then took a bite of her sandwich, amused greatly at what appeared to be an inner struggle within her new friend.

"Willie, if you want to ask if I wanna get high, just ask."

He chuckled at this, and cleared his throat. "Um, do you wanna toke up?"

She nodded, and they did. Needless to say, within the following thirty minutes, additional sandwiches were made and consumed, not to mention a bag of chips and fourth a tub of mint ice cream.

Zane didn't return until half past two, and he snickered at the sight of both the new girl and Willie stoned out of their minds, groggily talking to each other. A wide smile on his face, he shouted out, "Hey there, what's up?"

Both jumped, and Willie began cussing him out. Zane waved him off and plopped next down to the new girl, who was looking curiously at him, at the same time still giggling at Willie.

"Nice to meet you, miss," he said, holding his hand out. "I see you got some of the good stuff."

Unbeknownst to Zane, Willie shot him a glare and blushed.

"I'm Cynthia," she replied, oblivious to Willie's embarrassment. "Willie said I could crash here for a few days. That cool with you?"

"Totally," Zane answered. "Bro, mind passing that bong to me," he called out. "And the lighter. It looks like I have some catching up to do." He grinned at Cynthia, and she grinned back.

She was grinning still when she stood up hours later, yawning and stretching her arms out. Her eyelids felt heavy, yet managed to blink them a few times. Nope, she managed to think, room's still dim as hell.

Cynthia let out a sigh. Looking outside, she saw it was now dark. How late it was, she had no idea. But that doesn't matter, I guess.

She walked into the small kitchen, and leaned against the counter, straightening out her now-rumpled dress. Cynthia sighed again.

This place isn't bad at all, she thought, running both hands through her messy hair. But it's still not right. It's not-

She shook her head, confused. It's not what? Where was I going with that? But Cynthia didn't know. Week after week, town after town, she's felt different. As though something's missing. She had no idea what, though, and that was driving her crazy.

Something's wrong. Vague as hell, she realized, but the thought remained with her. Something's wrong.

Suddenly, a loud crash came from the living room, and the startled sounds of her two friends forcefully waking up.

"Man, what's going on," Willie asked, his voice drowning in confusion.

"Wade, Jerry, take one each and throw them into the car. Let's move it," shouted a voice, vaguely familiar, and full of authority.

"Let's go, guys," another voice said, and risking it, Cynthia peered into the room.

Three police officers, among them the officer from earlier, Sheriff Royd if she remembered correctly, were standing over Willie and Zane. One of the officers was pulling both to their feet.

"What the hell's going on," Willie repeated, while Zane was petrified at this encroachment.

"You two are coming to the station," Royd replied, his voice urgent. "Get them to the cars. Now!"

The two other officers marched the younger men out of the room, leaving Royd behind. He glanced around the room, and, noting the bong on the coffee table, muttered, "Worthless potheads."

Sheriff Royd sighed, shook his head, and left the house.

Cynthia quickly crept into the living room, and peaked out of the doorframe.

"Crap," she muttered, observing the two cruisers speed away into the dim, star-lit night. What the hell is going on, she thought furiously, clenching her fists. They were with me the whole time. What the hell could they have done? A more important fact came to mind, which made the situation even more worrisome. That wasn't a proper arrest at all. Something's wrong.

All of the sudden, she camouflaged herself, as per her powers, and stepped outside. Cynthia began running in the direction the two cruisers disappeared in. Her logic at this point was rather rudimentary, though she thought it'd work: Marmaduke was not that big, and sooner or later, she'd locate the police station without too much hassle. It shouldn't really be that hard to find.

At least, I hope not.

With that in mind, Cynthia continued jogging, her rough feet pounding on the pavement with a steady thud-thud-thud. She was relieved to see, after only five minutes, a small building to her immediate right. While the building itself was admittedly unremarkable, the two police cruisers parked in the adjacent parking lot were of a deep interest to her.

Seconds later, she phased through the wall, dab-smack into a small, dingy closet. Trying to re-situate a broom out of her way, Cynthia heard the voices of the officers' creep into the cramped space and stood completely still.

"-know about this," a voice said, clearly shaken. "I mean, people'll find out about it. We might be able to cover our asses for a few weeks or months, but after that-"

"We'll have time to cover our tracks just fine, and no one, but no one, will be any the wiser," a gruff voice cut in, the voice of Sheriff Royd cut in.

"Yeah, ya idiot," a third voice chimed in. "We're police – ain't nobody suspecting us of anything."

"We shouldn't be coverin' for your brother, Al. It just ain't right," the anxious voice complained.

"Ya know, damn it, I can't go 'gainst my family. I won't do it. My brother's an idiot, yersiree, and he's one helluva a racist, that's true, and worse, he's one mean drunk. I ain't denying that, an' you both know that's all true. He's my kith and kin, though, fellas, and I won't turn on him," yelled Royd passionately.

A collective sigh was the response, and after a few seconds, the anxious voice spoke again.

"I get all that, Al, I really do. You know I love you and Mike. But framing two kids 'cause your brother goes and kills a nice couple just 'cause the man's black and she's white? Being drunk don't excuse that, Al. That's not right."

"You're either with us or you're not, Jerry," the third voice threatened. "I'd soon as take Dixie down than I'd turn on a friend. Where do your loyalties lie?"

Silence penetrated the room for close to thirty seconds before a defeated voice replied, "So how do we do this?"

A sound of one of the officers clapping the other on the back came immediately afterward. "This here's the official story, Jerry. We find Jane and Darius in their home. We go out hunting for a suspect. We hear a ruckus over in them there boy's house. We arrest them, and once they reach the jail cell, they both bum rush us. And like that, we got no choice butta shoot."

Cynthia's eyes widening at this. Already formulating a plan of action, the next words jarred her immensely.

"This is my mess, and my brother's mess," Sheriff Royd admitted. "I'll shoot the two boys. Ya'll don't need to see that. Just help me move the bodies once it's done, 'kay?"

No reply was giving, but Royd must have gotten a confirmation, as she heard him step away from the closet, leaving the two others behind.

He's doing it right now, she screamed in her mind, and without further thought, phased through the door.

Most literally, the two officers didn't see what was coming.

One second, Jerry was talking to his friend, and the next, he saw his friend collapse and a sort of moving, shimmering shape pounce on him. Jerry, never much a brave individual to begin with, took off.

Cynthia watched in amazement as the young officer bolted out the door, without even trying to save his friend or yell for Sheriff Royd. She smiled at this development.

My job got a whole lot easier.

She put her bare foot against the neck of the downed officer, and though he struggled, Cynthia kept the pressure on him, and after a minute, he was unconscious. Assuming that the officer who ran was now out of the picture, only one remained.

Cynthia quickly phased through a wall in front of her, her abilities allowing her to blend into the surrounding colors as so the sheriff wouldn't become alerted to her presence.

And she wound up where she was needed.

"I'm sorry, boys, I really am. Make peace with God now," Sheriff Royd calmly said, staring at the two young men cowering on the floor of the jail cell.

"We didn't do anything," Zane yelled, totally freaked out (and rightly so, Cynthia thought).

The sheriff shook his head slowly. "Life isn't fair, boys." He began raising his firearm.

"No, it's not," Cynthia said aloud, and with her right foot, jabbed the sheriff in the back on his left knee. He shouted in pain and landed hard on his side, his gun flying from his hands.

She landed her knee on the sheriff's neck, pleased to hear him struggle for breath. She put more pressure on him, and slowly allowed the illusion of her replicating form to fall. From both Zane and Willie in the cells, Cynthia heard gasps of relief.

Cynthia stared into the eyes of the sheriff, who was yanking hard at her green dress, trying to get some type of foothold. Some way out of the predicament he was in. He was unsuccessful.

"Sheriff Royd, you were right about one thing," she said, her voice steel. "I guess I am a bit of a trouble-maker."

He fell unconscious seconds later. Cynthia kept the pressure on a few additional moments, then stood up, facing the two boys in the cell.

"Wanna head back to your place," she asked, a grin reforming. "I think you still had some chips left."

There were tears in Cynthia's eyes as she walked away from Marmaduke the next morning. Though she was there for only just over a day, she felt something she'd not felt in a long time. The thing she was missing, and had been for as long as she's been alive. The feeling of family. Her parting words to both Willie and Zane, being simply, "Live your life and soak it in," made it all the more difficult to leave town. But as it's her nature, she did.

And despite the pang in her heart, she didn't look back.

Cradling her purse in her arms, Cynthia walked east-bound for almost a day before J'onn appeared in front of her.

At first, she jumped back, scared. As soon as she saw who it was, though, she smiled, though the pang in her heart told her she hadn't fully recovered yet from her realization and loss.

"Hello," J'onn stated, looking at the young woman curiously. "You're awfully hard to find, Gypsy."

"Hey, it's how I live," she flippantly replied. "I am surprised you've heard of me, though."

"Rumors," J'onn replied. "Honestly, there were some among my ranks who doubted your existence. But stories from 32 different states about a chameleon girl does not strike me as coincidence."

Cynthia nodded. "Why were you searching for me?"

"To offer you a position in the Justice League. Compared to traveling the country, being stuck up in the Watchtower may not sound appealing, but we-"

"I'll join," Cynthia replied quickly, her head swimming, and her heart swooning.

J'onn stared at Cynthia, and, as best he could, mustered a smile. "I am happy you accepted. You're a lone wolf, even more so than Batman. We were afraid you'd decline."

"I think," Cynthia began, and gulped before continuing, feeling a blush appear on her cheeks, "you're what I need. Stability. Friends I can rely on. A place to call home."

"A family," J'onn stated. Cynthia, unlike her in so many ways, being the tough girl that she was, nodded, and broke into tears.

"Yes, a family," she replied, her voice wet.

J'onn then hugged her. A strong hug. A hug he's not given since the death of his wife and two children. A hug that showed Cynthia she did now have a family, and forever more would.

From her tiny, yet overly expensive, loft in Boston, Siobhan looked out of the windows furiously. She clenched her fists, and just as she was about to dial the number again, a knock on her door caused her to jump.

Expecting no one, she walked over slowly. The police, Siobhan considered incredulously. Did that bastard sell me out?

She opened the door, mentally preparing for the worst. What she got, however, confused her more so.

A distinguished mustache, peppered hair. A monocle. Siobhan stared at this gentlemanly individual for a few seconds before speaking.

"Ah beg yuir pardon, but ah dinnae ken who ye are."

He held out his hand to her, replying, "Jonathan Cheval, my dear girl."

Siobhan took it, perplexity still obvious on her face. "Ah'm sorry, but ah still dinnae-"

"You can call me Monocle, if you so wish," the man replied, smiling. "I've come to make you an offer, one better than you'd get out of working with the Puzzler."

It clicked, and Siobhan nodded. "He dinnae show up this morning. Ah've been sitting here, worried nae guid would come of it."

She stood back, and let the man walk into her loft. Shutting the door behind him, Siobhan looked curiously at the man.

"Yes," Monocle replied, "I know about your trouble. Supposed to work together to rob a bank with the Puzzler. Tut-tut, now that's not screaming creativity."

"Do ye ken what happened to that bloody-"

"I detained him not more than an hour ago," he replied, sighing. "It appeared he had no intention to work with you, and had made a deal to set you up for the Boston Police Department, as a joint-operation with Interpol. You are wanted by Interpol, you know."

Siobhan's anger ebbed, and she groaned. "That glaikit wee-"

"But that's behind you now," Monocle cut in, his tone reassuring. "I went to Puzzler to let him in on a plan of mine, but when I found out what he was doing to you, I took care of him. It's you I came to see, dear girl, and your future I came to discuss."

"Let's sit down then," Siobhan replied. "What kin ye offer me?"

Monocle followed suit and sat across from her. "I've been getting a little group together. Our purpose, to wipe out the Justice League while they're still crippled."

"Yer bum's oot the windae," Siobhan said simply. "It cannae be done."

"Well, dear, I think it can. I've brought together a tough bunch of people, and together, I do feel it realistic to believe we can properly end the overhanging threat of the Justice League. They're down one number, and they've not fully recuperated yet from that invasion three weeks ago. Morally and physically, they're beat. In a few more weeks, they won't be. We have to strike soon. Are you interested?"

"Ah dinnae ken," she replied honestly. "Ye really think it could be done?"

"You know Robert Burns, yes," Monocle inquired.

Siobhan nodded. "Ah do. Why?"

"What tho' on hamely fare we dine," Monocle recited, "wear hoddin-gray, an' a' that; gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine." He paused, smiling at Siobhan. "I think it's time to give the knaves their wine, don't you think?"

At this, the younger woman smiled. "I do."

As they were walking from her Boston loft, Monocle smiled as Siobhan locked the door behind him. Inside his head, he recited another Burns' poem, this one infinitely more relevant than the one before. And as he was, his smile grew even more.

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane

In proving foresight may be vain

The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men

Gang aft agley

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain

For promis'd joy!